#dark eroticism

[anatomicalmartyr]

rip 1920′s Conrad Veidt fangirls, you would have loved 2020′s tumblr

[mikhailloomis]

Puberty III

https://www.instagram.com/sun_rust/?hl=fr

[gyossaith]

@sun_rust

[lollipopchocolatecarnival]

Update!

I forgot, oh dear. I’ve published a story, if my Honeys are interested. :) It’s part of the  禁断: Forbidden series I started earlier this year. 

I’ll post the link below: 

禁断 ||| Wicked Call-Back |||

Written together with CatOnTheSide :), she’s the one that did the amazing artwork for the piece and helped me write it. Please heed the warnings in the tags before reading, my Honeys. It’s quite the controversial piece. 

[sinamoan]

the utmost initmate thing is when your partner says they trust you

[blindmagdalena]

Hiii, Amy, how are you? Like really, how are you? I hope you're well.

I saw you reblogged this post and a fic about Homelander literally eating a supe!reader who has fast healing would be awesome! Imagine, she's not bulletproof, she can't fly, her thing is just really fast healing, like Wolverine. One night, she offers Homelander her fresh because she loves him so much that she wants him to literally consume her, would he accept, would he say no, what would he do?

girl. i cannot believe you inspired me to write straight up erotic cannibalism. (yes i can.)

dead dove! do not eat! smut and literal eroticized cannibalism under the cut. lite blasphemy? 18+.

It all begins with a bite.

Your hand in his hair, moaning in his ear. "Harder," you gasp, his teeth at your throat, teasing the delicate flesh there. He thinks you mean for him to fuck you harder, and he snaps his hips hard enough to rattle your teeth, but you shake your head.

"No, darling–bite me harder," you urge, legs locked tightly around his waist.

He obeys without a thought, sinking his teeth into the junction between your neck and shoulder. It doesn't matter how rough he is with you, it doesn't matter if he shatters you, your body mends by the time he draws back for the next thrust.

He likes the way the pain makes you moan, and he loves the way it makes your pussy clamp down on his cock. He's not convinced you even feel pain, not with how wet it makes you.

"Harder," you say again, yanking his hair roughly. "I want you to taste my blood."

Homelander is delirious with his own pleasure, so near to the cusp of release, he doesn't question it. His sharp teeth slide through your skin like butter, and the copper tang of your blood fills his mouth in an instant.

It makes you scream. He fucks you hard and fast through your orgasm, lapping up the blood from where you've already healed. If not for the familiar sweet taste of you, it would be like it was never yours.

You take him by the face and kiss him with more fervency than he's ever felt, licking your own blood from his teeth.

"Take more of me," you plead against his lips. "I love you. I love you so much. I want to give you everything." He doesn't understand what you mean. He has you. More than he's ever had anyone before you, more than he ever will.

So he thought.

“Bite me harder,” you keen, digging your nails into his back. You’re frail by superhuman standards, only a little stronger than a human, but your regenerative healing makes you practically indestructible. “I want you to fucking eat me.”

He moans outright when you drag your nails along his scalp.

Because you demand it, he does it again. He bites down, and both your hands cup the base of his skull as if you're nursing him against your body.

His lids flutter.

You feel incredible. You taste even better. Your touch has always made him salivate. His love for you has not been an end to his loneliness, it has become an extension of it.

When you're gone, it's as though the sun loses warmth. Color loses saturation. Food loses flavor. Where he once thought love, ever present in his heart, would reinvigorate the world, he has found this is only true when your hand is in his, when he is inside you, when the taste of you is raw on his tongue.

He must always keep you near. Without you, the world feels too much like a sterile white box beneath fluorescent lights.

"Eat," you whisper, quivering in his hold. "Feel me inside you."

Yes, he thinks. Stay with me.

Your body gives beneath the press of his teeth like it was made to. Blood carries bite-sized portions of you down his throat like the tide brings driftwood to the shore.

"That's it, baby," you moan, voice breathy. You sound as you do on the precipice of release, a swelling of need and incomprehensible pleasure. "I love you."

He believes you.

He tastes it in the spill of you down his throat, and in the white-hot clench of your body. The wet of your cunt, your blood, the saliva you swallow back.

You're hungry, too. You're left drooling as he feasts. He thrusts faster, lips pressed deep in your sinew.

To love is to devour.

To give.

He will give unto you as you have given unto him.

From the moment he met you, he was animal-like in his craving of you.

Perhaps this was always his natural trajectory. He has never known a love he did not choke down, swallow, tear apart at the seams.

You are the first capable of enduring him.

Every bite he takes of you replenishes itself in seconds. He can drag his tongue along his own teeth marks and feel your flesh push back against it, mending itself, born anew to be swallowed again.

This. This is what he has always needed. Too long have love and affection been a finite resource dangled at the end of the very stick they used to beat him. He bore this gnawing emptiness for so long, it grew teeth.

How did you know how to feed it?

