#CNC Forming Machine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

claramelooo · 1 month ago

Text

WOVEN FATES (16/20)

I bet you're so anxious, right? Haha we will have more revelations uhhh.

A beloved nonny asked me so politely to back with the warnings before each chapters and I'll do it for sure 💕

Warnings: manipulation, cnc, humiliation and depravation, angst and kidnap (you don't read it wrong) proceed with caution.

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio x Fem Reader

Summary: Distorted feelings take hold of you as you delve deeper into the mire you've been thrust into.

Hey! Now I've a masterlist

Selfishness

The sweet scent of Agatha—the one that used to wrap around your senses like a safe embrace—now burned in your nostrils, nauseating.

Your feet were steady on the floor, yet it felt like you were falling.

The grip around your throat wasn’t tight enough to hurt—not yet. But it was a warning. A reminder of who was in control.

Agatha’s gaze held you like an invisible spell—intense, commanding. You recognized that gleam in her eyes. You knew what came after it.

Behind you, Rio slid her cold fingers along your damp nape, a wicked contrast to the heat rising in waves through your body, fueled by adrenaline. She leaned in, so close that you could feel the ghost of her breath against your skin.

“Tell me, honey,” Agatha whispered, her lips nearly brushing yours, a phantom touch lingering between a promise and a threat. “What did Alice say?”

The question coiled around your throat as tightly as her fingers.

Your mind spun.

What to say? How to escape? How to make them believe you were still theirs?

Your throat locked up. Air felt scarce—not because of the grip, but because of their suffocating presence. Rio was behind you now, her cold fingers gliding down your neck, playing with the damp strands of your hair.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, breathless.

“You really think you can hide something from us?” Rio murmured, her voice sweet, dangerous. Her hand trailed down your shoulder, slow, deliberate.

You swallowed hard. Your muscles were tense, your mind a chaotic blur.

“N-nothing. She didn’t say anything.”

Agatha laughed. A low, disbelieving sound. “Oh, really?”

Her fingers traveled up to your face, gripping your chin firmly, forcing you to look at her.

“You’re not very good at this, sweetheart.�� She tilted her head. “You’re so transparent, so easy to read... That’s why we chose you.”

The word felt wrong in her mouth. Like honey-coated poison. Tears welled up in your eyes, your lips trembling, the knot in your throat scratching as you swallowed it down.

“She poisoned your mind, didn’t she?” Agatha leaned in even closer, her dark eyes devouring you. “That little nobody put foolish ideas into your dumb little head.”

Outch.

The insult struck your heart, your ego crushed beneath her words, your brain melting under the weight of them.

“You thought you could trust her more than us?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, confusion spiraling in your mind, driving you insane. You wanted to scream. You wanted to run. But you couldn’t. The walls felt like they were closing in around you.

“M-mama…” Your voice came out weak, pleading, powerless.

Rio cradled your face in both hands, her eyes an endless, unreadable ocean. “We won’t ask again, sweetheart…”

The grip on your throat tightened. You gasped, feeling the pulse of your blood beneath Agatha’s fingers, her floral perfume invading your senses, making everything even more suffocating.

“She…” You could barely form words, your breath shallow and erratic. “She said you’re… witches.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Then, Agatha laughed. Low, husky, laced with mockery.

“Witches,” she echoed, as if savoring the word. Her thumb traced lazily along your throat, feeling the faint spasms of your struggle to breathe.

Rio exhaled a quiet chuckle, but her expression shifted… Something dark and stormy flickered in her eyes before she yanked at the chain of your collar, forcing you down onto your knees against the plush carpet.

“And you believed her, didn’t you, pet? Every single word she fed you.” Agatha whispered, crouching down to meet your gaze. “I wonder… are you really that innocent, or just stupid?”

Heat rushed to your face. The way she said it made your stomach twist. She knew exactly where to strike. She knew how to dig into your pride, how to make you feel ridiculous.

Rio knelt beside you, her fingers gliding dangerously through your hair. The touch was too gentle to be affectionate—but there was something else hidden in it.

Something sharp. Something that kept you frozen.

“Go on, pet,” Rio murmured, her voice low, controlled, but vibrating with something just beneath the surface. “What else did that little whore say about us?”

You licked your lips, your heartbeat hammering in your chest.

“She said… you only want to use me.” Your voice trembled into a whisper. “That I’m just a source…”

The air in the room shifted.

Subtle. But undeniable.

Rio’s breath paused for a second. Her fingers curled tighter in your hair, almost pulling, almost digging her nails into your scalp.

Agatha’s grip loosened slightly—not out of kindness, but like a predator stepping back to get a better look at its prey.

The silence was different this time. Heavier.

Agatha’s eyes glinted with something unreadable, as if she was carefully considering her next move. As if she was deciding how much fun she wanted to have before breaking you apart.

She tilted her head, lips curving into a slow, cruel smile, studying your expression like a cat toying with a wounded bird. The pressure on your throat wasn’t as tight anymore, but the threat still lingered—thick, charged, like electricity before a storm.

“A source…” Agatha murmured, as if tasting the weight of the word. Her thumb traced the line of your jaw, a touch almost tender—almost deceptive. “How curious.”

Rio didn’t speak. Her fingers were still tangled in your hair, but the way she held you now felt different. More rigid. As if she were holding something back. As if something inside her had stirred.

Your throat went dry.

“That’s what she told you?” Agatha continued, her voice too soft to be soothing. “That we only want to use you?”

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. Your entire body was stiff, every muscle tensed, instinct screaming that one wrong move could send you plummeting.

Agatha sighed, and then her fingers tightened in your hair. A sharp, sudden yank—pain flaring through your scalp as your head was pulled back, your throat laid bare. You gasped, wide eyes meeting hers, but there was no mercy there.

“And you believed her?”

You had no time to answer.

Suddenly, a rough shove sent you stumbling back, your knees nearly giving out. Your heart pounded, panic tangling with something deeper, something heavier, something you didn’t want to name.

“Hm?”

Agatha’s heel pressed against your chest, digging between your ribs, knocking the air from your lungs. Your body jerked under the weight, a strangled sound escaping your lips as your chest burned from the lack of oxygen.

And then came the fear.

It slithered inside you like a wild thing, whispering that this was a hunt.

That you were nothing but prey.

A prey running through a forest was alive all around you, shadows shifting between the trees, eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Wolves.

Encircling, guiding your steps to where they wanted you to go—because they knew this terrain better than anyone.

Then, at some point, you stopped running.

The woods fell behind. Ahead of you, an endless cliff.

The wolves drew closer, pressing your body to the edge of the abyss. Jump, or be devoured.

Fear pulsed in the pit of your stomach, burning like embers.

But it didn’t come alone.

Something else slithered alongside it, seeping into your muscles, your flesh, coiling deep between your thighs.

Adrenaline became something else. Something utterly twisted and dark.

You didn’t know if you wanted to run or sink further into it.

“Yes! I believed it!”

The confession slipped out in a sob, your fingers instinctively grasping at Agatha’s ankle—not to push her away, but silently begging for relief.

Agatha tilted her head to the side, as if watching a small, struggling creature. Her smile was cold, cutting.

Rio let out a low chuckle—but she didn’t seem truly amused. Her eyes remained fixed on you, analyzing every detail of your reaction.

You blinked, trying to clear your thoughts, but it was like trying to escape one nightmare only to fall straight into another.

This was definitely not normal.

The way your skin responded to their touch, the way your mind wavered between fight and surrender—it wasn’t normal. You knew that. But you also knew that normal had ceased to exist for you a long time ago.

How the hell had you not realized it before?

“Then tell me, pet,” her voice was a silky whisper, yet laced with something sharp. “If you think we’re so bad… why are you still here?”

The chain of your collar stretched in a slow tug, forcing you to lean forward, submission growing more and more evident.

Your heart pounded.

“I…” Your voice came out weak, almost unrecognizable to yourself.

Agatha smiled.

“That’s it,” she encouraged, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Speak, my dear.”

But you couldn’t. Because confusion burned inside you, a knot of fear and excitement tightening around your throat just as much as the chain.

“Because you are my mommies who have always protected me.” Your voice was small, hoarse with the struggle for air.

Shit.

That wasn’t what you had planned to say.

The words that left your mouth—you didn’t know if they were truly yours or some fucking of twisted spell they had placed on you, trapping you once more in a golden cage you weren’t sure you wanted to leave.

Agatha takes her foot off your chest, satisfied.

Rio caressed your cheek with the back of her fingers, the touch almost too gentle given how the tension in the room wavered.

Her fingers trailed down your neck, pressing against the skin still marked by the previous grip.

“Protection doesn’t come without discipline, pet,” Rio murmured, the collar’s chain still firm in her grasp.

You swallowed hard, knowing this wasn’t over.

“On your knees,” Agatha commanded—no rush, no raised voice. She didn’t need to.

Rio released the chain, but there was no relief—because the moment you hesitated, even for a second, Agatha’s gaze darkened.

“Now.”

Your body moved before your mind could process it. You get up from the carpet, placing yourself in a kneeling position.

Agatha stepped back slightly, and for a moment, you thought the weight of the situation might ease.

But then she extended a hand to Rio, who removed your choker without asking for permission.

Without it, you felt bare.

Empty.

Agatha brought out the bigger collar—the leather one with a leash. If you had a tail, it would be wagging wildly.

You knew what that collar meant, and you hated yourself for it.

For despite everything, still wanting it.

Still needing it.

The woman wrapped the leather leash around her fingers, testing its resistance before pulling it back slowly, forcing your chin up.

“Look at me,” she demanded.

You obeyed, wide eyes locked onto hers.

“Do you want this?” The question was ridiculous, you knew. Agatha seemed to know it too.

You tried.

Tried to find something within yourself that was only yours—something untouched by them, something that wasn’t a reflection of what they expected you to be.

Somewhere you could see your own reflection, not the perfect doll they had chosen to weave and use for their own gain.

But where was it?

What was left of you before Agatha and Rio? Before the touches that shaped your skin, before the words that slipped into your mind like promises too sweet to refuse? Before you learned to see your own will as something small, insignificant, compared to what they demanded of you?

It was hard to say.

Because, without the choker, you felt exposed. As if something essential had been torn away. The absence of the accessory weighed more than its presence ever should have.

It didn’t make sense.

It wasn’t right.

And yet, when Agatha fastened the new collar around your neck, something in you settled.

The leather was thicker, heavier. Made to hold you better. To keep you contained and obedient.

You should hate this.

You should...

But then, she asked again:

“Do you want this?”

Her voice was pure silk, but her gaze was iron.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Your stomach twisted.

Yes.

No.

Yes.

You should hate this.

Feel disgusted and repulsed.

But you were on your knees, surrendered to something you shouldn’t feel guilty for. And yet, you did.

This was a game.

A game where they knew all the rules.

A game where, every time you tried to resist, they pulled you back so hard that even the mere act of fighting seemed ridiculous.

As if trying to escape was just a performance you staged for yourself—to pretend you still had a choice.

The truth burned on your tongue, but you refused to let it out. Because admitting you wanted it was admitting you needed it.

And admitting you needed it was admitting that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t know who you were without it anymore.

And if you were nothing without it?

The thought sickened you.

And thrilled you.

And consumed you.

Agatha’s gaze never left yours. As if she already knew the answer before you even found it within yourself. As if she was simply waiting for you to accept it.

Because deep down, they had already won.

The leather brushed against your skin, tight enough to remind you it was there.

Rio’s cold fingers slid over your nape, moving slowly up to your jaw, tilting your face as if you were something precious.

As if you belonged to them.

And maybe you did.

Your heart pounded.

