#the most glorious gift

[arom-antix]

Smash your competition, baby

Open for higher resolution Credit to @neon-garbage-angel for the idea Close-ups, explanation, design, and extras below the break

So there I was, innocently scrolling Tumblr on a Monday when someone reblogs a post of mine. I go to look and find tags on my Judas piece that immediately katapult me into this piece and, as is tradition for me, listening to the song that inspired this piece on repeat until I was done. Due to stuff, that took three whole days. I want to extend a formal thanks and a formal please I will never get this song out of my head, thank you for that but I also hate you a little bit /j to @neon-garbage-angel for introducing me to Gladiator by Jann. This is canon to me now.

And because I couldn't decide while I was drawing, I did a version where Viktor still has his long hair. However, when I was doing the design sheet and really thought hard about my decisions, the short-haired version makes more sense so that one got the top spot. But have the other version anyway!

Here are some promised close-ups because this thing got intricate. I should've known. I was surprised anyway.

And then last but certainly not least: Me being back on my bullshit! Here, have an extremely cramped design sheet! (I apologise to anyone using a screen reader in advance, I'll try my best with the ALT YuY)

[jaggededges123]

Eighthcest apology kiss PLEASE 🗣️🗣️🗣️ - octakiseronliker

(i put most of this under a cut because it got uhhhhhh really quite long)

You are a cheap sacrifice. You have always known this; it is in your name. Serve and sacrifice and hope that you do not die, this time.

Hot, stabbing pain sears through your soul, as you wait, as your soul being halfway to death fuels your necromancer. There is nothing for you to cling to, here--no faith, no anchor. Every platitude you were given by the clergy as you trained and pumped your body full of things to make it more palatable to a child that hadn't even arrived then--it is all useless here. There is nothing but cold so profound that it wraps back around to boiling as far as your pain receptors are concerned, and the slowly encroaching madness that you must fend off alone, lest you remain adrift from yourself and be rendered permanently insensate.

This is part of the bargain you made in being born; this is the weight of being selected for the blood that pumps through the veins you are not presently attached to. You die, and are resurrected, and die, and are resurrected, all without ever being buried or being mourned.

Just when you fear that you cannot hold on any longer, that voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, sonorous and ecclesiastic: Brother Asht, I bid you return.

It is relief, but a paltry one; your trial is nowhere near over yet. Navigating from where you are back to where you should be is like walking through a maze with ever-shifting walls and a blindfold over your eyes. For some reason, here, it also feels as though there are hands clawing at your feet, threatening to trip you up or drag you permanently out of life. Your only beacons are the smell of ritual herbs drifting into your nose, and your necromancer's familiar refrain consistently floating around you.

You are Colum the Eighth, and this is what that means: you find your way back from hell to the one who put you there, every single time he calls you back.

You breach through the base of your spine, as you were taught; your disk is somewhat slipped there, and it is easiest to wiggle in through the flaws in yourself. Once you are back inside yourself, you reconnect to your organs. It is like flipping the generator that powers the entire Octavian cathedral--everything lights up all at once, and it's overwhelming and painful to see everything thrum to life again.

When your lungs reconnect, when your jaw forces open again, you splutter and cough like your soft alveoli are filled with water from the River. Your eyes come online, but the sensory input is agonizing, and your pupils take refuge by rolling back into your skull. You breathe in smoke that reeks horribly, now that you have a nose and not only a soul. The way your breath comes in short and punchy, combined with the conversational hum of the room, beats against your skull like so many hammers, and the coughing itself is cacophonous.

There are two warm, small hands holding one of yours, and your entire arm seems to arc with electricity from it. The pressure from your leathers is unbearable. If you weren't so busy trying to simply breathe, then you would tear it off of yourself.

To your side, you hear: "Fifteen minutes. You're getting tardy."

...You have a headache, and cannot say anything in return to Silas Octakiseron, Master Templar of the White Glass.

Those two warm, small hands leave yours only when you are moderately well situated in your own body, and when the idea of opening your eyes again doesn't make you want to pluck them out. Your necromancer leads you up to your unsteady feet, and the familiar sharp ache-pain in your lower back centers you like nothing else.

"I am glad," Teacher murmurs from your other side, "that you were able to make the journey back, Colum the Eighth."

It sounds ominous coming from his lips, and you don't want to respond. Silas does, in your stead.

"Thank you for your wisdom, Teacher," Silas says, though his voice suggests that he will be disregarding whatever their enigmatic host told him. "We will be leaving now."

Finally, when you cannot put it off anymore--Silas is not holding you and walking sightless is not a skill you have mastered--you open your eyes properly.

The first thing you see is the face of your necromancer. The first thing you notice is the plum-bright mess of bruises around one of his eyes, and you worry. You do not open your mouth because it still feels as though it is filled with bees, but you do worry. Your eyebrows crease together.

The rest of Silas's face is blessedly unchanged; whatever occurred while you were gone appears to have been minor. His face is sharp like a knife, but you can still see what little baby fat he had ever had, as gaunt as necromancers always are. He is made softer by virtue of wearing his hear down, with his headband already in for the night. You can see the innocence in his calf-brown eyes, though you would be a fool to mistake the edges there for something entirely ingenuous and artless.