He screws his eyes shut, keening into the bloodied crook of your neck.

"Let go," you whisper. "Let's fill each other." Your fingers are delicate in his hair. Your tenderness is relentless, worming deep into the rotted thing that drums in his breast. You dare his heart to beat for you, and suddenly he can't remember a time when it didn't.

"Come for me, baby."

Climax hits him so hard, he forgets how to breathe. He thinks he feels you shatter beneath him, but he can't be sure. You're whole again in seconds, your arms around his neck, your lips against his, your hearts beating against one another like caged birds as he pours himself into you in load after load after load after load.

You're both left panting. Sweat, blood, come and tears all salty and wet between your bodies.

He has taken your blood and your body into himself, and given you all he can in return.

Is this what they meant by holy communion?

He's convinced that it is.

This is the closest he has ever felt to heaven.

[anatomicalmartyr]

The Devils (1971) | dir. Ken Russell

[mikhailloomis]

Puberty II

[kittlesandbugs]

BG3: Flesh wound Pairing: Dark Urge/Minthara Warnings: Dark Urge who leans into it, so... blood/gore imagery, eroticism of violence, meaty descriptions, that sort of thing lol Word Count: 588 whoops Prompt: write a little snippet (300-500 words) where your character is... wound-tending their closest friend/RO

Nimble spider-light fingers creep under your armor, feeling for the warmth of your crimson blood that you are almost certain oozes beneath your gambeson. The moan that escapes you when her fingertips inadvertently dig into your ragged gaping flesh is more erotic than pained. 

"Contain yourself," she hisses, sharp as the serrated dagger you'd wrenched from your side. But you see the twitch in her lips as she begins unstrapping your bloodied plate mail to examine it further. 

Tension in the air thickens as Astarion's gaze focuses on you, drawn in by the shameless indulgence of your chummed scent. Gale averts his eyes. You aren't certain whether it's out of respect or nausea. The wizard has never been fond of the parts of battle you revel in, thin skinned and soft stomached despite his knack for Weave-wrought carnage. 

But Minthara ignores them completely. Her hands work swift and business-like, her beautiful blood red gaze narrowed with focus as she strips your top half down to your naturally pallid flesh. Her fingertips trace the edge of the wound, pulling another soft sigh from your bloodied lips that makes her smile just a little. She leans in close, eyes falling closed as she inhales deeply of your gore. 

"Flesh wound. It missed the bowel," she determines with the certainty of one who is intimately familiar with such reek. You wonder just how many guts she's spilled along her life to become such an expert, and your pulse quickens hot with want. "We will not need the cleric."

"Just another scar then," you murmur softly as her hand begins to glow, imbued by the power of her vows despite her lack of deity. You're tempted to tell her to leave it so you can enjoy the sweet pain later, but you've still much distance left to travel to reach Baldur's Gate. And who knows how many more ambushes you might face along the way. 

"Indeed." 

Her other hand traces the myriad scars on your belly. You'd spent nights lying awake, fantasizing about what battles you'd fought to attain such art upon your skin. The truth had been far more nauseating, even to your warped sensibilities. A necromancer's ill-gotten toy, cut open to play with again and again. Your eyes fall closed as you embrace the memory of strangling her with her own innards, retribution for her days buried in yours. You long to do the same to the one who put you in the state that allowed such things and stole half your vision. 

The wound on your side itches perversely as Minthara heals it, pulling you back from your reminiscence. You stare down at her with your one good eye, taking in her hardset eyes and mouth, fierce with determination. Healing does not come as naturally to her as it does Shadowheart, but she refuses to fall short. 

She withdraws with a satisfied nod, your flesh knit back together with a thin marled scar the only evidence of the wound. 

"Thank you," you say softly, your thumb wiping someone else's blood from the corner of her mouth. You taste it, her salt and their iron and you hum softly in appreciation. 

She rolls her eyes, but you see the faint color in her cheeks. "You should be more mindful of your blind spot," she criticizes, but the undercurrent of concern makes you smile as you re-don your armor. 

As your group begins to move out once again, she falls into step at your left flank, because she knows you won't. 

[sinamoan]

[free-grandmaa]

I let you touch me

And touched you back

You wavered so

I don't know who you are

But I let you touch me

[irbcallmefynn]

so here's something i whipped up just now. based on an idea i've had the past few days and a brief discussion with @catboybeebop

Opposite Fynns! Two different flavors! Would you rather have "Opposite Fynn" or "Bad Future Fynn"

I suppose Opposite Fynn should be 75% snake 25% wolf, but that's harder to work with also I like this more. You can feel the malice in his voice. Also his ears being different. Because it's wrong. His shirt is also the inverse color!

Bad Future Fynn scares me. That's barely a person. That's a wild animal. Essentially what if Everything Possible went Wrong? Raised like a beast, never met Nauno and Euphi, never learned to control himself. All he wants is food. To fill a void that could've, should've, been filled by love... Terrible...