Breath short.

The knot in your chest tightened.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to run.

But more than anything, you wanted to kneel and never have to think about it again.

The words escaped. Low. Weak. Almost unrecognizable.

“Yes.”

Agatha smiled.

Slow. Triumphant.

Rio sighed, as if she had just heard something inevitable.

“That's a good girl,” she murmured, and the shiver that ran down your spine was uncontrollable.

And there, in that moment, in that silence laden with everything you could no longer deny.

You knew.

You knew that, no matter how much you tried to deceive yourself, no matter how much you fought against it.

You needed this.

"You disrespected us today," Agatha continued, her fingers sliding to the base of the chain, toying with the cold metal. "You let a stranger plant doubts in your little idiot head. Doubts about us."

Rio knelt beside you, her hand resting on your thigh in a way that should have been comforting, but only made your body vibrate with anxiety.

"And that," Rio added, her voice low, "can’t happen again, can it, pet?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but before you could make a sound, Agatha pulled the chain back in a precise, short motion—a sudden reminder of who was in control.

You gasped, your eyes welling with tears.

"It can't," you whispered, your desperate eyes seeking them, seeking their approval. You were already feeling enchanted by their aura.

You saw Rio step closer, standing in front of you while your knees burned, aching from the position.

“That missed you, little thing,” she said, looking down at you.

Your brows furrowed in confusion. But instinctively, your gaze dropped. Her perfect feet.

The scar.

The tattoo.

The damn tattoo.

Faded black roses. Wilted.

They looked… dead.

Your mouth watered at the sight of them in this state. As if, suddenly, your life's mission was to keep them alive and well, blooming as they should.

To keep them alive.

To make them flourish.

"Come on—" She moved her foot, and you followed it with your eyes. "Pet."

That was enough.

Your tongue attacked the woman’s foot, tracing the weak lines, and it was incredible how you could feel it pulse beneath your tongue.

Your tongue glided over her foot without hesitation, following the faded contours of the roses. You felt something pulse under your tongue.

Something alive.

Rio threw her head back, lips parting in a drawn-out sigh.

You were lost in her.

The texture of her skin beneath your tongue, the way Rio’s muscles tensed and relaxed with every glide. The taste, the heat, the weight of her against your absurd devotion.

Rio leaned on Agatha, her delicate fingers digging into the other woman’s forearm as her breath came out in a satisfied sigh.

And then it happened.

The tattoo vibrated.

A shiver ran down your spine, a hot, wet shock between your legs. You felt it. You felt when the roses filled with color again, when the lines became strong, alive, blooming beneath your tongue.

It was insane.

It was magic.

It was them.

And it was you.

Agatha watched everything with sharp eyes, a satisfied smile curling at the corner of her lips. She knew what was happening. She always knew.

Rio sighed, fingers playing with your hair.

"Just like that. Good girl," she murmured, her voice low and indulgent.

And that was enough.

Your chest swelled with warm pleasure, a contentment so deep it was almost ridiculous. You should feel ashamed. Humiliated. Outraged for having been molded to this point.

But you didn’t even get a chance to breathe. Steps behind you, and then—your vision was taken from you.

The black satin blindfold heightened every sound: Agatha’s lazy steps on the wooden floor, the rustle of Rio’s silk nightgown as she knelt, the involuntary whimper that escaped your throat when the leash on your collar was pulled.

"Foolish girl," Agatha whispered, the surface of the riding crop sliding along your collarbone. "Did you really think you could keep secrets from us?"

The first strike came without warning—a sharp snap against your thighs that made your back arch, fingers clenching against the velvet cuffs.

"Fuck!" you cried out before the pain even faded, the protocol ingrained in your body. “I’m sorry.”

Rio laughed, low and husky, her hands firm on your hips. "So quick to humiliate yourself today. Do you really think forgiveness will come that fast?"

You felt something hard and pointed brush against your entrance.

Agatha leaned in, her cold lips ghosting over your ear as the crop teased your stomach. "Repeat after me: Thank you for correcting me, mommies."

"Th-thank you for—" The second strike cut off your words, this time across your back, leaving a trail of fire.

"Louder," Rio commanded, pushing her fingers into your flesh.

Your eyes rolled back as her long fingers hit the softest, most vulnerable spot inside you.

God… You were so fucked.

"THANK YOU FOR CORRECTING ME, MOMMIES!" Your voice rang out, soaked and desperate, mingling with the creak of the chains.

Agatha licked the sweat pooling between your breasts. "Good girl." The reward was brief—the crop hooked under your right thigh, pulling it open. "Now… let’s deal with that traitorous tongue."

Rio didn’t wait. She thrust the strap-on into you in one movement, the cold rubber stretching your already sensitive entrance. You screamed, but the sound was swallowed by Agatha’s ravenous kiss—teeth, tongue, possession.

"Count," she ordered between bites, the crop dancing over your clit. "How many times did you think about her when you should’ve been thinking about us?"

"N-never, I swear—" The lie crumbled as Rio quickened her pace, each thrust hitting the spot that made your vision blur.

Fuck.

How could you make them understand that Alice meant nothing?

"Tsk, tsk." Agatha yanked your hair until your vertebrae protested. "Little lies make the Devil giggle, little one." The crop lashed against your thighs in a waltz rhythm—one for guilt, two for betrayal, three for being such a perfect little slut for them.

"Please!" You no longer knew if you were begging for mercy or for more.

The black rubber invaded you with machine-like precision—unyielding, relentless. Your teeth clenched on nothing, but Agatha captured your chin, forcing your lips to mold around her clit like a sacred relic.

"More," Rio hissed, fingers branding your hips in wine-colored bruises.

You obeyed. Agatha was salty and hot, her juices dripping onto the fabric until they reached your lips. She gripped your nape, guiding your tongue to her swollen clit with a surgeon’s precision.

"There," she purrs, fingers tangling in your hair like a crown of thorns. "Take Mommy."

Agatha’s riding crop finds its mark—your clit—just as Rio thrusts deeper inside you. Pain and pleasure fuse into cruel alchemy. You moan against Agatha, the vibration wrenching a ragged gasp from her.

"So easy," Rio laughs, leaning down to spit on your marked-up back. "Three strokes in and you’re already gaping like a bitch in heat."

Agatha yanks your head back by the blindfold, exposing your trembling throat. "Confess," she orders, the leather of the crop resting against your jugular. "How many nights did you finger this dirty little cunt thinking of her?"

"N-never! I only—"

The strap drives home. Your scream drowns in Rio’s roar: "LIAR!"

Agatha slides off the bed, dragging you up by the hair until you’re forced to face her vanity mirror.

"Look," she commands, wrenching your chin into place.

Your reflection is a grotesque masterpiece—lips swollen from desperate clit-sucking, ass striped red, eyes puffy with shame and ecstasy. "This is what you are. Our desperate little whore."

Rio moves behind you, cold chain links clicking as she curls her fingers further into the leash, pulling against it.

"Repeat," she growls, tightening the leather and snapping her hips forward. "I only live to serve my Mommies."

The words spill out of you, effortless, uncontrollable:

"O-only... live... to—" The first tremors of orgasm hit, forcing Rio to still. "Serve my Mommies."

Agatha kneels, catching your collapse in arms that somehow soothe even as they cage you. "Shhh, our dumb little girl," she murmurs, tongue swiping your tears. "We’ll fix you. Every night. Until there’s nothing left that isn’t ours."

Agatha mounts you again, her tongue ready to receive you in the best way.

Rio resumes pounding into you. "Don’t you dare come yet, slut!" Her fingers pinch your clit, wrenching a scream from you. "We’ve got all night."

Agatha’s thighs clamp around your head, deliberately smothering you, dragging her slick folds over your face.

Marking you.

Owning you.

"That’s it, pet."

She grinds down, turning your mouth into her personal toy. You choke, lips sealing instinctively around her swollen clit, licking in frantic, messy strokes as Rio hammers into you from behind.

"No." Rio grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze back to the mirror. "See what a desperate mess you are? Even after knowing we’re just using you. You love this, don’t you?"

Fuck.

Fat tears roll as you gag on Agatha’s pussy.

You don’t love this.

…Do you?

Rio’s strap rams your G-spot with surgical precision. You shriek, but the sound muffles against Agatha’s wet flesh.

"Wanna come, don’t you?" Rio hisses, twisting your nipple until you arch. "Say it. Say you’re our personal fucktoy."

Fuck.

No!

Your body betrays you, legs shaking violently beneath them.

"I—I’m—" The orgasm builds, but Rio stops abruptly, leaving you dangling on the edge.

Agatha releases your face just long enough to study you—cheeks flushed, mouth drooling, utterly wrecked.

"Open, little one." The command is soft, but you obey instantly, tongue lolling out like a dumb, eager pet.

You’re a fucking mess.

"Look at you…" Agatha sounds almost awed—before spitting directly into your open mouth. "Your whole existence is just a hole for us to use. Isn’t it?"

No!

But your body nods wildly, delirious, as Rio’s fingers circle your throbbing clit. "Yes! I am! I’m just that! Please—!"

"And you don’t even care, do you?" Rio punctuates each word with a brutal thrust. "About any of it."

You know exactly what she means. God. You couldn’t give less of a shit right now.

Fuck your freedom.

Fuck your pride.

You just want—

"Fuck! No! I don’t care if you’re witches or whatever the fuck! Please, Mommies!" You devour Agatha’s pussy like a starved animal.

"Oh. Fuck! Mommy’s coming, honey." Agatha grinds harder, a long, loud moan tearing from her throat.

"Christ. You’re so fucking perfect! Our perfect little hole!" Rio’s hips slam into you, frantic, desperate for her own release.

You hear wet sounds above you—them kissing, filthy and deep—and fuck, you don’t know how long you’ve been trapped here. You’re insane. So insane you might’ve hallucinated their whispered chant:

Quod semel cepimus

Numquam reddetur.

Your mind whites out. Legs twitch uncontrollably.

"Come." Rio orders just as Agatha lifts her hips, letting you gasp for air.

You explode, gushing onto the floor, splattering both women. Your body convulses like a puppet with cut strings.

You tremble.

Muscles scream. Knees ache. Nothing matters but her taste on your tongue, the phantom throb of Rio’s tattoo against your lips.

Rio stares down at you, eyes gleaming with something unreadable—lust, ownership, something darker.

"You’re pathetic." Her voice is rough, savoring each syllable. But there’s pride there. Sick, satisfied pride, curling in your chest like a well-cast spell.

Her fingers slide along your jaw, prying your lips apart. Two fingers, slick with you, push into your mouth without warning.

"But ours," she murmurs, indulgent, cruel. "Only ours."

Your mind spins. You should hate this. Should burn with shame at how easily you break for them. But something stronger than disgust wins.

Need.

The animal, visceral need to belong.

"Understood?"

The question is quiet. Heavy.

You nod. Not because you want to, but because your human shell is too fragile to refuse.

"Yes, Mama." Your voice is a broken whisper.

Then—darkness.

You don’t choose sleep. Your body gives out, exhausted, consumed. Their commands still echo in your skull, tangled with magic and pleasure and worship.

You don’t know if it’s love, spells, or pure conditioning.

But one truth remains:

You need them.

[...]

Your awakening was painful.

Your eyes burned under the sharp rays of light. Your body was exhausted, your mind clouded, as if still trapped in the echoes of the previous night.

Every muscle ached, but you couldn't tell whether it was from physical fatigue or the confusion pulsing inside you.

The silence was thick when you walked into the kitchen.

They were there.

Rio stirred a cup of tea absentmindedly, her eyes fixed on the steaming liquid, while Agatha, leaning against the counter, ran her fingers over her own wrist, as if feeling something beneath her skin.

