#ax catalogue

[ten-shika]

AX CATALOGUE 2023!!

Book is available for AX pick up order right here: https://tenshika.bigcartel.com

[cantobear]

hello!! here is my last minute catalog for AX chibi this weekend!! i'll have my new 2434buns + crsm merch at table C2! i also made some alnst stickers as a bonus gift for purchases if there are any fans stopping by!! can't wait to see you all soon!

[meltyimp]

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Anime Expo is this weekend so here's my catalogue of spooky cute wares! ( •̀ω•́ )σ

[parcai]

my red flag is spelling everything w br*tish english ☹️

[aingeal98]

So I know Cass gave Steph Batgirl and bounced right before the reboot due to editorial interference trying to push her out of the family. But it made me think of what an actual passing of the mantle would look like on Cass's terms. Because if she's actually ready to give Batgirl to Steph it's because she's either got the Batman mantle or her ideal next step on the road to being Batman.

So Cass is ready, but she also knows Steph. And she wants Steph to feel confident in taking it. And because she's Cass she's not going to use her words and give Steph an uplifting speech about all the ways she knows Steph will make her legacy proud.

No, she's diving into her deep catalogue of reality trashy TV knowledge and creating The Ultimate Batgirl Trial. Survivor meets Ninja Warrior meets Total Wipeout meets the Chase but if the Chaser catches you due to you messing up questions she punches you in the face. With a splash of Love Island thrown in there because it's important to know how to read people and play them if needed.

Barbara is in charge of monitoring everything to make sure Steph doesn't die. Cass has complete faith in her best friend because she designed this all knowing Steph's abilities. Steph looks at the swinging axes with razor sharp edges and wonders if perhaps she accidentally exaggerated her CV to Cass somehow.

(She passes of course. And only throws up twice. Tim, Damian and Duke all attempt it once they hear about it and none of them make it past the fire breathing dragon statues. Tim gives up at the hologram of Lady Shiva, Damian fails the height requirement to swing on the lava rope and not fall in, Duke actually makes it a respectable amount but again those fire breathing dragon statues are just too vast and uh. Flamey.)

[clevercorvidae]

In the basement of the Mystery Shack there once lived a towering triangular machine. It hummed with a great and terrible alien power. It roared with the voice of doom and loss and inexplicable weirdness.

The great and terrible machine was once many pieces in a grand but simple plan from the stars beyond, a physical catalogue of many specimens. When that plan crashed and crumbled into the valley that would one day be Gravity Falls, its loss was mourned as it was buried beneath the earth.

The great and terrible machine was once nothing but a harsh whisper in an eager ear, a pen drawn to paper, frantically scribbling away to capture its dire beauty. Blueprints for its immaculate conception marring pages in the bible of hubris.

The great and terrible machine was once just a series of intricate, passionately welded together pieces of an ancient graveyard. Wires and circuitry woven carefully by terrified hands.

The great and terrible machine was once a window, a revolving door, a gateway to hell and a stairway to heaven all at once. It rumbled like a beast and ate like one too. After lapping up its fill of misery it lay down in false torpor for 30 long years.

When the great and terrible machine finally died it put on its divine halo and engulfed itself in demonic flames. Earth became sky. Gravity fell. And the universe tore itself a brand new eye.

After the end of the world, the great and terrible machine lie as a carcus, a skeleton. Its architect long forgotten. Its corpse would be dragged away, repurposed into a new sturdy grappling hook and the hull of a sail boat and a chew-proof pen and industructable banjo strings and a sick new axe and some definitely illegal brass knuckles and a pair of wedding bands and a new cash register and many more beautiful but quaint things that shine brighter than the horrible machine ever could.

In the basement of the Mystery Shack there is no trace of the terrible thing that once shook its foundations. Instead the space holds laughter. Often its used as a workshop for an aging inventor or a glue-gun happy teenager to tinker with creations. Often it is used as a space for countless sheets of a graphing paper and rolling of dice. Often it is used to host parties and get togethers and holidays to bring a weird town with weirder citizens together again.

Never again will the basement beneath the Mystery Shack be filled with loss or terror or pain or regret. No darkness. Only love, only light. The eye is closed. Hdvvg Wivznh.

[cranity]

Here's my AX catalogue for this upcoming weekend! Table A6 :] or just look for the table that looks like a Trigun shrine and you'll find me lol

[youareiron-andyouarestrong]

Rebel captain and “War’s End” kiss? 💛

He’s been looking for her since the news broke on Endor.

The Emperor is defeated, the ashes of the second Death Star streak the sky. The Empire is undone. 

They’ve won. They’ve won. 

Cassian has run blindly past every kind of celebration imaginable, every species in the Rebellion screaming, laughing, hugging, kissing, crying, dancing. Even he’s been dragged into several lunatic dances, kisses pressed to his cheeks; a particularly enthusiastic Wookie matriarch picked up him bodily off the ground and spun him around. 