Silas inclines his head and turns around, and you follow him in silence. You do not know where he will take you next. You're only just now remembering that Abigail Pent and Magnus Quinn are dead, the reason why you had been asked to vacate your body in the first place.

When Silas Octakiseron stops walking and you stop half a step behind him, it is to your surprise that you have arrived at your quarters. It seems strange, to your mind which is only just now falling back into place enough to think, that there is not more to do. There are bodies, somewhere. Your numbers have been reduced by two.

It is not the first time you've seen death, and you very much doubt it will be the last, but it is bizarre that everything is so still in the wake of two souls departing permanently for the River.

You follow Silas into your quarters, and--this too is uncommon, only reserved for when you have not come back from the River entirely "correctly"--Silas helps you remove your armor. What a world, in which the necromancer helps the cavalier dress himself for bed instead of the other way around. It's shameful.

"Your eye," you at least manage to mumble, as that purple shining thing returns to your field of vision, the eye small in its nest trained on one of the straps of your leathers. "Silas, your eye."

"You will duel Protesilaus the Seventh for it." Silas's gaze flickers to yours, and he looks somewhat ashamed of himself for a moment. "It would not have been fitting to resolve the manner any other way."

"I understand."

He does not care to talk about it. You understand that much.

Silas helps to dress you for bed, though he does not help you into the sonic cleaner for once. You are glad of it; if you were to be subjected to the vibration right now you think you might shake entirely apart. You, in turn, help him dress for bed as much as you can in your current state. Your fingers do not obey well, and the phantom one on your left hand aches something awful.

He does not scold you for your failings, this time, at least not out loud. You catch him glimpsing at you when you pull his hair a bit taking it out from inside his nightgown, but you do not know what it means.

You sit down on your cot when you are done, your bulk crashing down heedless of the way the ancient springs scream underneath you. Your heartbeat has, finally, begun to steady itself. That process too is tardy this time, just as Silas said you were. You stare blankly at the wall, waiting inertly for Silas to say the evening prayers; he had been interrupted, you think, by the news of the Fifth's untimely demise. He will start over, you are sure.

Silas Octakiseron kneels in front of you, and it shakes you from your stasis. You blink.

"Brother Asht, are you well?" he asks.

You do not lie. You, Colum Asht, never lie--the most you do is avoid inconvenient truths by omission. You have no escape route here.

You sigh, and you feel it all the way from the bottom of your lungs to the numb tip of your tongue. "Not tonight, Silas."

"Do I need to relight the incense?"

"I don't know if it would help," you confess. It feels like a confession, and it makes Silas's face pinch in a way you do not like.

Suddenly, for some reason you cannot fathom, perhaps for a reason that only the most well versed in the Tome and well steeped in the Kindly Prince's goals can understand, Silas Octakiseron crowds you in. He crawls in between your thick, heavy legs--you have not seen him debase himself by crawling in nearly fourteen years--and he reaches up to your face, as though in supplication. His uncallused fingers press over the shorn part of your hair, cradling your still dimly aching skull.

You realize, in a flash of clarity, that he looks like he is seeking penance. You realize that in the moment before he does what he does.

And what he does... is kiss you.

His lips are soft against yours, especially in comparison to yours. Silas, as he is in all things, does not hesitate a moment; he presses his lips against yours, and even you, in your necromantic ineptitude, can feel the way some of his residual thalergy slips into you.

You take a breath, through your nose, while he kisses you. The oxygen does not burn all the way down. That is how you know. The phantom ache in your hand fades somewhat, as Silas tilts his face and presses again, more aggressively.

You are sure that the purpose of this kiss must have something to do with necromancy, and yet, your head tilts in the opposite direction, so that you can kiss him in return. Your heart flutters, though it shouldn't. You almost wish it wouldn't. It would be easier.

But your life has never been easy.

Silas breaks away from you after a few more moments, though he stays so close that when he speaks, his breath still enters your mouth, where you drag it yourself into your lungs, a fading echo of your master.

"I am sorry, Brother Asht. I will call you more fervently, next time."

He is killing you, slowly and agonizingly. You do not know if what he does is right, any longer, or if he drags you both through the mud for his own purposes misaligned with those of the Lord’s. You fear that your own heart is not right, for what you've done with and for him. You fear for nearly everything you have worked to uphold your entire life.

And yet, you love him still. You love him more desperately than you have loved anything else in your life. From the moment he was born and placed into your embarrassingly unprepared arms, until the moment you are released from his service in death, you have loved and will love him.

What a horrific paradox.

[kuromi-hoemie]

o happy birthday !!! i luv reading the tags u put on posts, uve got such a way with words n it puts me in a good mood :- ) hope u're having fun

thank you ૮ ᴖﻌᴖა i love going on my lil tag rants a girl has a lot to say

also i did have fun hehe, i played video games a lot earlier n then drew a lot of different stuff for a while. now i kinda got a headache n it's 1am ~ω~

[orcelito]

So the bad news is that discacc chapter 42, the chapter that was supposed to be the Anniversary Chapter, is now late enough that I'm contemplating whether it'll be the holidays chapter lmfao

The GOOD news is that between this (currently 10k words) and the side fic I'm working on (currently 8k words) there's gonna b a Lot to read. 18k and counting. Neither of them are finished.