Neither of them spoke when you sat down. Neither of them looked at you right away.

But your food was already served.

The fruit, cut into small, easy-to-eat pieces. The pancakes, soft and golden, drizzled with syrup. You blinked, taking a second to notice the childish drawing on their surface—a sad face.

Without meaning to, you let out a small laugh.

Rio lifted her gaze. A faint smile threatened to appear at the corner of her lips, but she suppressed it too quickly for you to be sure you had seen it. Agatha, on the other hand, simply tilted her head, watching you as if analyzing something under a microscope.

“Eat,” was all she said.

And you obeyed.

The syrup was too sweet on your tongue, an odd contrast to the tension in the air. As you chewed, your eyes wandered around the room.

That’s when you saw it.

Your clothes, folded to perfection over the couch in the living room. Pressed, neatly arranged, carefully set aside for you to wear. The kind of gesture you should be used to—but one that made your heart slam against your ribs.

If you were nothing more than a meal to them...

Then why all this care?

The question wrapped itself around your mind like a thorn. You knew the logical answer. Manipulation, control, a trap disguised as kindness.

But your chest burned with a truth far more complicated, one you didn’t want to name.

Because part of you liked it.

Liked being taken care of.

Liked the unsettling sense of belonging that came with it.

You lowered your gaze to the pancakes, as if they held the answers. The sad face was still there, staring back at you.

Silence stretched for a few more seconds, until Rio stood up and walked to the sink. She passed behind you, and suddenly, her hand closed around the back of your neck.

A brief squeeze. A touch that was almost casual.

Almost.

Her fingers slid down your nape, light enough to make your skin prickle, firm enough not to be ignored. The gesture carried a strange weight—something between danger and tenderness, something that felt as much like a promise as it did a warning.

You couldn’t tell which scared you more.

A warm touch at the top of your head, gentle but heavy with a meaning that slipped through your fingers like sand.

Her scent followed, and before you could stop yourself, you breathed it in. Earthy, damp, like soil after rain, like something ancient and deeply rooted.

Comforting.

You didn’t want to leave.

"Eat, sweetheart," the whisper came so close it brushed your skin, warm and unsteady. "Aggie wants to leave early."

The words said little. The voice said everything.

You lifted your gaze.

And met hers.

So brown. So deep. Now that you knew Rio wasn’t human—and maybe she never had been. But now, looking into her eyes, something stirred inside you.

There was something there.

They shimmered in a way that felt wrong, moisture gathering at the edges, barely perceptible. A treacherous fragility for someone like her.

As if she were offering you a wordless secret, a part of herself that should never be revealed.

But what?

You swallowed hard, nodding, unsure of what to say.

And breakfast went on.

[...]

The car glided smoothly through the still-sleeping streets of the city. The overcast sky painted everything in shades of gray, as if the day itself hesitated to fully arrive.

Agatha drove unhurriedly.

Unhurriedly, but also without a single word.

Silence wasn’t unusual between you—but today, it felt... heavier.

The low hum of the engine and the distant sound of tires against the asphalt were the only things filling the space between you.

The radio was off, and Agatha made no effort to break the silence—not with idle remarks, nor with one of those sharp observations that always caught you off guard.

She just drove.

And thought.

Her gaze was fixed on the road, but there was something in the way her fingers tensed around the steering wheel, in the deeper-than-usual crease between her brows.

What was she worried about?

You found yourself watching her reflection in the window—the locked jaw, the careful rise and fall of her chest, as if she were controlling each breath.

Agatha rarely let anything show.

But now…

There was something there.

And you decided to test it.

“Why do you want to get there early today?” Your voice was measured, casual enough not to seem intrusive.

You didn’t look at her, keeping your eyes on the scenery passing by the window, as if the answer wasn’t burning beneath your skin.

An invisible knot tightened in the air, thick as the charged stillness before a storm.

Maybe you shouldn’t have broken that silence. Not while Agatha hadn’t yet decided whether she wanted to share it with you.

The car kept moving, tires gliding over the asphalt in steady rhythm. The moment stretched.

And then—

“I need to talk to Wanda.”

Sharp. Unyielding.

The kind of response that cut off any possibility of further questions.

There wasn’t even a glance exchanged.

You simply leaned back against the seat, letting out a slow breath.

But something inside you stirred.

Why?

Why Wanda?

Why now?

You didn’t ask.

But you kept wondering.

The studio felt like a minefield.

Costume designers rushed past, technicians spoke in hushed tones, and the assistant directors seemed to shrink every time Agatha walked by.

She was in a bad mood.

Not the explosive kind, with yelling or slamming doors—no. The worst kind. The silent, razor-sharp kind, like a blade being twirled between fingers.

And everyone knew that when Agatha Harkness was like this, mistakes were not an option.

You watched from the corner, holding your breath every time someone missed a mark or took a second too long to adjust the lighting. Her energy dominated the set—suffocating, unpredictable.

“This is garbage.”

Her voice sliced through the air like a scalpel, making the director of photography flinch. She hadn’t raised her tone, but it was enough to make everyone freeze.

The monitor displayed the last take. Agatha skimmed the scene and let out a low, dangerous laugh.

“You expect me to believe this is cinema?”

Silence.

The producers exchanged glances, dreading the moment her merciless gaze would land on them.

She stepped forward, snatched the assistant director’s clipboard, and held it up, flipping through the notes with open disdain.

“A masterpiece,” she murmured, each syllable dripping with irony. “Truly worthy of the big screen. Maybe even an award.” She turned her eyes to the director. “What’s the new category again? Oh. Best pathetic attempt at capturing the human experience?”

The director opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“No, no,” Agatha continued, turning back to the screen. “Maybe ‘Best Waste of Time and Money.’ What do you think, honey?”

She turned… to you.

You froze.

Her gaze found yours the moment the words left her lips, and you knew there was no way out.

“Do you think I’m overreacting?” she teased, tilting her head. “Tell me—what did you see in that scene?”

Your mouth went dry. Everyone was staring.

You swallowed hard, trying to choose your words.

“Uh… I think it could have more… intensity. The lighting could be a bit darker because—”

Agatha blinked, a lopsided smirk playing on her lips.

“Intensity,” she repeated. “Intensity, of course. But tell me, darling, how do you add intensity to a corpse?”

She turned to the actors on set, who barely dared to breathe.

“Because that’s what I see here,” she went on, her eyes sharp as blades. “Walking corpses. No one believes what they’re doing. And if you don’t believe it, how do you expect the audience to?”

She strolled slowly toward one of the supporting actresses—one of Wanda’s coven witches. She was young but already had a name in Hollywood. And she had never. Never worked with Agatha before. The poor woman? She was already pale.

“I should be feeling something,” Agatha murmured, gaze challenging. “I should be shivering, devastated. But instead, all I can think is…” She paused, pretending to reflect. “I wonder if the coffee’s ready in my dressing room.”

The actress lowered her eyes, mortified.

The silence grew even heavier.

You felt trapped in her line of sight.

As if, at any moment, she might decide the next unforgivable failure would come from you.

Agatha sighed and dropped the clipboard onto the table with a dry thud.

“Reshoot,” she ordered, impatient. “And this time, try to make me feel… anything.”

She turned to leave—but stopped beside you.

Leaning in slightly, just enough for her voice to be a warm whisper against your skin.

“And you,” she drawled, “stop hiding from me.”

She pulled away before you could respond—but left something burning inside you.

"Witch!"

The word sliced through the air like a rusted blade, heavy with hatred and fear.

"Burn her!"

The chorus swelled, deafening, as the villagers raised their torches. Flames danced like hungry serpents, reflected in wide, frenzied eyes, alight with fury and terror. A swarm of shadows thrashed beneath the fire’s flickering glow.

And at the center of it all—

Wanda.

Alone. Her dress tattered, hair wild, skin smeared with ash and dirt. Her gaze fixed ahead, not truly seeing.

Was it fear?

Or something much deeper, something far more dangerous?

Her fingers trembled, hesitant, as if every part of her resisted the inevitability of the moment.

But something was growing there.

Something no one else could see.

The air pulsed around her, as if the earth itself was holding its breath.

She raised her hand.

The villagers screamed.

"Witch!"

A piece of wood was hurled. It struck her leg, and Wanda staggered, gasping, shoulders locked with tension.

You held your breath.

Was it just acting?

Or was it truly happening?

The wind shifted. The torches’ flames wavered, flickering uncertainly. Ash and dust swirled around the village like a storm on the verge of eruption.

Wanda closed her eyes.

The director made a hurried gesture, expecting her to resume.

But she didn’t move.

Above the set, the rigging that held her in place seemed unsteady, groaning against the metal framework. But… what if she didn’t need them?

You could feel Agatha watching.

Her presence burned—piercing, calculating.

Measuring every reaction. Measuring Wanda.

Because Agatha already knew.

Wanda’s eyes snapped open.

And you knew this wasn’t just acting.

The village's screams grew louder, angrier. A man, his face twisted with rage, lifted a torch.

"Burn her alive!"

The air around her twisted, as if reality itself was fracturing. A single second of absolute silence fell over everything.

Chaos.

Wanda.

Bodies were flung back like ragdolls. Bones cracked—a dry, sickening sound swallowed by horrified cries.

Fire spread as if it had a will of its own, climbing walls, devouring thatched rooftops, swallowing the villagers’ screams before they could escape.

Wanda floated in midair. Scarlet energy pulsed around her, forcing everyone to bow before her. The glow of her power was so intense that you squinted, struggling to tell if it was special effects… or real.

Her eyes burned, crimson darkness expanding around her like a bloody eclipse. Her hair lifted, caught in an unseen storm.

What had once been fear had transformed into something else.

Acceptance.

"On your knees." Wanda’s voice reverberated through the air, thick with power, with something primal. "Before your goddess."

She lifted her hands to the sky, and a scarlet bolt tore through the heavens.

The blue was swallowed by red. The world burned at her command.

The villagers screamed. Ran. Fell to their knees, pleading for mercy.

But Wanda didn’t blink.

Hell had been born from her hands.

The scent of charred flesh and smoke thickened the air, suffocating.

And then, silence.

Only the crackling of flames remained.

And Agatha’s gaze, sharp, piercing.

She clapped. Slowly.

"Cut."

Her voice dripped like poisoned silk.

"Wanda Maximoff," she tilted her head, a dangerous smile playing on her lips. "You do know how to put on a show, don’t you, dear?"

Everyone on set seemed frozen.

Except Wanda.

And Agatha.

They stared at each other.

And you realized, a chill running down your spine, that maybe this scene was far more than just a performance.

"Good work, everyone!" Agatha called out, signaling that they were done.

You watched as your colleagues rushed to leave—escaping the oppressive atmosphere, the suffocating aura—and you followed, stealing a glance toward the center of the set—where Wanda and Agatha spoke in hushed tones.

But there was something there.

Something you didn’t want to stay long enough to find out.

Lunch weighed heavily in your stomach, and the heat of the set only made everything more exhausting. You needed a break. A brief moment away from the lights, the cameras, the strange energy that still lingered in the air after the main scene with Wanda.

With a sigh, you stepped out of the studio. You needed air, to feel the afternoon sun on your face and the crisp breeze of late autumn.

Your footsteps echoed against the ground. The noise around you began to fade as you walked away—the murmurs of the crew adjusting cameras, the clinking of equipment being carried.

But the silence that settled around you wasn’t a relief.

It was oppressive.

Your body still carried the aches and marks from yesterday.

You swallowed hard, the memory burning in your mind like a brand. It wasn’t just the physical pain—it was the unspoken warning.