But he hasn’t seen Jyn. Hasn’t found her yet. They had to be split up; he and Bodhi were a part of the pilots who took on the second Death Star; she was on the ground in Endor. He’d hated it, but he knew Jyn would insist on being a part of the Endor team. She wouldn’t miss the chance to make sure the defenses were lowered, to make certain they had the clearest shot. She would not let there be another Death Star. He knew it, and he’d pressed kiss after kiss to her hands before she boarded the shuttle on Home One. Not even caring who saw.

They’ve done it, they’ve won, they need to disessemble the Empire and all it’s networks, there’s officials that need to be put on trial, deals that need to be cut—

He can deal with all of that later once he finds Jyn. 

In the end, just like always, she finds him.

Someone crashes into him from the side and he automatically braces them both from falling, and he looks to see Jyn, her cheeks still streaked from camouflage paint, still wearing her helmet. He barely has time to catalogue these details before Jyn grabs his face and drags him down to her height, kissing him with such ferocity he actually feels her teeth before her lips. He doesn’t hesitate, just wraps his arms around her waist and lifts her off the ground so their faces are level. The celebrations continue on around them unabated; Jyn’s legs lock around his waist. It’s total pandemonium and he barely registers any of it. Nothing but Jyn’s mouth on his, her body pressed against his. 

Their lips taste like salt, he realizes, and wonders who’s weeping, him or her, or both. Or even if it matters. 

“We won,” she says into his mouth, barely any space between them. She’s practically snarling it. “We won. We won.” 

Jyn’s face is streaked with tears and sweat; no blood, thankfully. He clutches her closer to him and says, “I know, I know, I know. We won. Mi vida, we won.”

The job’s not done, their work isn’t finished, but the sky is clear and statues are being toppled on other planets. Chains being stricken off. The axe forgot, but the tree remembered, and now? There’s a forest.

[darkdemeter]

Strife x Fem reader nsfw! Eld AU, S/O is a talented hunter, using her sniper skills to hunt down food and enemies. It’s not long until the Nephilim tribe heard of a master sniper taking down foes and always running without a trace. It’s by sheer luck that Strife discovers S/O and easily takes her down once he’s in close range. Instead of killing her, he wants to take her as his mate, seeing how cool she looks when sniping and how impressive she is.

VENGEANCE IS A HUNTER

◤✘DARKSIDERS REQUESTS | CATALOGUE Pre-Horsemen!Strife x Eld'hyunen!Female Reader

NOTES ↳ Who's ready for some pre-horseman! Strife in his younger, Nephilim prime? Hey! I see you ogling. Here, have a golden sticker. Welcome to the Strife simp club 😂 WARNINGS❕ ↳ Mature rating, 18+ — some profanity — mention of mass murder — depiction of violence and killing — lore building — SMUT mdni — unprotected sex — implied non/con or dubious consent — neck biting/marking — mate claiming, virginity loss (hymen breakage) — I think that’s it?

✎ 4.4k ────────────────────────

The moon had been bright and full, a milky pour that couldn’t penetrate the dense forest beneath. Only allowed through were the silky, pale silhouettes that danced and warped disturbingly, the covering fog lit with an eerie glow. 

Stalking the grounds below, invading this coveted land, the horde of Nephilim march through, some bearing torches that burn viciously and provide an aura to follow. A target. 

“Keep up,” barks the group’s leader with hastened gruffness, “we must rejoin the warband before next moondown! Else Absalom will have our heads.” His tone betrays his unease as they walk through this unholy place. The trees feel dead yet they flourish and thrive, the air is thick and makes it hard to see further ahead with the swarming mist. His glowing eyes dart from left to right, sweeping from ground level to the higher treeline.

Something stalks them in the darkness around them. 

The ground crunches loud beneath the stampeding rhythm of their feet. Each one a resounding crack and bending snap. To the elicited horror that disturbs them, their eyes are cast wide and teeth gnashing hard with growls and started yells. 

Empty pits of blackened sockets stare up at them, spinal cords numbered by hundreds are split and shattered, ribs cracked and broken, barren of any flesh to cling to the remnant bones littering the forest floor. 

A once enchanting home now turned into a mass graveyard that welcomes only the fall of their invaders. The disembodied whispers and howls on the wind are avenged with each splatter of blood that waters the ground, the haunt of the Nephilims’ screams replace the restless and slaughtered people. 

It is their turn to become the prey. It is their turn to become the hunted, the bloodied spoils of this war. 

An arrow whines on the pulled draw of your bow, your lungs ease a silent and practised breath… and you release. 

Fated, your arrow hits its mark without falter. The laggers behind stumble and scatter, some dropping their torches to blend in with the darkness. But the bright shine of your eyes allows you insightful vision, they cannot hide in the same veil of your home; not as you can. Adept in the arts of survival and camouflage, this is your hunting ground. Your prison that you ward and it shall be their final resting place. 