And yes I DO have to post them together, bc they tie in with each other. It'll make sense when I post it.

So no there's not the Quick Update I was hoping for after last chapter 😔 but it's gonna be a Good One!

[evilios]

The destructive power of “feminine” beauty is most ostentatiously displayed, among mortals, in the person not of Helen but of Paris. In contrast to the veiling of her looks, Paris’s dangerous beauty is displayed, glorified, and also castigated. He is not only godlike in appearance (3.16) but “best” in beauty (3.39 = 13.769)—an expression normally used only of women. His appearance is unusually decorative, even in battle. His equipment is “most beautiful” (6.321), glorious, and elaborate (6.504), and his outfit includes such exotic details as a leopard skin (3.17) and “a richly decorated strap (polukestos himas) under his tender throat” (3.371). This last item, which nearly causes his death at Menelaus’s hands, is a unique detail evocative of seductive feminine attire, most notably Aphrodite’s erotically irresistible breast band (kestos himas 14.214; cf. above, p. 5). Aphrodite herself, who gave Paris the “gifts” of lovely hair and physical beauty (3.54–55), “seizes” him out of battle like an object of erotic abduction (3.380).

— Ruby Blondell, Helen of Troy: Beauty, Myth, Devastation

[infinites-chaser]

"You are someone who needs dreams more than you need nice things. You are someone who needs faith more than you need bulletproof, long-term plans. You are someone who needs to see your life as unlimited more than you need to recognize the inevitable obstacles and disappointments that lie ahead. You’re a person who needs to worship the sky in the morning, and while you praise the peach and gold light, you need to treasure every mistake you’ve ever made like a tarnished ring, like a clay heart, like a smooth river rock. Mundane mistakes and mundane objects are filled with magic. You have the rare ability to recognize that. Everything that goes wrong right now is a gift that shows you what you don’t want. Everything that goes right is a glimpse of what’s possible. This is true for all of us, no matter how old we are, but it’s especially true for you in this moment, because everything is new for you. You will look back on these days when you’re older and have even more problems, big and small, and you’ll say “Sure this stuff is hard, but at least I’m not living at home and working at that torturous fucking job!” You will feel grateful that this unlimited world gave you an opportunity to see who you are, as clear as day, without a shadow of doubt. Because knowing who you are and what you love is bliss. You can get through a lot, once you know who you are and you’re willing to stand up for who you are.

You just need to understand this: You are a person who needs to cultivate an unlimited mindset no matter what you’re doing. You need to imagine big things. You need to dream.

The most precious thing you own is your faith in your own stubborn heart, your own delirious soul, your own glorious dreams.

Pursue your academic dreams. Don’t do it because you’ll become someone important. Do it because it makes you feel alive right now, it supports who you are, it gives you an unparalleled opportunity to embody your values and principles. Difficulties and obstacles only make it even more possible to manifest your faith and inspire others with it. You will be rich or poor or somewhere it between, and it won’t matter that much. What will always matter is how you feel RIGHT NOW, what you believe in RIGHT NOW, and how unlimited the world feels to you RIGHT NOW. At the heart of all of this, for you, is daring to feel more, daring to care more, daring to invest and invest and invest, daring to look like a fool in the eyes of those who never dare. This is who you are. You are luminous when you feel everything, when you dare, when you give up on having too much and you learn how perfect JUST ENOUGH looks and feels to you. It looks like less than enough to others. That’s not your problem. You will lose faith. You will feel discouraged. You will feel tired. And you will get up the next day and believe all over again. This is who you are."

[amaltheas-garden]

AND ANOTHER THING

this episode, despite not having the laughable plot points from 2x03, has run into some irreconcilable issues with the source material, but not in the typical "this event didn't happen in the text" way, but in the "these themes are in direct conflict with everything asoiaf stands for" way.

asoiaf sets itself apart from most fantasy because, in a genre chalk full of stories with divine, predetermined heroes destined to save the world, kings-to-be whose causes were always righteous and whose wars were always glorious, decided to flip the script. grrm wanted a story where no one's actions could be excused by vague notions of serving the "greater good", where divine purpose and prophecy held little weight compared to the very real damage done to actual people, because at the end of the day, nothing can justify the violence inflicted onto innocents in these endless quests for power.

the dance of dragons is a very easy story to comprehend when the rose-tinted glasses this fandom insists on seeing the Targaryens through are removed. it's about two siblings growing up in a time of peace and prosperity, going to war over daddy's throne, and everyone either dying or becoming a hollow husk of who they used to be. thats it. thats what war does. it kills you, or strips your humanity away bit by bit till you're hardly recognizable as a human and might as well be dead anyways. if there is one theme grrm wants readers to walk away with, it is that the price of war is NEVER one worth paying. I'm sure Rhaenyra thought that, sitting on the throne, haunted by the ghosts of her dead sons, and I'm sure Aegon II thought that, to broken to even climb the stairs of the IT, wishing only for his brothers, and sister, and children back.

while having Rhaenyra only willing to go to war over something "more than a crown" certainly paints her in a noble light, introducing a catch all justification for anything she does going forward to place herself on the IT is ridiculous. hotd essentially saying Rhaenyra actually HAD to go to war to save the realm from certain destruction years down the line because she was gifted special knowledge of her ancestor Aegon the Conqueror's prophecy (the Song of Ice and Fire *eye roll*) is a level of propaganda the "biased maesters" of f&b could only dream of.