Agatha’s gaze, sharp as a razor. Rio’s lazy smile, as if she knew exactly what you were thinking before you even tried to hide it.

You had made a mistake.

Doubting them.

Speaking too much.

Trusting too much.

Now, you knew better.

They were witches. Or at least… something close to it. You didn’t want to think about it any further.

You didn’t want to face the questions gnawing at your mind since it all began. You were part of something, yes.

But what, exactly?

And more importantly… could you get out of it?

Did you want to?

The wind blew, carrying a distant scent of red smoke and something sweet, almost sickening. Your heart pounded inside your chest. You clenched your fists, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched.

It was just paranoia, right?

Right?

Then—

Something covered your mouth.

Warm, firm hands.

The scream died in your throat as your eyes were covered. Everything turned to darkness. Your body thrashed instinctively, but it was useless. The grip was unyielding.

And then, red threads emerged in the dark.

Red like blood. Like fire. Like witchcraft.

They danced in your vision, glowing and twisting like living serpents. You tried to scream, but no sound came out. Panic clawed up your throat, your heart hammering in a wild rhythm.

Until the ground disappeared beneath your feet.

You felt the world distort around you, a strange numbness pulling your consciousness away. As if you were being ripped out of reality.

Your body grew weightless.

Your mind, hazy.

And before you could understand what was happening—

Everything went black.

The numbness still weighed on your body when your eyes opened.

The first thing you saw was Wanda.

Seated in front of you, legs crossed, an expression of boredom fixed on you.

Confusion took hold before fear even had a chance. You tried to move, to open your eyes fully and figure out where you were.

Your heart pounded.

The room still had the same baby pink paint and the uncomfortable spring mattress of your old bed. It smelled of mold, as if the space had been locked away for a long time.

No. No. No.

This couldn’t be happening.

You were in your old bedroom. In WestView.

Panic twisted into anger.

“What.The.Fuck.Is.This?” you snarled, pushing yourself up, rage flashing in your teeth.

Wanda smirked, watching your despair the way someone watches an animal caught in a trap.

“The little wild puppy is awake, I see…”

Her voice carried something almost amused, but her green eyes—her green eyes were cold, void.

You tried to stand, but your muscles were still weak. The numbness still clung to you like invisible chains, dragging you down.

Your room.

Your goddamn room.

The same suffocating space where you grew up, where you spent sleepless nights dreaming of escaping this town, of never coming back.

And yet—here you were.

“How…?” Your voice faltered. You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “How did I get here?” Your hands ran through your hair, trying to fix your appearance—your ego, in front of Wanda. “We’re thousands of miles away from Los Angeles.”

She sighed dramatically, rising from the chair and pacing the room with her hands behind her back, like she was analyzing the tacky decor she never liked.

“I think the real question is why you’re here.” She turned, crossing her arms. “And I could answer that, but… You already know the answer, don’t you?”

Your stomach turned.

Yes. You knew.

“I know everything.” Your voice came out firm, cutting. “My friends told me.”

Wanda arched a brow, a lazy smirk curling at her lips.

“Of course they did.” She tilted her head, watching your reaction. “Who do you think told them?”

The shock hit like a punch to the gut.

What?

I couldn't help it, yes, I let it get in

The helpless optimism of spring

Worn out and tired, and my heart near retired

And the world bent double from weeping

And yet, the birds begin to sing

She laughed, low, a sound dripping with pure disdain.

“Oh, come on! Don’t tell me you actually think little kids like you could uncover something we’ve kept hidden for centuries.”

The word cut deep.

Centuries.

That was it.

They weren’t just older. They were ancient. Too old for you to even begin to comprehend.

Your body thrummed at the realization, though you knew it shouldn’t.

Daffodil

You cleared your throat, trying to focus on the possible danger you were in.

“This—”

“Did you drink that?” Wanda interrupted abruptly.

What?

Drink?

You blinked, your mind still catching up.

Oh. Right. The dark liquid in the old, elegant flask.

“No,” you admitted, your voice weaker than you would’ve liked. “I… I was scared.”

Her change was instant. The smirk vanished. Her face hardened.

She growled.

“Those little shits… I told them to make sure you drank every last drop.”

Your body tensed.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

What—

Okay. Alright. So you were being played by everyone?

Is that it?

Your lips trembled.

So… Professor Calderu chose Alice as your partner on purpose? Alice knew? Since when?

Thick tears welled at the corners of your eyes.

“Why are you…” Your voice trembled, weak, choked by the threat of tears. You tried to continue, but your tongue felt heavy in your mouth, refusing to form the words. “Doing this?”

You didn’t want to know.

Didn’t want to hear it.

But Wanda smiled.

“Why do you think?” She tilted her head slightly, her eyes glinting with something unreadable.

Then she laughed.

“Beauty. Fame. Success. Youth.”

Each word fell like a sharp blade.

The air grew heavier.

I'm not bad, I'm not good

I drank every sky that I could

Made myself mythical, tried to be real

Saw the future in the face of a

Your chest tightened, and a part of you begged for her to stop. To make this not be real.

But Wanda sighed, running her fingers through her red hair, impatient.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Her voice dropped, but it wasn’t any less cruel. “We’ve spent centuries trapped in the same damn story. Burned. Hanged. Hunted. Killed.”

Your stomach churned.

“Then Rio told us about the sources. We found out there was a way to break the cycle.” Her eyes flickered for a moment, but the hardness returned almost instantly. “And that’s when we realized the truth. No one would ever do anything for us. If we wanted to survive, if we wanted a chance at something better, we had to fend for ourselves.”

She stepped closer.

“Don’t worry.” Her tone was almost… gentle. “You weren’t the first.”

And then her smile widened, cruel.

“And you won’t be the last.”

Her words struck like a blade, knocking the air from your lungs. The silence that followed was deafening.

Daffodil

A knot formed in your throat, heavy, suffocating.

“You used me.” Your voice was quiet.

It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

Wanda blinked slowly. And then, she laughed. A sharp sound, like shattering glass.

“Used you?”

She tilted her head, studying you like a predator examining trapped prey.

“Oh, sweet child… I wish I had that privilege.”

Your body went still.

“But Agatha and Rio didn’t let that happen, did they?” Her tone was reflective now, almost distracted.

She started pacing the room, as if organizing her own thoughts.

We practice resurrection every night

Raising the dead under the moonlight

And in the gloaming, I start to cry

You're a perfect pearl hung in the sky

“It was supposed to be like it always was,” she murmured. “Like it has been for centuries.”

Wanda stopped.

Turned to you.

And smiled.

“But instead of enchanting you to drain you like they should have, they made you their little personal plaything.”

The floor disappeared beneath you.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your breath erratic. The horror crawled down your spine like ice.

No.

They weren’t just draining you.

They were shaping you.

Like a gem.

Your obedience. Your submission.

With every touch. Every command. Every look.

The air seemed to vibrate around you, an unbearable mix of fear and something else.

Something darker. Something you didn’t want to acknowledge.

The weight of the lock pendant pressed against your chest, a reminder that you were never really free.

You were never just you.

You were always theirs.

There is no bad, there is no good

I drank all the blood that I could

Made myself mythical, tried to be real

Saw the future in the face of a

Your body was trembling—out of hatred, out of confusion, out of something warm growing inside you, seeping through the cracks Agatha and Rio had carved into your soul.

Because they hadn’t split you apart.

They hadn’t let anyone else touch you.

Not Wanda, not Lilia—your partners for centuries.

And what was supposed to be absolute horror, what should have made your stomach turn and your legs buckle in terror...

Fuck.

It turned you on as a fuck.

Her words, sharp as razors, cut into you, but they also held you in place. As if everything was falling into place in some sick, inevitable way.

Daffodil

Your heart pounded against your chest, each beat sending waves of heat down to your trembling legs.

“Oh.” Wanda narrowed her eyes, leaning in slightly. “So now you understand what is the problem here.”

You wanted to deny it.

Wanted to spit in her face, scream that it was a lie, that this had nothing to do with what you felt. With what you were.

But the heat crawling over your skin, pulsing between your legs, said otherwise.

The possession.

The absolute certainty that Agatha and Rio had claimed you as theirs.

English sun, she has come

To kiss my face and tell me I'm that chosen one

A generation soaked in grief

We're drying out and hanging on by the skin of our teeth

Your chest clenched with a twisted pleasure, and before you could stop it, a crooked smile tugged at your lips.

Small.

Unconscious.

Wrong.

I never thought it would get this far

This somewhat drunken joke

Sometimes, I see so much beauty

I don't think that I can cope

Wanda saw it.

And she smiled too, but hers was different. Colder. Crueler.

“They ruined you, didn’t they?” the redhead murmured, stepping closer.

She raised her hand, the light touch of her finger tracing the padlock pendant resting on your chest.

Heavy. Almost suffocating.

“You smell like them.” Her voice dripped over your skin like venom. “Rotten to me.”

Your body was warm.

Warm with shame. Warm with something you didn’t want to name.

Your fingers dug into the old sheets beneath you, as if that could anchor you to reality.

There is no bad, there is no good

I drank every sky that I could

Made myself mythical, tried to be real

Saw the future in the face of a

Wanda grabbed your chin firmly, forcing you to look at her.

Her green eyes glowed, intense, unrelenting, burning something inside you that you weren’t sure you wanted to put out.

“And that,” she said, “cannot happen.”

Your body stiffened.

What?

“We need to take it out of you.”

The air grew thick.

Your stomach twisted.

Before you could speak, protest, beg, Wanda was already walking away, heading toward the door with the cruel calmness of someone who had always been in control.

Daffodil

She stopped at the doorway, not looking at you.

“Welcome back to WestView, darling.”

Wanda gave you an unreadable look, too mystical for you to interpret.

“Welcome home.”

Then, the door closed, and you were alone.

~*~

Here are the answers. And I don't know what to do with all this informations...

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher @reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good @imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp @lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01 @aboutcustardcreams @upsidedowndanvers @starbucks-06 @absolute-memegarbage @trinity2k @greyella @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @whitelotus00 @dandelions4us @creaturesaphique @warpdrive-witch @sweetmidnights @dingdongthetail @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi

221 notes · View notes

cyberm4n · 1 year ago

Note

NSFW Alphabet for Alastor, Vox and Husk if you don’t mind pretty please!

as you wish :)

NSF/W ALPHABET

feat. alastor, vox, and husk

i wrote this over the span of a week and for a good portion of this i was pretty drunk so my apologies if it gets messy

A= Aftercare (what they’re like after the act)

alastor would recognize the need for aftercare but like as soon as you're fine and happy he's done with this whole ordeal. especially if you're someone who needs cuddles he will tolerate it until the exact moment you don't need him to.

vox tbh gives the vibes of like, he doesn't entirely think aftercare is necessary so only if he's in a good mood will he settle in and take care of you after.

husk is 100% all in on aftercare. you need water? done. need a towel? he's got them ready. anything you need he has it or will do it. he'd probably be SUPER big on cuddling though but he'd never admit it. he does get sleepy very easily tho.

B= Body part (favorite body part their own or their lovers)

alastor doesn't seem the type to have a favorite body part but if he did it would be your neck. sorry.

vox is definitely an ass man 100% he always appreciates some ass

husk i feel would be particular about your hands, idk why he just gives that vibe.

C= Cum (anything that has to do with it)

alastor is a big fan of cumming inside, leaving a mark on you

vox is 50/50 but he usually leans towards facials

husk is a creampier but in a more like intimate way.