“Ambush!” one roars and they prime their weapons. Massive blades and sharpened polearms, the Nephilim band scours what terrain they dare try, wary to go further beyond the forgotten trail. 

Your arrows fly in fast repetition. Your prey cannot comprehend the direction of the attack, unable to detect what is simply not there. You traverse with swift agility, comfortable to leap, climb and fall from the many interloping branches and rocky formations. Their numbers are tamed until only the leader remains. He sheathes his axe, the gamble of his odds not in his favour. 

His brothers and sisters lay dead with an embedded garden of arrows, the dim halo of the perving moon shines on the brightened hue of red, feathered sails. A warning that stakes your claim over this territory. 

It’s a claim he will not challenge. He turns hard on his heavy heels and sprints, madly dashing through the underbrush and you give chase from above. His breath is hitched deep as the whizz of your arrows pounce at his heel like a hound that gnashes the ankles of the galloping hunted.

Your mark gets closer to him with each venomous strike. He knows you toy with him, that you inflict this terror with purpose. 

His runs and crashes through low hanging branches that claw tiny scratches into his skin, usually barely feeling but with you on the hunt, each one feels like the tipped poise of your next shot. 

His foot is snagged by a tree’s lifted root and sends him barrelling forward into a cloud of dirt. He growls and sputters, saliva spills in thick streams down his chin, his chest heaving with a wild beat of his heart. Nephilim aren’t meant to fear anything, no demon or angel, nothing in the cosmos possesses enough of a threat to invoke such fear. 

So why did you? 

His ears suddenly go dumb, a whirring sound that rings sharply in his hearing as he listens to your weight dropping to the forest floor behind him. He turns his head, huffing and puffing his last rites. His eyes grow wide. Your reflection moves upon the surface of his golden orbs that tremble, your face shrouded in the blackness of your cowl. The overgrowth of a cloak hangs over your shoulders and down low to your feet, tied to your wrists and ankles with corded thread; a haunting sight inspired by the ghost stories of your own people that became intertwined with your once traditions. Your eyes beam something ferocious, a predatory glare, down on him. 

He flinches as you hover above, his burly fist raised to either lash out at you or plead for you to take his hand in mercy. His voice shortly whines, a hiccup of a sound he chokes on as you pace yourself. You want to enjoy this kill. Leisurely, you knock the final arrow from your quiver and pull back. 

“Don’t! Sp-spare me!”

“She is a feral Eld’hyunen hunter, cast out by her own clan before we came to this realm. A wraith of vengeance that rose from the dead with eyes tempered with fire from Hell’s oasis.”

The younger Nephilim gathered around lean in closer, faces etched and lined with their entertainment in the orange light of the fire. Strife sits more so off to the side, though intrigued by the mythical tales, he tries to center his focus on his weapons instead. Yet the golden flicker of his eyes dance this way and that every now and then. 

“I barely escaped with my own life, her arrow pointed right to my eye.” 

The storyteller had arrived at the warband’s gate only a night ago, the burden of his torment still fresh in his mind. His voice quivers with each recollected detail he tells. He’d the look of one who’d seen a ghost. Out of the troops that were to arrive back he had been the only one. Those posted at the gate had to pull his shaking body inside, his muscles rippled so much that Absalom thought his flesh would begin to peel and fall apart as the commander panted and heaved his retelling of what happened.

Now here he was, still shaken as he had been and filling the younger generations of their legion with mythical tellings. Folklore to haunt their slumberless dreams and instill in them a false sense of fear. 

“And then… she whispered to me with words scarred by her ire…”

“Tell them to leave,” you snarl, voice coiling in the back of your throat as a venomous growl. “Leave this world and never set your claim upon it again. Or else my vengeance shall devour you whole.”

“As if one Eld’hyunen could do such a thing,” snickers Strife under his breath. The Nephilim survivor scrunches his face, overhearing such demeaning ignorance.

“You watch that tone of yours. What I say is true and you’d be damn near lucky to even escape as I had.”

Strife lulls his head, shoulders falling lax with uncharismatic care. He blinks twice, finger playing against the trigger of one of his guns.

“She would have been better off killing you instead.”

“Is that a threat, Nephiling?—”

A nerve is struck at the belittling term and Strife’s body tenses as she slightly shifts his weight to stand at his full height. His eyes dangerously thin with a warning glare. 

The younger ones around the fire watch in silence, their faces agape in their startled awe of the two. It wasn’t uncommon for Nephilim to get into heated scraps with one another. Their tempers easy to flare, provoking the other to break first. 

But with a thunderous roll of feet approaching, both are torn from the inciting conflict that threatened to break out into a brawl. Absalom growls out with a warning tone, “Telling the young ones of your scrape with death again, Saak?” 