[bakugoushotwife]

kinktober day eleven: monsterfucking kink

>>> guys this one may be my fav day ngl...as you can tell by my blog's entire theme that this is my biggest and most violent fantasy i need dragon king bakugou in the worst way please oh my god please

>>> EDIT 10/11: MHA LEAKS OMFG THIS DROPPED THE DAY MHA LEAKS BAKUGOU IS BACK MY GLORIOUS KING!!!!

>>> starring: dragon king!bakugou x curvy!fem!reader >>> cw: monsterfucking, bakugou is a hybrid, no prep, creampie, breeding, biting, blood, dark content, kinda forced marriage? mating bonds, uh, i think that's it. >>>wc: 2.9k >>> event masterlist

it was the new king’s coronation day, and as tradition demands, he shall have his pick of the finest women in his lands. you were brought forth amongst a host of other ladies deemed pretty enough for the young king to choose from. you were the only one of them that seemed irritated by the prospect, all the other girls were tittering and combing their hair while discussing their chances of being picked to be the dragon king’s new bride. he examined you all in a line, sneering at all the smiling and fluttering lashes—sending them crying from the room. he pauses on you, his gaze was stern and fiery but you didn’t hesitate to square your shoulders and meet it. he’s surprised; you don’t smile or extend your hand for him to kiss. you challenge him, you tell him with that strong set jaw and steel stare that you won’t be easy. he feels a pull on his heart, something he cannot yet explain. he likes you. 

you tilt your chin up, almost like you’re the one sizing him up. you’re so regal and amusing to him that his mind is made up instantly, but he gives you a few more minutes of looking him over, hoping to see some semblance of interest on your face. king bakugou was a hulking form of a man, towering above everyone in the room. they always were bigger than the normal humans, but he was larger than any of the dragon shifters you had ever come across. the room almost didn’t seem big enough to contain him, and it was his castle. his burlap trousers balloon around his lower half, but it seems there were not shirts big enough to fit the new king of dragons, only a long fur cloak that fastened with a golden dragon broach stretching across the broad expanse of his chest. he was tanned and scarred from years of flight and battle, and muscled even more so. he had hints of sparkling scarlet scales trailing along his collarbones with pointy teeth that alluded to his other form. his biceps bulged as he folded his arms across his chest, admiring you as you admire him with a satisfied smirk on his face. you didn’t throw yourself at him like the rest, and he doubted you would yet still, but you weren’t shy to let your eyes linger on him. he likes you. 

he smirks your way, grunting his approval. you were the perfect match. you certainly were the most beautiful creature of his kingdom, and your womanly figure assured him that he would sire several successful heirs with you. you captivated him and you had not yet spoken a word, though the young king could feel that fierce tugging on his heart again, something he now recognizes to be his mating bond the longer he looks at you and the stronger the feeling grows. 

“mine.” he says simply, nodding at you in content. his right hand man and fellow dragon shifter steps closer, handing his friend and king a fur pelt similar to the one he wears before retreating back into the onlooking crowd. the king unclasps the matching golden dragon, swinging the covering over your shoulders and snapping the jewelry back into place with a surprising nimbleness. this was the first of many gifts the king would dole out for his mate and queen, but this is the first one to mark you as his. you’re shocked to be chosen, convinced he would take your surveying for disrespect and brutalize you here to send a message— but alas, the most explosive dragon ruler in all the lands chose you as his bride. “you are my mate. we will marry in two moons. dismissed.” 

he looks over your head when he says this, ending the celebrations in favor of alone time with his chosen. his gaze has a hint of boredom to it as it glides around the room, red and fiery with unspoken strength and power behind them. you straighten yourself under the weight of your new cloak, bowing your head out of respect, albeit so quick it made the king exhale heavily through his nose as if to chuckle. 

“you are amusing, mate.” he says, extending a warm battle-worn hand to push your hair away from your neck. he lets it rest against your shoulder, smirking at how small you were compared to him. it was overwhelmingly apparent that he could do anything he wanted to with you, and you weren’t necessarily opposed to the concept. you started this day with immense rage and dread at having to go before the king and be selected like a prize horse. but he surprised you, even being every bit as brute and brash as everyone said he’d be, his eyes sparkled when they came across you. he declared you his mate—-a huge deal for a dragon shifter, and shrouded you in the engagement cloak without so much as a second thought. there was no arguing with the king, nor his mating bond. your soul was created to nurture his, and vice versa. he felt this snap into place instantly, as a mortal, you probably wouldn’t feel the strength of your connection for several days to weeks. it was an honor, one you couldn’t believe was bestowed upon you—but you certainly weren’t complaining anymore. “i like you.” 

you feel your body warm a bit from something as simple as his touch. he’s rough around the edges, and certainly doesn’t know how to be gentle or verbose, but his statement makes you smile warmly anyway. “thank you, my king. i’m quite amused as well.” 

he lets his hand slide from your shoulder all the way to your hand, clutching it tight as he brings it to his lips, giving it a chaste kiss. your scent makes his heart skip a beat, and he wonders if he can make it through the next two months without ravaging his sweet maiden. 

the days pass, slowly, but they pass. your king brings you several gifts and trinkets, filling your new chambers with tokens of his affection and fondness for his mate. the dragons were known for this, and your mate was the brightest and biggest of them all. so never did he go out to fly without returning with a clutch of presents. he was always so proud of himself as he showed them to you, shoving all the perfumes and jewels in your hands with a boastful grin. 