D= Dirty secret (Pretty self explanatory)

i don't imagine alastor having a dirty secret but i 100% think vox has fuck machines and husk is lowkey into bdsm (the more tamer parts)

E= Experience (do they know what they’re doing)

i think in order of most experience to least it would be: vox, husk, alastor. i think alastor would have some experience but he doesn't do that stuff a lot yk, husk has definitely fucked before and knows his way around and i solidly think vox is an absolute sexual deviant and is the most experienced by far.

F= Favorite position

alastor is anything that establishes him a a dominant. thinking like a mating press cause he'd want to see your face but doggy style also works.

vox is a cowgirl enjoyer, or anything where you're on top of him. he likes watching you do the work.

husk probably trends to more vanilla like missionary but i don't think he'd have a favorite. he definitely likes anything where he can see your face though.

G= Goofy (how serious are they)

alastor would be super serious i think, vox is like mostly serious/intense but sometimes he's just in a silly mood and i think husk is always a little bit relaxed about it, unless it's something really intimate then he's being all romantic and shit.

H= Hair (grooming habits)

alastor is well groomed when he anticipates having sex whereas husk is well groomed regardless, and vox i think is the kind to always keep it hairless down there

I= Intimacy (in the moment romantic or rough/dirty)

alastor is almost always rough but CAN be a little bit softer. same with vox, both of them are doing it with the intention fo dominating you.

husk is 50/50 can be either tbh. in a relationship he'd prly lean more towards something sappy and intimate.

J= Jack off (do they masturbate and how often)

i don't see alastor masturbating at all tbh. sorry i know that's such a boring hc but like, i just don't see it happening.

vox 100% does, favorite way to blow off steam if you're not there. remember the fuck machines from earlier? yeah dude prly has a plethora of sex toys.

husk does but not often, like a normal amount. if he's feeling in the mood and you're not there or not in the mood as well he does mind it. he'd do the old man huff thing when undoing his pants tho.

K= Kink (kinks what they like possibly unusual)

alastor would be pretty into choking and irgasm denial or like dubious consent. some form of cnc or just something that makes him feel like youre at his mercy. i think vox is in a similar boat but he'd be into the mirror kink or whatever it's called where you have sex infront of a mirror. husk would be into somno and overstim i think

L= Location (where they like to get it on)

alastor would be into privacy, given the fact he's like dominating you he wants the space to do so

vox doesn't care but in his office is where the majority of it would happen i think. he seems the type to rage the fuck out at his desk and need his little doll come make him feel better :(

husk is a bedroom guy but on the off chance the hotel is dead quiet you might be able to convince him into something in the parlor

M= Motivation (things that makes them tick/turn ons)

alastor is domination and owning you, vox is a mixture of possessiveness and genuinely wanting to get off, husk is all in for pleasure and pleasing you

N= No (turnoffs or absolutely won’t do)

alastor would never bottom, like ever. it doesn't matter how much you ask that man is never submitting to you

vox i don't think there's much but he's not into being dommed i don't think. it's a very thin line though because like sometimes he'd like to just be a bit mindless and get fucked and pampered more

husk would never do really rough play. anything that involves straight up hurting you is a big no

O= Oral (receiving or giving and how skillful they are)

alastor would be a giving guy i think. not that he wouldn't enjoy you giving him head but it's a power thing right, when he goes down on you and you're writhing beneath him? it's heaven. skill wise 7/10

vox is a receiving guy, he loves watching you suck him off. i think he'd go down on you if you asked but it's not his first thought yk. skill wise 4-5/10

husk is a 50/50 again but i think he's more partial to receiving. something about you on your knees and taking care of him like that is so mesmerizing. skill wise 8/10

P= Pace (how fast they are and how long they last in bed)

alastor could last for a really long time tbh despite the powerplay it's also mostly about your pleasure to dominate you. he'd be fast pace wise though

vox is about average for how long he lasts, there's somedays he's a little fast and he'd lowkey get embarrassed if you teased him. he's fast pace wise but it depends on how close he is.

husk is average but it also depends on what you're doing. anytime you give him head he's very quick to cum, and he'd such a fan of it tbh. he'd be a wildcard pace wise, really depends what you want him to do.

Q= Quickie (do they prefer fast and hard)

alastor doesn't like quickies at all, he likes time to do this shit properly

vox LOVES quickies idk if i need to elaborate more

husk isn't a fan of quickies but occasionally appreciates them.

R= Risk (do they like to try new things)

alastor is 50/50 if it has anything to do where he has less power then no but if it's just something more he could do then yes!

vox is a cautious yes, but it's very unclear to me whether he'd want to just be an in the moment thing or like discussed before hand. he seems like the kind to randomly pull out a move midsex and gage your reaction

husk i think he leans closer to no, in his opinion the way he's doing things seem great so why complicate it more? but if you really want to try something he will

S= Stamina (how many times they can go and how long each round lasts)

alastor can go quite a lot of rounds I think, like each round is around the same, the only reason he's stopping is if he thinks you physically can't take it anymore

vox can go like 2-4 rounds i think but they definitely get shorter as he goes. you're only making it to round 4 if he's had a rough day

husk is like max 2 id say. second round gets a lot shorter and he REALLY relies on you helping him out for both of you to reach climax.

T= Toys (are they game for using sex toys on themselves or lovers)

alastor and vox yes but alastor could lowkey get possessive for no fucking reason. idk why he just seems the type to be a bit condescending especially if you have sex later.

husk is a no, i think. like if the activity required a toy then sure but he definitely doesn't have toys unless you were adamant about using them he wouldn't suggest it. i think he might get insecure he's not making you feel good enough though :(

U= Unfair (how do they tease or do they enjoy suspense themselves)

alastor teases a lot but he's not a fan of when you tease him. if you do any sort of bratty shit he's 100% putting a swift end to it, but he does like the challenge. he seems like he might be into total denial so it's a dangerous game for you

vox teases and doesn't mind being teased but i think he's the kind to get frustrated if you're being a brat in public

husk is SUCH a tease. like you wouldn't really expect it but it's just little things in public with affection while no one is looking. during the actual act he's not one to tease much though

V= Volume (are they loud, what sounds, and do they talk)

alastor grunts fr but like i think that'd be about it. other than little coy comments and some degrading praises he's pretty quiet

vox on the other hand MOANS. if you tease him abt it he will get so fucking mad. but like he's definitely loud asf too.

husk is a groaner but he also moans. he's like a medium level i guess? more on the quiet side, i don't see him getting loud

W= Wild card (random sincannon of any sort)

alastor really likes marking and will do so. like one minute you're just lying in bed, the next you're on his lap as he digs his teeth into your neck.

vox really likes handjobs idk why but he just does. something about watching you jerk him off gets him going

husk likes making out while fucking. like he's the kind to give you the sloppiest of kisses while he ruts into you.

X= X-ray (what’s down below in dem pants)

skipping cause i feel like it's been answered thoroughly, they all have cocks that vary in size and grooming.

Y= Yearning (sexdrive level)

alastor has a low sex drive, mostly dependant on your needs. if you hc he's asexual then it's mostly on you to get him going or atleast express interest

vox has a higher sex drive but not crazy. dude mostly just likes to destress and fucking is a fun way to do that.

husk is average. but when he's feeling in the mood he makes it pretty clear.

Z= Zzzz (do they sleep after if so how quickly after)

alastor doesn't sleep after very often, unless you very specifically ask and he feels like you need him.

vox depending on the circumstances goes to sleep pretty quickly, like he'll do some basic aftercare and if he feels like you're fine he's dozing off.

husk is a sleeper but he'd make sure he stays awake long enough to make sure you're fine. since he's big on cuddling he'd be drifting off, murmuring in your ear and asking if you're okay before he finally goes to sleep.

#hazbin hotel #alastor #alastor smut #hazbin hotel smut #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #husk smut #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin husk #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel vox #vox smut #vox x reader #husk x reader #vox #husk

995 notes · View notes

loganwritesprobably · 2 months ago

Text

Doflamingo NSFW Headcanons

Just a little something

His preferences depend on the gender of his partner. He wants to dom and top fem partners, but he can switch/verse for masc partners

Length > thickness, 14"/35.5cm, cut

Praise alone isn't his thing at all, when it comes to giving, but he loves to use it in combination with degrading words "precious slut", "pretty whore", "perfect hole", etc

He likes bondage in most forms but he prefers using his strings by a mile

His tongue does the craziest things, and if there's a size difference he quite enjoys shoving it in his partners mouth to suffocate them a little

He has a few things he likes, like clothed sex and shibari, that he almost never does purely because it takes so long, and he wants now, so he doesn't want to wait the time it takes to get there

He's demanding no matter his position, but he's a whiny bottom

He's definitely pierced, several frenum ladder piercings, and large enough balls that his partner can feel each one enter them if he's on top

Aphrodisiacs and intoxication >> give up your autonomy to him, you'll probably regret it but he'll have fun

His hands are huge, and he'll use them for all sorts of devious things. Choking, fingerings, pinching, pulling, poking - if it causes pleasure or pain (or both) he's going to do it, and then do it again with his mouth

Loves it when his partner is smaller, if he's topping, hr wants to see the imprint of his dick inside them, to be able to see the bulge of it in their stomach

A lot of his kinks are less about the kink and more about control and ownership. He wants to own his partner in every sense

The more he looks like he's been in a fight post sex, the happier he is with the fuck

Kink tier list

S tier kinks - absolutely, all day every day

Flogging/whipping, face slapping, spanking, bondage, dirty talk, impact play, blood play, scratching, breeding, breath play, master/slave, immobilisation, humiliation, biting, hair pulling, size difference, overstimulation, orgasm denial, free use, crying, edging, cock warming, deep throating, stomach bulging, licking, degradation, spitting, begging, choking

A tier kinks - definitely yes, just not quite S

Branding, sounding, CBT, sadomasochism, breast/nipple torture, fangs/teeth, pain play, blood as lube, fisting, knife play, pet play, collar & leash, CNC, exhibitionism, aphrodisiacs, cuffs, face fucking, bukkake, tit fucking, virginity loss, lingerie, intoxication, inflation

B tier kinks - sure, sometimes

Auctions, gunplay, lactophilia, chains, gangbang, omorashi, nipple clamps, glory hole, cuckolding, boot worship, public sex, primal, fuck machine, mirror sex, filming, face sitting, rimming

C tier kinks - he's not against it just meh

Feederism, watersports, pregnancy, temperature play, clothed sex, shibari, praise

D tier kinks - less into it, won't say no

Swinging, feet, armpits, menstrual sex

E tier kinks - would prefer not to

Medical play

F tier kinks - no

Aftercare, mommy/daddy kink

#one piece #fanfic #writing #reader insert #loganwritesfanfics #one piece x reader #donquixote doflamingo #doflamingo one piece #doflamingo x reader #doflamingo/reader #doflamingo headcanons

67 notes · View notes

grievous-writes · 1 month ago

Text

𝔹𝕆ℕ𝔻𝔼𝔻 𝔹𝕐 𝕊𝕀ℕ

ℙ𝔸ℝ𝕋 𝕀𝕀𝕀 - 𝔹𝔸𝔻 𝕄𝕆ℝℕ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ... 𝕎𝕆ℝ𝔻 ℂ𝕆𝕌ℕ𝕋 - 𝟛𝟛𝟜𝟚

<- Part Two Next Part ->

What happens to cherubs when they fall? There was already the damning example of God's golden Seraphim, where his fall from grace landed him upon the burning throne of Hell; to rule for all of time. A curse and, weirdly enough, a blessing. But you, a lone cherub sent on a nearly impossible quest? You landed smack dab in the middle of a courtroom in session; complete with a stunned jury and judge with burning eyes.