Saak snorts, lips pulled askew before spitting a glop onto the ground. “I’m warning them of what awaits outside those gates. You haven’t see her, Absalom, she is—”

“Not yet, I haven’t. But that will change. At dawn we move out on the forest.” Absalom ignores the pale complexion of Saak, even as he buckles, weight lost to fall to his knees with a heavy thmph. His meek argument silenced. “I will not have this conquest stamped out by a lone female who believes she can take on a legion by herself.” The eldest of their kind laughs, boisterous. “It’s madness!”

Saak shakes his head and Absalom scoffs, large fingers scruffing the Nephilim’s neck as if he were a measly pup in need of discipline. “Cower in the camp, then. I will not accept cowards during this territory skirmish. I need only my finest.”

Releasing Saak and turning his eyes from the Nephilings who watch, eyes wide at the behemoth that is the first of their race, he chuffs a cold noise and rolls his eyes to Strife.

“And you’ll be joining us.”

Strife shrugs with a complying nod as he holsters his guns to his hips. 

“Very well,” Strife hums, obviously making his tone chipper to flaunt as a mockery. This would be one of the very few times he would be joining a troop assault so large, oftentimes he would either be appointed with a smaller group or better yet, strike out on his own.

But not this time. And perhaps he would catch a glimpse of the mysterious ghost that has the entire camp in a throng of rumour; that of the vengeful hunter. Beginning to walk away from the campfire, he hears Saak’s voice wheeze out with a hoarse rasp and his steps slow slightly. 

“You’ll see her yourself… and when you do… it’ll be too late.”

The swallow of the cave is clouded, smothered by wisps of smoke that come from the many lit flames around. Laments, shrines dedicated to the burials of your tribe. You can almost catch their spirits weave and dash through the twisting haze around you, as if to dance like they did around the fires, nights filled with laughter and conversation. Of bonds made newly and ones grown fonder. 

You hum a tune solemn in your grief. A proud song of your people that used to uplift and give praise to the forest’s divine sanctity, a home respected and loved. But now it is a melody that serves as a hollow reminder of all that you have lost. The songs of your people sung in the night to be carried on the wind with your weeping cries; shrieks that even the most fearsome of wraiths and beasts would grimace with sympathy for. 

The palette of your face had been cleaned of its prior mask that covered the higher portion of your face, marking the veil of your painted vow. The darkened smudge would never be cleaned off your hands completely, nor your face that streaks it into watered lines down your cheeks. Not until your enemies were undone. 

When this war was over and the invaders obeyed your command and left or were slain.

You sit before the burning incense of your tribe mother — your birth mother — and listen to the call of the warhorn. It thrums to life, bringing with it its ominous roar and its final deliverance. They would not leave and thus, you would make due on your promise. 

Bow and arrows balanced in your lap, you ask that your people imbue you with their strength. To help you overpower your foes and finally bring their souls to rest in the ethereal realm. The White Cosm. A place so beautiful and tranquil, spoken to be at its closest with the Creator’s heart. 

Your hands move forward towards the wooden bowl sat at the bottom of the shrine. You smear the dark ashes onto your face, its charred skin caresses yours and your brows furrow deeply between. You will show them what it means to provoke that wrath of the Eld’hyunen. 

They will come to know that vengeance is a hunter; and it has marked them all for death. 

The dawning fares no better in trying to puncture through the overgrowth above. The leaves and treeline are too heavy in concealing the ground level. A faded sheen of bathing sunlight comes through, a gloomy hue of yellow and vibrancy of greens all shrouded by the morning fog. 

Just as he said, Absalom leads his band of brothers and sisters into the forest’s barriers. They arrive in large numbers you have seen come through here but only once: when they butchered your tribe and raided your homes. 

You watch them from above. Steadily you move, the hooded cloak on your back tethered to your limbs, allowing you to glide silently from branch to branch with your prey none the wiser. 

As much as it angers you, you have always obeyed your masters when they taught you that to succeed in the hunt, you must be well versed in patience. You have to lie in wait for the perfect opportunity to present itself and you have your sights set on Absalom being your first target. 

Though powerfully formidable, he will be guarded closely by his most elite siblings, the first-bloods. Trying to get him alone will be nothing short of impossible, but you must allow yourself to wait for that single moment and when it's there, you will strike him down. 

Strife had veered off and away from the group not too far into the breach of the forest. He was always better off moving by himself, he attracted less attention that way. Most of his brethren lacked the level of subtlety to remain hidden like he did. He uses the higher peaks to his advantage, climbing higher and higher where no other of his brothers and sisters dared to. 

They climb mountains for sport but trees and forest terrain are where they draw the line? Strife finds it somewhat amusing and he chuckles to himself while shaking his head. He balances dangerously in the higher space of the canopy, intruding upon another world entirely it feels. He takes a moment to observe his surroundings and there — it’s barely noticeable with the foggy glare that bleeds together — but something crossed his vision. A shadow. 

His eyes squint, the sight of his visor aimed accurately to see what it was that fluttered through the treeline and down onto a nest of branches. 