“i found these for you. wear them.” he grunts, roughly pulling you into his arms for a crushing hug. he was working on it, but he manhandled you on accident a majority of the time, not used to interacting with women. you were getting used to it anyhow, only giggling and nodding your acceptance, cooing at how beautiful all the gifts were. he preens in your praise, eager to earn the deep affection that the bond produces. 

you couldn’t deny that the bond was starting to affect you, as if you needed any help falling for the monster of a man meant to be your husband. he was kind and loving to you, and you couldn’t ask for much more. he was feared and revered, if you were dumb enough to cross him or his kingdom—soon to be your kingdom, then you earned the punishment of his hellfire tenfold. you wouldn’t find yourself begging for lives to be spared as you stand in the crowd while watching the king dole out sentences. he was brutal, and scary, vicious and primal in every way. his servants tremored in his wake, and though his people loved his protection, they feared his wrath. you were truly the only exception, and it was mystical for everyone to see the fierceness that abounds for his soon to be wife, his forever mate, his queen. and they could only hope your loving tenderness would tame the wild king. 

he took meals with you, showed you around his dreary and plain castle, easily agreeing to your every decoration suggestion and insisting you do whatever you want—this is your home now too. he even took you on rides in his gorgeous dragon form, letting you see how beautiful the sun setting over the kingdom was, flying you to different nations, journeying close to the seawaters so you could feel the salty wind on your skin. he forced himself to sleep in his own quarters at night, trying and struggling to abide by common decency. 

when your wedding day finally arrived, the king was more than ready to make you his queen officially—and then cart you to bed where decency would be the last thing on his mind. the ceremony is gorgeous, the image of you in your wedding gown was never to be forgotten on him, even though he couldn’t wait to rip it off of you. his brain had already geared into the darker side of things by the time you were being shown to your now shared chambers, and he could not resist his mate any longer. 

you weren’t faring much better. however this mating bond usually affected mortal women, it had you ready to climb your king like a tree. as soon as the doors were closed, he was on you, shoving you backwards while hastily tearing at your dress. you assist him in getting it over your head with only minimal rips in the fabric. you can’t bring yourself to care as you fall back on the bed with his body covering yours like a blanket. he’s snarling, but he’s not angry, just eager and too impatient to think about all the lessons he’s learned in being gentle. he scoops you up and tosses you up towards headboard, and you swear you can see steam billow off his form as he eyes you down, watching you lay and spread for him. 

“it’s been hard…waiting for you.” he complains, unfastening his cloak and letting it fall to the floor. the moment is so intense, you can feel the air thicken, smell the need permeating the air. he’s breathing heavily already, tugging at the weaving strings keeping his pants closed. your breath hitches when you see his scales glisten in the moonlight, the outline of his cock pressing against the troublesome burlap material. you pant out and nod, knowing the growth before you was only the first hint of what he had to pleasure his mate with. dragon shifters are larger than mortal men in every way, reflecting their dragon status in several different physical markers along their bodies, scales along their collarbones and spines, long mane-esque hairstyles, and of course their cocks. he steps out of the clothing, his massive leaking dick slapping up against his abs with a loud smack, you moan. 

his ashy patch of hair and the scarlet scales glistening against his hip bones direct your attention to the monster cock you married. he’s long, thick, curved, lined with veins and a throbbing pink tip leaking his pre-cum in droplets on the bed. it was easily half the size of his thigh, both length and width wise. he fixes himself on the bed, shredding your panties with sharp talons and eyeing your tiny hole. he has all the intentions to stretch you a bit, to get you soaked to accommodate him but when he looks back up at you, you’re drooling. 

you can’t imagine how good that’s going to feel inside you. all the times you had touched yourself out of curiosity or even genuine horniness would hardly compare to this, to the man it’s attached to—the way he watches you like a predator tells you there was nothing in this world that would prepare you for what he was about to do to you–what you wanted him to do to you. “i know…” you say after taking a deep breath, reaching for his face. “i’ve had to wait just as long.”

you squirm in place, lidded eyes flickering from his endowment to his eyes and then back again. “just wanna feel my king…i know you’ll fill me up so well.” you coo, batting your lashes. 