Fandoms: HelluvaBoss & HazbinHotelPairing: Female Reader / Fallen Cherub / “Asteria” x SatanGenre: SPICY RomanceRating: Mature +18

Tropes: slow burn, forbidden love, forced proximity, size difference, enemies to lovers, age gap, hurt & comfort, “Who did this to you?”, touch her and 💀

CWs: really possessive behavior, mild yandere, ALL THE SPICE, blood and gore, mentions of death, swearing, hard smut, personally RIP christianity to shreds, mild blood play, toxic people and situations, violence violence VIOLENCE, p in v, power imbalance, light dubcon, CNC (Honestly, just expect so much more down the line cause this story will develop out of control eventually!)

Notes: Reader is female (she/her), multi chapters, LONG posts and very little editing cause I HATE editing. I don’t know how to do TAGS quite yet, but let me know if you want to be notified for each update~

Your stomach gave a low rumble, ached, and your mouth salivated. It took you a long while to understand what your body needed, a sensation you’d not felt in little under 3000 years.

Story continues after the cut ...

During the night Satan had moved your prison into another room, placed you on a wide mantle built over an obsidian fireplace. The large space that was flashy as your hot-air bag of a dragon jailer and you were set as a piece of decor. Your best guess was you were in a living room, but the deep black marble floors and bright red wallpaper elevated it to a weird-pseudo ballroom.

One side of the space seemed to be a dedicated lounge, where a huge round couch sat before an impossibly large TV mounted on a wall. Littered on the ground were a scattering of books, piles of paperwork, and magazines - With “Weekly Workouts for the WICKED” and “Where is Your Center? Meditations for the Newly Grounded” being two opened issues placed on a black coffee table. Beside the TV on the wall were paintings of fire, depictions of ancient deaths, notable punishments you had no name for, and several overly dramatic images of Satan himself. He was either bare chested or holding flaming swords while covered in blood.

There was also a large painting that stood alone from the rest, but it was covered by a black curtain. And by the obvious dust and spider web decorating the fabric, whatever was covered had not been looked at for sometime.

Across from the living room was a dining hall, but lacked a lot of places to sit and eat. There was still a table set to one side, and while still nice quality, it was small and only had two chairs. The table and its decor looked untouched, clean but left to sit. You guessed that Satan didn’t eat there. Instead, there were even more workout machines and racks of various dumbbells and equipment. Now those did seem to be in constant use, scuffed with claw marks and weld repairs on almost everything. And a well worn punching bag hung where a chandelier would be.

There was also a smattering of inspirational posters and some depicting nearly nude women. You did your best to not look at those. You weren’t prude, but it had been sometime since you had seen someone that pretty. Confident in her own skin. The model had curves in places you didn’t, even now with your new form. You turned from the poster and sighed; noting that the whole room smelt of musky brimstone and burnt wood.

Which only grew more pungent when Satan drew close.

As you heard resonating footsteps coming your way, your stomach gave another growl; demanding attention and care.

Satan turned from around a corner of pitch black hallway, his head hung a bit lower than usual, as if sleep still weighed down his neck. He wore long grey lounging pants, simple shoes, and a skin tight black tank top. The man yawned, his long tongue and sharp yellow teeth on display like a great serpent. He clicked his teeth together, cracking his jaw, and then lazily walked over to the couch. Where flopped himself onto the durable furniture and he flicked on the TV with a quick click of a remote. A loud commercial rocked the once silent den and the wings over your ears flattened to your head to try and buffer the noise.

“My Lord?” You tried to call out to him, but your voice was outmatched by the TV.

“Satanus? Sir?!” You stood up and shouted this time.

Nothing. Satan just drank from the steaming cup of black coffee he held, and it was so strong it burnt your nose from higher on the mantle.

Your stomach damned attention and desperation set in as you hit the wall of your prison. Some part of you expected to feel pain from hitting the barrier, but nothing came. You frowned and hit the bubble again to make sure. And as you did, you noticed that your banded prison shifted faintly. Curious.

Taking a quick look at Satan, paying you no mind, a mischievous idea came to you. If he couldn’t hear you, you’d make him see you. And maybe if he saw you, he’d feed you. If not for the sake of being kin, he needed you alive for the waiting trial.

There was not much space in your bubble for a running start, but you managed to back up just enough to slam yourself against the wall hard enough to make your ball roll forward. You slipped but got up, changing again and again as you managed to wobble your cage closer and closer to the edge of the mantle. As you drew closer to the edge and looked down, you realized you were near three stories off the ground. It made sense given how big the dragon was.

You prayed he’d see you falling before you landed. If not that, then at the bare minimum it’d not hurt when you came crashing down. Just to be safe, you tried calling out to Stan once more.

“Hey! Look over here!” You waved your hands widely in the air and jumped a few times, but he merely cracked his neck and changed the channel.

With a frown and deep breath, your resolve hardened, you continued to slam your body against the ball. As you got to the edge of the mantle, you felt the sway of unbalance threatening your last chance. With one final push, you threw your weight into the wall and your prison silently rolled off. You hadn't anticipated your small body inside being lifted into the air as you fell, nor your hunger pained stomach flipping around like a ball-bearing in a bell. You blinked only a few times, catching a hint of red and gold lashing out to you, before you closed your eyes and braced.

There was a violent lurch as gravity snapped, colors morphed, shapes bent, and you yelped as your head painfully whipped around. Your body slammed to the bottom of your prison and an agonized hiss leaked from your gritted teeth as you tried to settle. Everything hurt, your ears rang, and your vision spun. But you were still able to make out Satan yelling.

“What in all the seven rings did you do that for?!” Satan held you in his palm; his talons scratched the outside of the bands as he caught you just in time. You must've not responded quick enough for him as he continued to shout. “Arrogant little angel, you must have a death wish!”

You groaned and rolled onto your back, wincing as your body stung. “I-I’m not arrogant.”

“What?!” Stan yelled.

“H-Hungry.” You opened your eyes to look at the devil, who was glaring at you with the power of a thousand burning suns. “I’m hungry. You couldn't hear me.”

“And you thought tossing yourself was the best way to get my fucking attention?!” He was practically snarling as stood from kneeling, and you saw that his coffee cup had been tossed to the side.

In spite of the pain, you smiled. “It worked though.”

“And what makes you think this little stunt will get you what you desire?” His voice was venomous. “I could kill you right now and it’d be within my jurisdiction!”

“You can’t punish a c-corpse.”

Satan held you to his face, meeting your gaze with a glare. “You’d be surprised of the depravities of hell.”

“Maybe. But I know you well enough.”

“Telling yourself whatever lie that makes your stupidity valid isn't healthy.” The man’s voice lowered to a deep rumble; like distant thunder. “Stand up.”

You tried to pick yourself up, slow and easy, but whimpered as your head was wrecked with white hot pain. Your eyes closed and all you could do was lay. Which got you another jab from Satan.

“Proud of yourself, starlight? I doubt that.” Satan huffed, his breath smelling like coffee, and you felt the subtle sway of his large gate as he walked somewhere.

“You almost sound worried, My Lord.” Maybe it was the lightheaded sensation clouding your judgement, but you felt the only response to his wrath was another soft smile.

The swaying stopped for a moment and Satan’s voice was an annoyed whisper. “And you sound suicidal. Perhaps you are. Maybe that’s why you fell from your golden world and down into the dark.”

“Mn, no.” You shook your head and opened your eyes again, meeting gazes with Satan. It was difficult to read his expression as your vision blurred, but there was a hint of calmed skepticism in his four glowing eyes. Whatever the emotion, it was a mere step away from concern. Certainly curious at least. “I told you that you’d learn my reasons why at trial, but I can at least assure you I’m not seeking death.”

“Then, pre-fucking-tell,” Satan continued walking and you held his gaze. “What does an overly trusting, silly little thing like you seek? Heaven surely had everything you needed.”

“Needed, yes. But, not w-wanted.” Before you closed your eyes once more, unconsciousness trying to claim you from the concussion you were suffering, you saw Satan frown. “I wanted … to live. And to be … wanted. To belong. A purpose. Everyone has a purpose, a life to live. No matter above, or below. Everyone but a dimming star, a s-silly cherub, who's been left alone f-for so long. No wishes, no life, none who’d want me to shine.”

You felt tears warm your cheeks and a stained chuckle bubbled in your throat. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Satan’s breathing was all you could hear for a long while, slow and warm, but he did finally speak with a deep, restaurant tone. “A foolish notion. Admirable, but foolish. You rest now, fallen star. You need medical attention.”

...

And when you finally passed out, Satan quickened his pace to the workshop; his tail snapping around the heavy metal door pulled to slam it in his wake. The magical runes activated as he stepped inside, sealing the room. No one could get in or out.

Inside the round workshop was a forage set in hellfire, the burning inferno ringed in stones older than sin that always glowed. Hung from iron hooks and sat along shelves were old creations, machines never tested, or some concepts of mechanical machinations he dreamed of between his workout sessions.Though some of his more nasty machines he thought of during therapy.

Satan had spent his early eras by the forge, enjoying his time crafting long forgotten punishments and crafting the first few generations of Imp kind by glow of the cruel furnace. In his fires, Satan could create and destroy. He preferred the latter.

The red dragon stormed over to one of his large desks, still littered with the iron shavings of his last idea, and sat down his captured cherub in your prison. He huffed and looked over you as you slept. He barely saw your chest rise and fall. You were so fragile. So tiny. He could crush your head like a grape between his fingers if he wanted. Realistically, he probably should’ve a few days ago.

Mammon, while acting the part of a pompous clown who had grown too big for his britches, had been right about killing you. It would’ve made this a whole lot easier if he had. The last angel who fell into hell uprooted Satan from his reign of the land, and now he was stuck as only the second most feared being in all the rings. Satan had been the law and ruler until that little golden shit moved in with his scheming queen, and then they cemented their legacy with hell’s “favorite” princess. Who's to say this fallen starlight would be any different?

You could’ve easily been lying to Satan, try to hoodwink him, as a means for escape. The idea of this small angel playing him made Satan’s blood boil. There was no way he’d ever be out schemed by someone so seemingly innocent. Someone so open, too kind. And you smiled far too much. If you did manage to get away from Satan somehow, you’d be eaten alive within a mile outside of his estate. There was no way everything you said was entirely true either, and he knew better then by now to ever take anyone at their word.

At least you were sweet on the eyes.

Satan reached for a few tools and a blank gold band, then took a moment to look over his handiwork. He needed to essentially break the sealing band on the prison to free the cherub for medical treatment, and then once your head injury was tended to he’d reseal you inside.He just needed to hurry and do all of this before you woke up.

But then an annoying realization hit him. The only reason you leapt was to get his attention, because you needed food. And you can't eat when you're asleep. And once sealed back inside, there'd be no way to feed you.

Satan growled and clicked his nails on the top of the sphere. “You’re a lot of work, little shit.” He spat at you with no response.

Like Mammon, the cherub was also right about something important - He couldn’t put a corpse on trial. You needed to eat, maybe bathe as well. And while Satan had cleaned off most of the debris and dirt from when you first smashed into his courtroom, you had been primarily unwashed. Not that he would've ordered someone to clean you while you were unconscious - Satan might have been an asshole, but he was respectful enough to an unconscious person to not remove their clothes without consent. Even he had standards.

With a feral hiss Satan lulled his head back. There was only one logical path forward.

With a hot soldering iron in one hand and heavy pliers held in the other, Satan got to work dismantling the prison. Layer by layer, cutting away his rune-cared bands, he removed the enchantments that kept your magic buffered. You still had the cuffs on your wrists and ankles, and then his personally branded collar around your thin throat - All to keep this little fly away in line. But would it be enough?