You perch yourself onto the next entanglement of limbs, cloak settling once it loses its gusto of breath that carried you. Your belly is pressed against the mossy thicket, the sensation soft and ticklish against your naked skin. Your chin just grazes the oaken surface as you peer downward, watchful of the Nephilim who stalk the ground slowly, methodical and wary. 

Your eyes grow wide and a near sadistic grin twists across your lips, fangs glinting with poised delight that clench together. You see it! Your moment to disband their ranks, to flush them into a frenzy of fear as their leader becomes another pile of bones to add to your imprisoning graveyard. 

You rise slightly, back arched to sit up and you align your arrow onto your bow and draw. You calm your breathing despite the rapid climb of your excitement. Finally, this quest will be seen through, you can live out your lonely days in peace until you reunite with your loved ones. You do this or you die trying. 

Absalom has his back turned to you but if you aim just right, if you wait… the art of patience is key yet you find it hard to steady yourself, eager to release. You must wait. The window of that moment is happening upon you and so you draw that last final bit. 

You release your breath, rushing it from your lungs. The murky light from behind you is smothered out and you freeze. Face shrouded by the overlap of your hood and ashy paint becomes contorted in your frowning confusion. Your aim lowers, unfocused as you come to realise you sit beneath a shadow. A tall, looming shadow. 

Your cowl shifts in tandem with the motion of your head turning and tilting upwards. Your eyes widen and your jaw falls, bottom lip quivering with a shuddering gasp. After all this time, you believed yourself numbed of the feeling of fear, of bone-shaking terror that has the chasm of your chest diving with your heartbeat. You thought yourself hollow to that feeling you had all that time ago when you first witnessed the slaughter, the carnage and the screams that echoed.

Had you been so consumed in your fire of vengeance that you neglected your surroundings, you didn’t heed to the teachings of your masters? To always be aware, always be intune with your senses. Never allow your arrow to be knocked blind; in which you did. 

That feeling resurfaces again and now you have become the prey for it. 

What few seconds pass feels like an eternity that drags on. You move swiftly but sloppily, your draw and aim not on target as you fire your knocked arrow only for him to deflect it with the iron plating of his gauntlet. The arrow snaps in two under such force and he lunges at you, pinning you. You hiss sharply and your hands claw at him, your sharp nails scratch and rip at whatever you can to fight him off. The struggle turns you both off the branch and you go crashing to the forest floor, whenever you attempt to pry him away and fill your cloak with wind, he stops you by wrapping his arms around you; caging you. 

Each pained yelp you make echoes louder through the canopy in your rapid descent. The troops below peer upwards at the commotion until it lands on ground. They rush towards it as they watch, awestruck that the hunter that stalked them is no more. Instead, Strife’s knees trap you between him and the forest floor, his hands easily captured around each of your wrists, keeping you from escaping. 

His throaty chuckles grow into a small fit of laughter, grinning a fanged grin behind his mask. “I got her!” he chants, a hollering of cheerful howls and spirited yells applaud him in his apprehension. 

The coarse patch of dirt rubs against your stomach in your continued writhing, only to feel the force of his weight push you further against the ground and you whine, seething like a feral animal at him. 

“Let go of me! Let— go!”

Moving aside to make room for Absalom’s arrival, he gives a gruff hum, mouth pulling into a grin. 

“Well done, Strife,” he rumbles, planting the pommel of his axe into the ground. His elbow probs up to rest against its higher end. “I knew it was a matter of time before these rumours would be snuffed out. A vengeful wraith, unkillable and unseen.” Snickering, Absalom lowers himself to you and his large fingers snatch hold of your face. 

You bare your fangs at him with a snarl but he only chuckles in turn, not an ounce of fear etched in his eyes that you can see. 

“She was about to kill you.”

“Was she now?” asks Absalom, his voice inflecting with peaked interest before turning to leave. 

“It’d be a waste to kill her.” Strife hums thoughtfully before his own hand catches your jaw, pinching your cheeks and lowering his helmed face next to yours. 

“How about it, Absalom? Can I keep this one?”

Absalom shrugs his shoulders with a dismissive hum. “Do what you will with her. Fuck her, kill her, it matters little to me.”

Such news never sounded like music to his ears until now. He’d seen quite a few of his brethren take Eld’hyunen survivors as prisoners to provide them lustful satisfaction alongside their bloodthirst. He’d wondered himself once or twice… 

His hips push forward to rest in the curve of your lower back and you gasp. His grip ahold of you tightens when you make to shuffle out from under him.

“You hear that, little hunter?” he taunts with a husky chuckle, “you’re all mine.”

High upon an overlooking cliffside, you’re able to see the march of the Nephilim return to their camp, their numbers swarming back inside its walls and rejoining those who had remained behind. Many more were still to come, you were sure of it, it was only a matter of time. 