he’s not in the right mind to banter with you, the only thoughts crossing his brain at the sight and scent of you was to ravage. he grips your hips tightly, trying to will himself to be stronger and give his new bride the treatment she deserves. he should prepare you like a gentleman, but unfortunately the young king is unable to will himself to be gentle. you seem to read his mind, nodding and spreading your legs a bit further, allowing him to get settled in the space you provide. he wastes no time in lining up with your entrance and bottoming out. he knows it’s sadistic that he enjoys the way your eyes cross at the sensation, the burning and splitting stretch ripping a sob from your throat. you clutch at his arms, the natural slick you produced just from your own anticipation aiding him in the glide. he stays still for a moment, letting you adjust to him so he can also adjust to the feeling of your virgin pussy gripping him like a hand-tailored glove. he can’t fight the groan that leaves his lips, mindfully keeping his talons retracted as he rakes his hands over your plush stomach and wide hips, stopping to paw at your thick thighs and fat ass. he’s already rendered speechless, only able to grunt and groan as he starts to move, putting your legs up to his shoulders as to not face any resistance. you cry out at the new angle, absolutely feeling the searing heat of him splitting you apart, but you love it. you move your hips against his, head digging back against the pillow at the newfound pleasure.

it’s so hard for him to go slow, especially as you fuck yourself into him and cry out for more. your body takes him so well, as it was designed to, but he still didn’t expect it to feel and look and sound so good. he can see himself in your stomach, the spikes along his base curling into you and hitting every spot so well. you didn’t even know it was possible to feel this good, his cockhead drilling into your womb so hard it has the corners of your vision turning white. 

he’s growling, unable to repress his animalistic side completely. he leans forward, snapping his hips to yours as your wanton moans fill the room. he lets his tongue lave over your neck, making you gasp out at the feeling. “mate–i need to mark–bite..” he rumbles in your ear, goosebumps rippling over his body when you whine out and nod. 

“please! bite me, got those teeth f’r a reason—” you plead, your small hand guiding his face to the crook of your neck. your eagerness makes his cock twitch, your enjoyment paramount to him just as much as claiming his mate for the first time. he abides by your wishes, sinking his teeth into your flesh and clamping down, feeling you do the same around his dick. you moan out, clawing at his back with your own kind of talons. he can’t stop, driving bruises and bloody spots all along your neck and chest. he’d never go too deep even in his lusty haze, his primal instinct to protect his other half would never allow him to cause permanent harm. he admires his work, “pretty mate, my teeth marks.” 

he grunts out, gripping your hips and roughly turning you over, grabbing a fistful of your hair to yank you into a deep arch. you scream at the new angle, some blood trickling down your neck and pooling between your breasts. he’s entranced by the shape of your body beneath him, how his hands take up your entire waist and the way your ass ripples as he hammers into you. you’re struggling to hold your body up under the force of his thrusts, gripping the covers beneath you for dear life. he reaches around your hip, locating the sweet bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. your hips falter when he presses his touch to your clit, a little sob coming from your lips as you begin to fall apart. 

“pretty. coat my cock.” he grunts, cock jumping again as you nod and fall forward, your pussy spasming around him like crazy. he feels the rush of you, sending him shuddering towards his end too. “g’nna take my heirs.” he groans, slamming your hips back into his as he spills into you for the first time. 

he pulls out quickly to gather you up in his arms, laying on his back with you protected by the expanse of his chest. you’re incoherent as his seed trickles out of you, and as bewitching as the sight is, he wants you to give him several warrior princes and princesses. so he slides his hands between your legs and chuckles as you jerk when you feel his fingers stuffing his cum back inside. you whine, so sensitive but yearning for all of his touches. he grunts a bit, leaning over to smooth your tousled hair and gently kissing the bruises and shallow wounds he gave you. his kindness touches you, and you relax into his body with a grin, knowing he would hold you to his heart’s content and then have the servants run a bath for the new dragon queen.

[faesdreaming]

Yandere Deity - Altar

tw: yandere behaviour, possessive/obsessive behaviour, kidnapping, diety uses he/him pronouns, gaslighting, yandere using his abilities to mess with reader’s perception of reality

“Haven’t you come to worship at my altar?”

•A lone Deity part of a forgotten pantheon, lost to the sands of time. What once was a bountiful temple; filled with offerings and gifts of fruits, meats, candles, with sounds of prayers and hymns of worship ringing through the halls, people streaming in to sing his praise, is now nothing but an empty ruin.

•He’s so very lonely. Nary a person has come to visit him in centuries. Years pass by and he has nothing, no one. Until you. A fateful eve when you happen upon the temple. Hidden away in the heart of a lush jungle, you, an archaeologist, find your El Dorado, your city of gold. You’d long since heard tales of a lost civilization, an Atlantis on land. Yet, here the remnants lay in front of your eyes.

•At the heart of the ruins lays a temple, grand and golden. Although time has chipped away at its’ grandeur, it’s still glorious, in your opinion. It’s a testament to humanity’s evolution. You don’t notice him though, no one does. But he’s noticed you. Nosy little thing, aren’t you? Impudent, little mortal wretch. He ought to kill you for your audacity. Daring to defile his sacred temple, you deserve nothing but the most painful end,

•But, you’re not actually defiling it, are you? You’re so respectful, treating every artifact as though it were the Holy Grail. You revere his temple, it’s a wonder, a marvel to you. It, you treatment, you reverence— you make him feel something new, something foreign. The attention you give him is intoxicating. He’s been forgotten, left behind. Yet, you’re here now. And he isn’t going to let you go.