As the last band fell away, the lock to the cage cracking into fiery ash, your body landed softly on the worship table and you gave a little groan. Then you went incredibly still. Satan waited to see if you’d wake up, holding his breath. You didn’t move. Shit. Were you dead?

“Uh, hello?” He whispered as one of his golden claws moved to poke your shoulder. Nothing. As he moved to poke you a bit harder, you continued to breathe normally.Satan sighed. “Thank fuck.”

He looked you over in more detail, his claw moving your long hair out of your face. You barely looked old enough to be out of your first century. If you were as old as you claimed to be, surely there was enough power in your little pinky to flick the likes of Mammon at least five miles away; like the little spider bastard he was. Then again, the wards you blasted through to get into hell might have siphoned enough of your power to make you as meek as a kicked puppy. Still, Satan needed insurance.

His claw moved down your neck, over your shoulders, and then lower to feel over your soft green and white wings. To a lower level angel, feathers were a dime-a-dozen. If one were plucked, it was just like some cutting off a lock of hair. But for someone of your linage? It could mean more. His talons masterfully moved into your down, feeling around for a longer but less essential feather, and with a quick tug plucked it from your wing.

You groaned again and your small wing flinched, but you remained out like a light.

Satan only gave the feather a quick look over, some residual radiance glowing from inside it, before he growled and tucked it into a nearby lock-box. The feather was sealed inside and he put the container up on a nearby shelf for safe keeping. He then turned back to you and, with all the grace and care the sin of wrath could muster, he lifted you into his palm. Given his size, Satan was used to people feeling light in grip, but you felt lighter than a cloud.

Satan turned from his workshop, the door closing again as he left, and he walked back to the living room. Waiting for him there was his therapist, who was quietly ordering the imp staff to clean up the broken coffee cup and the puddle of coffee.

“Heeey there, Satan.” Yogrit greeted him with a weary smile. “How are you doing this morning?”

Satan chuffed. “Could be better. My coffee is fucked.”

A few of the staff scattered away to prepare another coffee without question.

“Yes, so it seems. Did you accidentally drop it or-?” As Yogirt flew up to Satan's level, the smaller demon looked down to you held in his wide red palms. “Oh. Oh.”

He sighed. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I don’t have the time to answer questions, but get a doctor here now. The prisoner is hurt.”

Yogirt nodded, his expression calm and serious. “Of course. I know someone who to call.”

Satan nodded, strolled back to his couch and sat as slow as he could; as not to jostle you around and make your concession any worse. Awkwardly he grabbed a pillow and delicately laid you there; mindful of your head. His fingers lingered for a moment too long, admiring your soft hair against his scaly fingers, and he didn’t notice an imp maid staring wide-eyed at him; while barely managing to hold Satan’s new coffee up towards him. With a purposefully low reach, Satan took the cup and held a dangerous glare at the maid as she made a nervous, but also carefully calculated, retreat out of his sight.

Without much fuss, Yogirt had already flown off somewhere and was speaking softly into a cell phone.

Satan called out. “And get someone to bring, I don’t know, more clothes. Small clothes.”

“Clothes?” Yogrit responded with an inquisitive brow raise. His eyes moved to your sleeping body, then back to Satan. “Do you think she might also require shoes? And, erm, other things?”

Satan’s mind felt like it was running on empty, fuzzy, as he tried to think on what the demon was at. “Uhh, shampoo? She smells.”

“Okay, that’s good to know. But how about,” Yogirt cleared his throat. “Socks? Pajamas?”

Satan glared as he took a long drink of his coffee. “Just fucking say it, Yogrit. I’m in no mood to be psychoanalyzed today.”

“Undergarments.” The therapist said plainly, which nearly made Satan choke. “I’ll make sure someone goes to get our guest some attire that fits. I’m sure something in the new Velvette spring collection will work.”

The great dragon coughed hard and beat a fist to his chest. “Yeah, fine, whatever. Just get it done.”

When Satan was left alone once more, he growled and relaxed on the couch. He turned the TV back on, a truck rally with monstrous cars crashing into one another. He was content to mindlessly watch the spectacle, but from the corner of his eyes Satan saw you wince in pain from the blasting music. He lowered the volume with an annoyed grumble. What a fucking fantastic start to the day.

Surely nothing else would go wrong today … Right?

Satan held his sights on you, ignoring the TV for a while, and made sure his restraints were still working; their red glow casting a rosy color over your skin. They were holding and Satan was content to not test anymore of his bad luck for at least the rest of the morning.

HEY LOOK, its you! Welcome to the end of part three~ ❤️ And we finally got Satan's POV! That's gonna happen a lot more of him now that the story is kicking off from here. I'm gonna try to show the change of POVs with colors. Green will be the Reader and Red will be for Satan!

🫘🫘🫘Thank you my little beans! 🫘🫘🫘 I hope you had a good read and will stick around for the next part!

#x reader #helluva boss satan x reader #helluvaverse #hazbin hotel #helluva boss #helluva boss x reader #cherub!reader #helluva boss oc #helluva boss satan #helluva fanart #satan x reader

35 notes · View notes

goyalinc · 5 hours ago

Text

#Heavy duty #strength #Precision #fit #designs #Manufacturing #AluminumDieCast #vault #doors brackets that #offer unmatched rigidity & reliability-the unsung #heroes behind every #secure #bank vault Formed with #exact #specs Delivered with #integrity http://incgoyal.com https://x.com/goyal_inc https://www.youtube.com/@GoyalInc https://www.instagram.com/goyalinc https://in.pinterest.com/goyalinc https://www.facebook.com/incgoyal https://www.threads.net/@goyalinc #DigitalMarketing #Machining #Engineering📐 #PrecisionMachining #CNC #tools🛠️ #Casting #Diecasting #Precisionmachinedparts #MachinedParts⚙️ #MachinedComponents #hpdc

2 notes · View notes

great-light-5-axis-cnc-machining · 4 months ago

Text

𝐃𝐞𝐛𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐖𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞: 𝐈𝐬 𝐂𝐍𝐂 𝐌𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞?

CNC machining removes material, but does that mean it’s truly "wasting" it? In fact, modern CNC machining processes go to great lengths to minimize waste. Here’s how every inch of material is maximized:

High Precision Machining: Modern 5-axis CNC machines provide precise cutting with fine control over every detail, minimizing unnecessary material removal and ensuring maximum material efficiency.

Recycling and Reuse: Materials like aluminum, steel, and titanium can be recycled, melted down, and repurposed into new parts, significantly reducing waste in the manufacturing process.

CAD/CAM Integration: Advanced computer-aided design (CAD) and computer-aided manufacturing (CAM) software help optimize design and cutting paths, ensuring material is used efficiently and reducing the need for extra processing.

Design Flexibility: CNC machining can handle complex geometries, allowing designs to be optimized for material use and reducing waste while maintaining precision.

💡 Why Do So Many Factories Still Use CNC Machining? CNC machining’s benefits go beyond material efficiency, offering several other compelling reasons:

Precision and Reliability: For industries requiring extremely high precision, such as aerospace and medical devices, CNC machining delivers unmatched accuracy and consistency.

Material Versatility: CNC can work with a wide range of materials, including metals and plastics, making it highly versatile across various industries.

Speed and Scalability: CNC machining is ideal for both small batches and large-scale production, quickly producing high-quality parts once set up.

Superior Surface Finish: CNC machining provides excellent surface finishes, often reducing or eliminating the need for additional post-processing, something that 3D printing and other additive methods can’t easily achieve.

CNC machining isn’t just about “subtractive” manufacturing—it maximizes material use while ensuring high quality, efficiency, and precision.

🔧 #CNCmachining | #PrecisionManufacturing | #EfficientProduction What’s your take on the difference between CNC machining and 3D printing in terms of material usage? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

GreatLight Metal Technology Co., Ltd

✅ Website: https://glcncmachining.com/ ✅ Website: https://cnc-5-axis.com/ ✅ #10, Xinrong Street, Chongtou Community, Chang'an Town, Dongguan City, Guangdong, China, 523845 ✅ + 86 180 2756 7310 ✅ + 86 180 2756 7310（whatsapp） ✅ [email protected]

#DIsadvantage Of CNC Machine #Haas CNC Machine #Large CNC Machine #PrecIsion CNC Machining #Types Of CNC Machines #What Is A CNC Machines #What Is CNC Machine Operator #Woodworking CNC Machines #5 Axis CNC Machine Price #Benefits Of CNC Machining #Biggest CNC Machine #Carvera Desktop CNC Machine Review #CNC Full Form Machine #CNC Machin

0 notes

june-gdprototyping · 1 month ago

Text

Rapid prototyping cnc machining center.Follow our footage to see how the parts are formed!

#cncmachinist#cncmachining#cncmachine#cncturning#cncmilling#cncworkshop#prototyping#Customparts#Precisionmachining#Fabrications#Design

#rapid prototyping #prototype machining #precision machining #cnc machining

2 notes · View notes

atsyscorpses · 3 months ago

Text

run the assimilation subsystem: 💀 banshee, 🩸 phasmid, 🪐 pulsar, n 🪦 graves- though others like the host ( ™️ chilchuck ), dog ( 🐕 briar), and parasite (🩻 lady) may pop in from time to time.

If you know who we are from the source comics we plan to make: the source stuff exclusively posted here is my present, and I feel no need to actualize my present through comics like I do my memories.

we'll post art and writing on occassion, mutuals can ask for discord!

Incomplete list of our kinks, YKINMKATO, and hard boundaries. If it's on YKINMKATO list or No list, we won't draw those kinks.

kinks we're into: gore, ghostly possession, parasitism, biosuits, breeding, pregnancy, cumflation, petplay, eating end of all kindsa vore, receiving end of hard vore (thats safe for us literally only bc we're already dead), sounding, pred/prey, oviposition, tentacles, aliens/monsters/bugs, objectum (shoutout to factories and machines), transformation, sci fi/fantasy body modification, light cnc, bondage, feral, public use, temperature play, stuffing, daddy/mommy fauxcest kink sometimes, multi-transitioning (the idea of transitioning with t and e back and forth multiple times basically)

Your Kink Is Not My Kink And Thats Okay, don't send Scenario asks about it, nonhorny discussion can be interesting though: scat, piss, vomit, sibling/cousin fauxcest, age regression play, detr ans, sexuality breaking, filth/grime/smegma stuff

Leave me alone, I'll block you: raceplay, pro ana

#a <- our art tag (tip$ welcome here!)

#nsft <- nudity/explicit tag

#2makes3 <- Stuff that reminds our subsystem of our source. Sometimes also horny style.

#atsys talks <- Talky tag

we'll try to tag most kinks or warnings'll explicitly for ease of finding or blocking.

Here's our appearances~

💀 Banshee (Not his default outfit, actually. He just can never decide on what to wear.)

🩸 Phasmid (No naked ref yet 💔 I'll fix that soon)

🪐 Pulsar (... The first pictures interior valve is not accurate, it would be black to white instead of black to green)

🪦 Graves (Human form colors, full naked human form, and ghost form)

#atsys talks #2makes3 #a

2 notes · View notes

tallerthantale · 1 year ago

Text

What Does Aziraphale Actually Believe, Part 2: The Veil

This is a series of my takes on what Aziraphale believes through the timeline of the show. It is all my personal interpretation, and I am happy to hear others. You don’t need to read them all in order, but know that I am coming from a perspective on Aziraphale’s machinations that may be difficult for people without a psychology background to follow without the first post as a primer. The quick version is that Aziraphale has a set of beliefs that exist in some form or another within his mind. However, at any given moment, only some of them exist ‘with awareness.’ The context of the moment will determine what lives on the surface and what stays invisible to him.