Strife had brought you up here, somewhere reclusive for his claiming. Tomorrow he would return with you to show you off to his brethren, to rub it into Saak’s face that his threats meant nothing and that he now had you, the vengeful hunter, to satiate his pent up aggressions and lustful drive. 

You’re clawing into the dirt with each thrust that brushes that spot deep inside of you. Each forceful drive of his widely built hips shoves the hastily collected air from your lungs in exerted pants, your whines and pitiful cries are swallowed up into the night’s breeze, the harshened clap of skin against skin makes your body ache and each stroke of his cock invading your silky, warm walls has you clenching around him. 

Strife groans with every motion of bucking his hips, speeding up and arching his body a bit more so that his hands can drag you further back onto his length, almost splitting you open. It sounds messy but your skin is riddled with a hot flush that covers you entirely, your screams turned into whiny moans and your voice shredded raw into a terrible, wordless dialect. 

“You’re so tight, little mate,” he grunts between a few hard thrusts that pull a string of mewls from you. You grip him like a vice, coating him in the slick of your arousal you tried so hard to deny him; deny both of you. 

He could smell you through the dampened fabric of your loincloth, the need buried between your thighs. 

His grip is bruising, it hurts the way he holds you and ruthlessly fucks into you like an animal in heat. Your walls continue to squeeze around him tightly, your breathing becoming shorter before it turns into high pitched gasps. His cock pistons in and out, sensing the rise of your release and he chases it with reckless abandon, wanting to finally feel the sensational pleasure he’s heard so much about but has never gotten to experience himself. 

His mask had been stripped off with the rest of his armor, his breath beating against the back of your neck in hot gushes that sweep over you like the hot summer winds. You can identify the ghostly presence of his bared teeth kissing your flesh, longing to marr the precious bed where your neck and shoulder meet. 

He whines lowly into your ear as you cry out with a moan that chokes you, your nails scratching deeper indents into the dirt with ragged markings as you cum. Your watery eyes blurry, tears muse and smear the ashy paint down your cheeks. He howls, ravenous and huffing like a satisfied beast when your snug walls clamp around him, barely able to withdraw himself from you without hearing those pained yelps you make. 

But he’s not done with you. He continues to brutally fuck your cunt that is forced to take very inch of him, leaving none of him to be left unsheathed. His fangs graze along the crook of your neck and the muscles there twitch, your eyes widening and your voice gone. 

Your body is ragged, used and abused under his power that has you submitted to him as his mate. Your breeding rights forfeit, the once virginal seal gone and claimed the moment he sunk himself deep inside of you. 

He’ll never forget the long, drawn out sigh you made when he did. He’ll forever savour the scream that tore out from your throat as he broke through your hymen. 

He was not a gentle lover. He was fast and unspeakably ruthless, possessively aggressive by the way he growled, inhaling the sweet aroma of your hair or tasting the scent of your skin on his tongue. 

He groans again, louder and his teeth snap shut. You scream again under the strain of your muscle that spasms from his bite, you feel the wet trickle of blood flowing down your collarbone and breast, revealed after he had torn your cloak and chest wrapping away. 

You cannot help but moan softly when his cock buries itself deeper inside, painting your insides with his seed that comes in thick, warm spurts. 

He continues to drill his spent inside of you until it forms a heavy bulge that fills your lower abdomen and a slickened ring around the base of his cock and drool from your swollen, abused pussy. However, the moment you begin to pull from him, having to ignore the sore spot he’s made your pussy to be, one of his hands seizes hold of the tendril of your smooth tail, caressing it with a firm, palming grip that yanks you back and spears you down on his cock again. 

“I’m not done with you yet, mate,” he huskily drawls. 

His mouth lingers against the cringing curl of your ear, and from the corner of your eye, the pain in your neck making it impossible to turn and look, you catch the crimson line that runs from the corner of his smirking lips. 

His chest and stomach slide into the curved bevel of your spine, fitting against you perfectly so much so that this match had to be a cursed union. For the women of your tribe long since believed that those meant to be mated could easily line their front to their partner’s spine to come into alignment perfectly. Meant to be fitted. You don’t want to believe it, but it becomes harder to deny his prowess as he begins to roll his hips up against the risen curve of your arse again.

Your desire for vengeance is a fire that begins to wane, ebbing into the fade of your new reality as a Nephilim’s mate.

[pemprika]

Hello! Will you be sharing a full catalogue of your ANYC items? :o

Unfortunately, I couldn't make one in time! But I do have an AX catalog with most of the items still available 🥺😭 Some hnk postcards and stationery are not available for ANYC

You can view it here on Instagram or Twitter!!

[justasuta]

I DID IT I MADE MY ANIME EXPO CATALOGUE COME SEE ME AT AX 2024 IN THE ARTIST ALLEY I52~!