•So, when a series of natural disasters occurs and suddenly your team is halved, some leaving after the first incident, others meeting fates you don’t want to recall. The others are slowly losing hope, they’ve lost friends, money, time to your passion project. This is your life’s work, you can’t just give up, can you? You don’t want to. You really don’t. But you’re smart enough to know when to cut your losses.

•Then, another freak accident hits. This time is more devastating. Nobody escaped unscathed, nobody escapes at all. Nobody is except for you. You slip in and out of consciousness. One moment, you’re in the rubble amongst your dead coworkers and friends, and suddenly you’re in a bed, soft and warm. You’re delirious, unable to actually make out anything. But you’re certain there’s someone taking care of you. A man. A beautiful man, something, someone, divine. His touch is soft and gentle. Caring even. He placates you with sweet platitudes you can’t quite comprehend in this state, but the smooth baritone of his voice makes your heart soar.

•When you fully regain consciousness, you’re able to see your surroundings. You’re in a room filled with luxury. Ornate decor, golden furniture, the whole nine yards. It’s impressive, if not a little, a lot, off-putting. How did you get here? Who was the man taking care of you? Thousands of questions and thoughts flood your mind. It’s interrupted by him, the man.

“You’re finally awake. How are you feeling?”

•You blink in confusion. It’s—he’s— everything is too much. Too overwhelming. He chuckles, it’s a rich sound that sends shivers down your spine. He reassures you, slowly and gently placing a strong hand of on your shoulder. There’s something commanding in his soft tone, something compelling you to swallow the lump in your throat and obey. He laughs again and you blush.

•He introduces himself as the one who’s been taking care of you. Doesn’t offer you any explanation as to why, but you ought to be grateful. After all, you could have been left out to die. He offers you food and water. You eat like a man starved and drink the water as though it were the sweetest ambrosia. He offers to let you stay here— where is here?— with him.

“You may leave whenever you decide to leave.”

•He promises, even escorts you out of the room, down halls that moves and shift, and spin around. You’re dizzy, delirious, unable to care for yourself. He carries you back to the room. How embarrassing. Your apologies when you regain your composure are shrugged off. It’s fine, he insists. You’re sick, vulnerable. He reiterates his offer, stay until you get better— you could’ve sworn he said stay forever— and are able to fend for yourself. You nod your head in agreement. It’s the logical choice, really. You’d probably die on your own.

•He smiles a brilliant smile at you, swears he’ll care for you diligently. And he has been, hasn’t he? You’re beginning to trust him, have faith— why?— in him. He stays true to his word. Working tirelessly to care for not only your body but your mind as well. Sleepless nights are spent with him by your side, telling you folktales and myths, singing soft lullabies to lull you to sleep, or even merely conversing with you. Days are spent improving your health. He feeds you by hand sometimes when you are too weak to do it yourself. When your health shows signs of improvement, you both go on walks, exploring the extensive gardens and many palace— temple, building, you’re not sure where you are— halls.

•He gifts you with many things too. Soft silk robes, shining jewels, ancient tomes and books, everything you desire you’re given. It’s not your fault, really, that you start to love him— do you?— especially not when’s he’s so kind. So handsome, beautiful really. He looks inhuman, like something divine. He’s attentive and nurturing. Your own prince charming. Your feelings grow as time progresses— how long has it been, you need to leave— until you can’t contain it.

•One day, as he presses a warm cloth to your forehead, you notice just how close he is. How he’s just out of touch. You greedily drink it in, unconsciously inching closer until your lips are pressed against his. The kiss is soft, chaste and you immediately pull away. Your stammering and feeble apologies are interrupted by his hand cupping your cheek. He leans in, your heart thumping in your chest, and kisses you again. This time, you don’t pull away.

•He, your lover, your heart loves you too. It’s surreal— too surreal— and your days spent together become all the more special. You’re utterly content with him, he’s become the air you breathe, the light of your life, you’re everything. It’s only natural for you to become consumed by him. By your life with your beloved— to forget you ever had a life before— spending eternity forever in his arms.

“We only have until forever, love.”

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Danny didn't know what to do with all these flowers. Sure, Amity had done a 180 after they stopped listening to his parents (its just a shame what had happened to them) and they now loved thier guardian and savior.

Which brought him back to the flowers. It was the day after Valentines and he had gotten gifts from what felt like everyone in the city (except Vlad who was in ghost jail via the Observants) leading him to having a massive pile of flowers, stuffed animals and candy to figure out what to do with.

Obviously most of the stuffing were going to be decorating his lair in the GZ but the flowers would rot eventually and he didn't even own a single vase anyway. He was not going to mention the chocolate.

Then Tucker gave him an idea. He can just give them away to other heros.

Cackling he set about plans to ambush the batfam who he had met once or twice when he was exploring through dimensions (and promptly chased out of the city)

He started with Red Robin the smartest and arguably the cutest of the brood. He had picked a good time too because birdy looked five steps away from falling asleep on the rooftop while running, so when Danny through a bouquet or roses at him the soft petals clocked him right in the face.