This post still has a bit of psychology set up to it, but I’m getting a lot more into the details of how everything relates to Aziraphale specifically, and talking about how I apply that understanding to the motivated reasoning Aziraphale demonstrates in Before the Beginning. About 2.6k words.

In the spicy meta I mentioned how some of Aziraphale's behaviour reminds me of a pattern IRL, where some people want to bottom CNC (consensual non-consent) roleplay, while entertaining a fairly permanent pretense that they don't actually have any desires or want anything in particular. That pretense is about keeping those desires outside of conscious awareness because they conflict with the sense of self. I am repurposing some of my word choices from that discussion and dubbing the walls separating the conscious!Aziraphale from the rest of his mind ‘the veil,’ the area stuff lives when it isn’t in his conscious awareness ‘behind the veil’, and the cognitive mechanisms that operate in that space veil!Aziraphale.

Immortal Memory

There are two main complications to making sense of what Aziraphale believes. The first complication is that what conscious!Aziraphale believes is heavily changeable within a set of options due to being regularly reconstructed based on what will preserve his sense of self in that context, as described in the first post. The second complication is that the set of Aziraphale’s potential beliefs evolves and adapts over time as his relationships to the world and to the institution of heaven change.

When we think of a person’s beliefs changing over time, we often like to think of it as a draft that gets overwritten as it is updated. The new version is up, the old version is gone. New update, this is what it is now. Replace that line with this line, done.

Minds don’t actually work like that. We essentially have muscle memory for our thoughts and opinions. While we can collect an expanding set of potential opinions, and we can neglect to load an inconvenient one into awareness, the old ones don't tend to leave the set of options even when we intend to reject them. If you interpreted something wrong the first time you saw it, you form the memory of the misinterpretation, and you reinforce the wrong memory every time you recall it. This is called an encoding error. Then one day you find out you got it wrong, and you are trying to fight years of ingrained conditioned memory with one data point. It doesn’t matter how unambiguously true that new data point is, years of conditioned memory doesn’t just go away. It’s like trying to forget how to ride a bike. Consider the Mandala Effect.

Aziraphale has millennia of lived experience. He may decide he is changing his mind about something, even with extreme conviction, but that won’t erase thousands if not millions of years of habitually thinking something else. We have ourselves an angel who has a capacity to swap out what he believes depending on the situation in front of him, and who has thousands of years of evolving belief systems conditioned into his mind’s ‘muscle memory.’ So not only is he normalised to switching his opinions around, he’s got a lot of options for what his opinions can be.

You Play the Hand You’re Dealt

The metaphor I’m going to go with is like a deck of cards. Anything Aziraphale has ever believed is somewhere in that deck. When a major event happens that forces him to think about things in a new way, he gets a new card, but the old cards don’t leave, the deck just gets bigger. The hand of cards he draws is what shows up in Aziraphale’s perceptible mind. That makes up what he believes in that moment. All the other cards functionally don’t exist to conscious!Aziraphale unless and until they get drawn, and they stop existing to conscious!Aziraphale when returned to the deck.

Cards are not drawn to the hand at random, they are placed there by veil!Aziraphale. That part of Aziraphale makes the calls on what cards from the deck end up in conscious!Aziraphale’s hand. Veil!Aziraphale also has control over when cards leave conscious!Aziraphale’s hand. Conscious!Aziraphale doesn’t know that veil!Aziraphale exists, and assumes everything in the deck is consistent with his current hand. The result is a split Aziraphale, one part that will passively reshape his own opinions and judgements on autopilot to what is useful in the short term at that particular time, and one part blissfully naive to all of that, living as if he is the only part of Aziraphale that could exist, treating the hand he was most recently dealt as the only reality that could exist. The next day it's a different hand, a different reality, and a different conscious!Aziraphale.

Veil!Aziraphale functions like a computer program with a very basic code targeted to reducing specific kinds of imminent stress. It will keep things that are abrasive to Aziraphale’s sense of self out of his hand, keep things that conflict with whatever action he's about to take out of his hand, and not let contradictory things exist in his hand at the same time. It has no sense of long term strategy and cannot be reasoned with.

The deck doesn’t contain all things. It contains the set of things Aziraphale can believe, and while that is a highly self contradictory set, it is not an infinite set. Veil!Aziraphale will run into situations where there is no arrangement of cards that keeps things happy and easy. There will be situations where there is something someone could believe that could be useful, like Gabriel and Michael thinking it is a great idea to kill Sitis’s kids and have her give birth 7 more times, but that is going too far for Aziraphale to believe. He has a sense of what feels right, at least by Eden, and he can't make cards that conflict with that. He will try to play the best hand that he can out of what isn’t going too far, and make new cards that stay within what can feel right. Making new cards doesn’t get rid of the old ones, it will always be an option to bring them back.

A Case Study in Motivated Reasoning

In Before the Beginning, we see an Aziraphale who is already terrified of heaven's wrath, while the Star Queen is still naive. (Why I like to use the name Star Queen) This difference matters on a few levels. First, it shows that the seeds of Aziraphale’s ideological separation from the other angels predates Crowley’s involvement. While we will see Aziraphale convince himself to experience believing things out of fear, that isn't quite the same thing as being a true believer the way the other angels are. I would speculate that Aziraphale has already been having disciplinary issues with the institution. Whatever Aziraphale is ideologically speaking, it is not the result of Crowley’s temptations.

Second, it fits in with the manner of trauma response they develop. Aziraphale looks to have been traumatised from a very young start. The Star Queen was having a blast until suddenly they weren’t. This isn’t trauma olympics, this is just to point out that the age of onset correlates with different patterns of likely reactions, and Aziraphale and Crowley’s behaviour as we progress through the story fits those patterns.

Aziraphale comes along with an attitude about what it is or is not their place to do or question as angels. It is not their role to give feedback. He feels positively about the universe being set up to be fancy wallpaper, and is surprised that the Star Queen is upset about it.

Why does Aziraphale seem to actively like the fancy wallpaper plan? Because he is supposed to. He is terrified of heaven, why would he believe something just because heaven says so? Because he is terrified of heaven. Literally that is why. Which experience is the more threatening to the sense of self, the universe where what you believe gets you on heaven’s shit list if anyone finds out, or the universe where what you believe organically happens to be what keeps you safe? Veil!Aziraphale's mind generates conscious!Aziraphale’s beliefs on the spot as a defense mechanism in a way that feels organic. Believing what dangerous people want him to believe is safer. Veil!Aziraphale is incentivised to form that hand of cards, which is a fully automatic process, and conscious!Aziraphale only has access to the hand he was given. The other cards functionally do not exist to him.

For those for whom this is hard to follow, you may be imagining it as being a person who knows they believe Y, being told under threat to believe X, trying to convince yourself to adopt a belief you know you don’t agree with. That doesn't tend to work. Belief follows action, but when there is a readily available belief of ‘I was forced to go along with it,’ there is no need to alter your worldview to explain your behaviour to yourself. So you likely end up pretending to believe X while getting extremely resentful.* That lines up with how the Star Queen sees being asked to like the wallpaper plan, but that is not what Aziraphale's mind is doing.

To the extent that there is a pre-existing Y belief, his mind will not let it out of the veil into his conscious awareness, because that would be dangerous. He is on the verge of existential crisis from even hearing that someone else might believe Y, because it is safest for him to not even have the hypothetical to consider. Veil!Aziraphale decided that he believes X because that is safer and decided Y is contraband, conscious!Aziraphale only knows he believes X.

I Can't Make Bricks Without Clay

This is how motivated reasoning works, and that’s why calling the people susceptible to it stupid and / or irrational isn’t helpful. There are no logical tools someone can use to think themselves out of the problem if the problem is that the relevant facts wont load into awareness. The reason I stick to the term 'motivated reasoning' rather than the more common ‘wishful thinking’ is that it is very common for motivated reasoning to get us to believe things that are highly unpleasant.

For example, people don’t experience survivor's guilt because ‘they want to.’ They experience survivor's guilt because the alternative is experiencing the awareness that any of your loved ones could die at any time and you can’t do anything about it. You can only believe it's your fault people died if you tacitly believe you had the power to stop it. You can frame survivor's guilt as wishing to have the power to be able to protect those you love, but people experience it as guilt and suffering, not as a power trip, because that component doesn't get loaded into awareness. When Aziraphale convinces himself to believe what he is told, he doesn't 'want' to be a bootlicker any more than a school shooting survivor 'wants' to believe it’s their fault their friends are dead.

While susceptibility to motivated reasoning does vary across individuals, we are all vulnerable to it. The basic cognitive mechanisms that allow these patterns are present for everyone. I could just as easily talk about conscious!Star Queen and veil!Star Queen. So why do they have opposite reactions to heaven's imposing authority? The age of onset. (IRL these are differences of average, not categorical rules.) Aziraphale’s conditioned fear is baked into his development in a way that gives it more power than usual to keep things out of his awareness (we will see a demonstration of that at Eden) and Aziraphale has 'authority should be feared' and 'authority shouldn't be questioned' cards, because he added them to the deck when he was too young for them to feel wrong. Because Aziraphale has those cards and a particularly aggressive veil, he can pull off the 'have the experience of believing what you are told to believe' survival strategy.

The Star Queen hadn't previously encountered a use for having 'authority should be feared' and 'authority shouldn't be questioned' cards, and they are developed enough now to respond to those concepts with an appropriate 'fuck that.' The Star Queen doesn't have extreme early onset fear baked into their development, so instead of veil!Star Queen keeping their disagreeable opinions behind the veil, it is keeping the reasons to be cautious behind the veil. We might like to think that the young Aziraphale who made those cards was wrong to do so, but I would encourage you to stay your judgment. In the IRL parallels having those cards is often what keeps those children alive.

After the Star Queen expresses the intention to offer suggestions, Aziraphale is concerned for their (singular) wellbeing. He is terrified of how heaven will react, and he is right to be. Aziraphale doesn't want them to get into trouble. And that is very interesting. If Aziraphale was a proper true believer in operation 'shut everything back down again' he would want the Star Queen to get in trouble. He would see their attitude and like them less for it. That doesn't happen. It's not a genuine endorsement of authoritarian hierarchy, or he wouldn't be encouraging the Star Queen to play it safe. It is not a coherent belief system, or he'd have an argument in favour of the shut down plan, not an argument that 'it's not our place to question it'. It's also not an acted position, or he wouldn't be that excited about the fancy wallpaper. Aziraphale's belief in God and the ideal of heaven exists as a defense mechanism against his fear, to preserve his sanity. Ironically, it spends the next 6000+ years making him act fucking insane.

Post 2/10

Post Note: When forced to do things under threat, ‘belief follows action’ can (not always) reverse and cause a backlash effect in the form of ‘I believe I am being oppressed’ making you reject beliefs that would support the behaviour (Fair.) However, when we are paid to do things, we don’t tend to blame the money, we experience that as we were intrinsically motivated to do the thing. (Tisk.) This is a big part of why political bribery is such an issue.

The money alters what the autopilot parts of our mind allow into our conscious experience, slanting us toward the incentive, blocking any awareness of the influence of the money on our decisions, and then construct a belief system consistent with the decision. People believe the money isn’t affecting their judgment, they totally would have had that position anyway, that's just what they believe. They are incorrect.

On the plus side, we have a pretty reliable method for changing people’s opinions if we decide to use it. If you want to make someone believe something, pay them to do something consistent with that belief. (Vaccines…cough… cough… vaccines…)

#good omens #go meta #good omens meta #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziraphale #what does aziraphale actually believe

23 notes · View notes