It's in the basement which I didn't know but hopefully it's all good see ya there

[n4391]

HERE'S MY AX 2023 CATALOGUE!☕️ Kohi Bean Shop will be at table D52! I have a bunch of brand new merch for Genshin, Star Rail and Vtubers! I'll also be apart of a Vtuber stamp rally too! (I did a Pippa design for the free sticker sheet!)

[euniysu]

My 2023 AX catalogue is here! 🎉 It's, uh, 12 13pages long 💦

I tried to separate it into fandoms so it'll be easier to navigate :) You can also view in full here with larger images! https://seateas.net/catalogue

Thank you for looking! Any shares would be greatly appreciated! All these items will be available in my shop after the con!

[anonomi]

Random Spy x Pyro hcs

Pyro likes how fancy and gentlemannly Spy is, even if it's not really their style. They gush over the simple things, like Spy pulling their chair for them or opening the door. Nobody has ever treated them like that before.

Pyro holds tea parties and Spy absolutely attends them. He brings his own biscuits and even his own tea, because while Pyro likes playing pretend, there's no reason they can't use the fancy teacups for actually drinking tea. Pyro drinks theirs through a silly straw.

Spy likes how Pyro smells. Especially at the fact he can even smell them at all; his sense of smell has dulled due to his constant smoking, but Pyro is very pungent with how sharp gasoline can be. Even dried blood. Spy hates the latter but learned to enjoy the former, because it reminds him of gas stations, dark nights, and of course, Pyro.

Spy is very picky about physical contact, both because of his own boundaries and because of his expensive clothes. He makes a lot of exceptions for Pyro, but overall prefers simple things like holding hands or sitting next to each other. Doesn't stop Pyro from giving him the occasional hug, but they make sure their suit is clean and that Spy can get out of it anytime he wants (which he rarely does).

Spy has a huge knife collection and lets Pyro paint some of them, particularly the duplicates. His favourite knife is the one that is balloonicorn themed but he uses it sparingly, because he doesn't want to damage it.

Spy lights his cigarette from the pilot light of Pyro's flamethrower from time to time. It is not safe and actually more of a hassle than getting out his lighter, but he enjoys the view of looking up at the flamethrower and Pyro. Plus, it shows that he trusts them with their finger on the trigger.

Pyro gave Spy his own balloonicorn plush, Reindoonicorn because it's apparently fancy like him. He keeps it on his bed but does not sleep with it... but usually wakes up with it in his arms (which is a secret he keeps to the grave)

Pyro had a problem with being too quiet and mumbling their words, making them even harder to understand through the filter. But Spy, being a master of disguises and voices, helped them project their voice and enunciate their words.

They share words together sometimes on paper or in a little notebook, writing out conversations back when Spy had trouble understanding them and when his knowledge of ASL was the bare basics. Pyro's handwriting has capital letters mixed in with the littles written like the words they'd read in a children's book, while Spy's is cursive and round.

They share that notebook of their written conversations, but Pyro is usually the one who keeps it. Occasionally they flip through it to reminisce and giggle over Spy's overly fancy handwriting.

Pyro is more used to drawing animals than people and made Spy his own unicornsona. Pyro also draws themself as a unicorn, but one with a cute little tail, while Spy's is the more traditional medieval long one. Spy likes the decision.

Lots of parallel play here. Spy either reads through the latest catalogue of Mann.co daily or is meticulously cleaning his knives. Nearby Pyro is either drawing on a sketchpad Spy got them (because he couldn't bare to see them drawing on Engineer's discarded blueprints anymore, made it hard to see the art) or doing the same, cleaning their flamethrower and axe. Completely silent but together.

Pyro enjoys giving gifts to Spy, but they are not too knowledgeable in the kind of stuff he likes. Like fancy clothes or some shade of wine, but they prefer making their gifts anyway. They give him drawings of himself, a pack of cigarettes they thought he'd like, sometimes something softer like a blanket or scarf. On the surface Spy accepts it all with an easy smile but underneath he is absolutely jumping with joy.

They enjoy standing outside at night during Spy's evening smoke, where they trace constellations together and talk about all sorts of stuff. This close Spy can sometimes see Pyro's eyes through the lens, and Pyro can see his guard falter as he relaxes into what they carved together.

[sad-eyed-lady-of-the-paperbacks]

Welcome,

This is my pinned post.

(Last updated 2nd September, 2024.)

I pretty much never shut up about Dostoevsky novels or Les Misérables, and I can talk for quite a long time about Phantom of the Opera as well. I will try to tag things consistently, so if you don’t like one of my interests you can and should block that tag!

First thing to know is that I very much welcome any and everyone to come talk to me about the books I'm insane about. Anon is on, DMs are open. Just come scream at me about characters or themes or whatever you want. Also, I don't always check my dash super regularly, so if you want me to see a post, please tag me in it or dm it to me! I won't think it's weird, in fact I'll be delighted, I promise!

If l ever unfollow you, you are absolutely welcome to still interact with me, message me, etc. I never want to hurt anyone’s feelings, I just really try to curate my dash because otherwise it’s overwhelming and I don’t go on there at all.

I'm currently running a read-along/book club of The Brothers Karamazov over at @keepingupwiththekaramazovs.

I post fics on ao3 as sad_eyed_lady.

Here's the current list of fandoms I've written for, but for the most current list just go to ao3 itself:

The Idiot - Fyodor Dostoyevsky (6) Les Misérables - Victor Hugo (5) Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms (4) Brat'ya Karamazovy | Brothers Karamazov - Fyodor Dostoyevsky (3) Prestuplenie i nakazanie | Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky (1)

I very much appreciate comments, or if you're shy to comment publicly you're more than welcome to message me here; a few people have done that and it's made my entire life. Almost the entire purpose of fanfic for me is the sharing and community of it all.

I am not much of an artist, but occasionally I attempt to do an art when the fannish fervour strikes me. Appropriately enough, these attempts can be found under the tag #my attempts to do an art.

And finally, since tumblr's search function has become so abysmal that I can no longer find my own meticulously-tagged posts, I'm going to try to catalogue some of my messy analyses so that I can find them again. This will be an on-going wrangling effort on my part.

Dostoevsky, Fyodor, The Brothers Karamazov

Musings on class/position in society as relates to the interaction between Katerina Ivanvona and Grushenka in 1.3.10, and how this lens might shift our view.

Grushenka and active love

Healing the rift in The Brothers Karamazov and Crime and Punishment

How Fyodor and Mitya are different (but both human)

Dostoevsky, Fyodor, Crime and Punishment

Some half-formed thoughts regarding parallels between Raskolnikov and Marius Pontmercy and why I'm so much harder on Marius despite, you know, the axe murders.

It was Sonya's window, maybe?

Why 2002 BBC C&P was wrong especially in the way they handled Lizaveta's murder

On Avdotya Romanovna shooting but not killing

Healing the rift in The Brothers Karamazov and Crime and Punishment

Dostoevsky, Fyodor, The Idiot

On Nastasya Filippovna engineering her role as the doomed victim in a gothic narrative

Nastasya giving Rogozhin the details of the murder

Rogozhin wasn't an unstoppable killer who would have killed her no matter what

Comparing and Contrasting Semyon Parfyonovich (Rogozhin's father) and Totsky

On Myshkin imitating Christ

Rogozhin's childhood

Ramblings on Rogozhin's brother, Semyon Semyonovich

Cycles in the Rogozhin family

“Do you see this bouquet man, this monsieur aux camélias?”

Hugo, Victor, Les Misérables

Subcategory: Éponine Realities of the class dynamics between Marius and Éponine in the Brick as opposed to the musical Not an edgy girl who wants to be edgy Not a morally grey character Future trajectory/P-M involvement

Some half-formed thoughts regarding parallels between Raskolnikov and Marius Pontmercy and why I'm so much harder on Marius despite, you know, the axe murders.

A Thénardier turning the tables on Marius's dream

Misc Posts

Master list of all of my The Idiot fics in order

[sisyisweird]

HMS but spooky :] Or at least I tried to make them spooky

Watched a video essay on silent hill and got really inspired

I think Heart just looks cute and Mind looks really silly, Soul doesn't change much aside from the fact that he uses an axe :]

This is meant to be an Au where the trio are tormented/haunted by spooky versions of themselves <- like in the movie 'Us' , but I haven't got their designs how I envision it yet >:}

Inspo + rambling a bit about the au under the cut

-----------

The inspo for the 3 of em:

Heart -> Eldritch Uzi (Murder Drones), scp 939 (not in design but it's concept)

Mind -> Mandela catalogue alternate, cccc album cover

Soul -> cccc album cover, Us

This Heart and Mind are able to mimic voices :D

Heart's able to mimic his targets voices perfectly. But due to his lack of sight, he has to keep calling out for 'help' to lure anyone to where he is. His other senses are heightened though, so he'll prowl around and try to listen for anyone. He gets irritated really quickly and results to property damage using his claws and tail. He is usually on all fours (creature :D)

Mind can mimic voices but only after hearing what the person has said so far. His imitation isn't perfect, his voice is rough and very distorted but he chooses his words carefully to sound convincing enough. Thus, he's usually in the shadows watching his target first, to collect a handful of phrases to use and set the context right to sound authentic. His breathing is kinda loud if the room is quiet enough.

Spooky Soul doesn't look or sound any different from not spooky soul. He takes this opportunity to pretend to be OG soul while in hiding with OG heart and mind.

What is spooky trio's motive??? Idk yet I just wanted og trio to hide together in distrust :D

Heart who can't tell who's voice he should really listen to

Mind who's sticking to Heart like glue and verrryy distrusting of Soul

And Soul who isn't even with the correct Heart and Mind and has to convince the spookies in order to survive :D