The look he gave was one of pure confusion as he stared at the plants. Then, all too soon it clicked and the vigilantes face turned a lovely shade of red as he looked around for whoever tossed them. Luckily Danny stayed off the visible spectrum that night.

The next victim was Spoiler who he clocked in the back of the head while she was distracted by talking to a civilian. The yelp she made was glorious and almost made Danny cackle and give away his position.

Red Hood Danny had to be the hardest one. Sneaking up on him was almost impossible. He could sense RH like he could a ghost but something was definitely off. He wondered if Hood could sense him too. Is that how he always seemed to know he was around. It didn't matter in the end because Danny had a lot of free time without the ghost attacks and a near endless supply of ammo. Still. Danny was getting irritated and just decided to chuck flowers at the guy until he landed a hit. He didn't know why hood was freaking out so much over flowers or why he was shooting at the flowers or even what "Pit" he was screaming about but the moment he got a hit in Danny decided to bounce.

Robin was funny. He threw a bouquet and the little bird caught it like a sword before inspecting it with a raised eyebrow.

Orphan was nice. She caught her bouquet gracefully in her arms almost as if she was expecting it and held it to her chest before looking right at him and waving.

While he was invisible.

He bolted.

Occasionally he liked to interfere with the bats rogue battles by throwing a single rose into the frey, startling the baddie of the hour and giving the bat or bats time to collect themselves. Yeah thats right. He Tuxedo Mask'd them. Something that infuriated some of the bats and got other giggling.

He at least knew better not to do this to Poison Ivy. For her he portaled in something special. The look on her face when one of those battery powered toddler jeeps came racing down the street with a full rose bush in a glass bubble and into the fight was something he'd cherish forever. Especially when she realized she couldn't control the thing thanks to the glass.

This leads to the last bird.

Nightwing was probably one of the best victims hes had. He took it like a champ and even played along, giving a little speech about being honored to receive such a gift, prompting Danny to throw individual flowers at the heros feet. Nightwing continued talking and Phantom kept giving him flowers, distracted by what the hero was saying and slowly drifting closer until-

The kick to the side of the head didn't really hurt, when you get used to being thrown through buildings not much could really hurt you anymore but it was enough to stun him and force him to drop his invisibility. Another kick and a few shocks from a pair of acrizma sticks for struggling and he was on his belly at Nightwings feet. He felt something fasten around his wrist and his core felt restricted but he didn't transform back into Fenton.

Crap. Power dampening cuffs.

He was so screwed.

Danny was later upset to discover there was a whole other bat he didn't know about or even get to target once due to him being on the daylight shift.

[ssavaart]

Sometimes You Have to Make 100 BAD Drawings To Get 1 GOOD One

(Earlier this year, a publisher asked me if I'd be interested in writing a book on art. As we discussed it... they asked me to "give it a try" and this is one of two tests I did. I don't consider myself a writer, really, so this is just "in my own voice". I wound up turning down the offer... but would love to know your thoughts on this. Thanks)

Drawing something good. Something you like. It’s… elusive. Especially when you’re just starting out.

But, here’s the thing. You have good art in you. I promise. You just have to get to it and it’s stuck under a bunch of bad art. Really bad art.

When I was younger, I would draw every day. Filling up sketchbooks with doodles and sketches and I hated ALL of them.

Page 01: Crap

Page 02: Crap

Page 03: Crap

Page 04: Worse than Crap

Page 05: What even is that?

Page 06: Ugh

And it was just downhill from there…

But… somewhere around like page 100… I made something that… “wasn’t crap”. I actually didn’t hate it.

And that gave me courage to keep going. That one drawing made it all worth it. I was cured. I was now an expert. All of my art would be great from now on.

Oh… if only.

The next drawing was worse than any other drawing before it.

How??? I just made ART! like 5 minutes before that. I got all the bad drawings out! How did my art just go from Van Gogh to Van NO???

Honestly? I… got lucky. That one good drawing? Total fluke. Dumb luck. Sheer Happenstance.

Doing 100 drawings didn’t suddenly make me an expert. It couldn’t.

Have you ever heard of the saying “If a million monkeys type on a million typewriters for a million years, they’ll eventually write Shakespeare”?

I was those monkeys and that drawing was my Shakespeare.

I just pooped out enough bad art that eventually sheer luck was going to mean I may make something really good.

And I’m TOTALLY okay with that. I was 11. I’m not a prodigy. I don’t have any special gifts. But what I did have was… a taste for how making good art felt.

Seeing that one good drawing made me want more. Like my first time tasting chocolate ice cream. I was hooked.

So, I made 100 more bad drawings. Maybe more. And, guess what? ANOTHER great drawing emerged!

Another Shakespeare from this 11 year old monkey!!!! Huzzah!

From then on… I knew that all I had to do was keep banging away at that typewriter (I’m still on the million monkey thing… bear with me) and I would get rewarded with another masterpiece.

Week after week. Month after month. I would fill up my sketchbooks with the most horrific, amateurish, incomprehensible art… and, sure enough, 1 of every 100 drawings would not suck.

I would show it to my mom and she would say “Oh! That’s wonderful!” and when she tried to turn the pages to see more, I would quickly SNATCH it out of her hands and run back into the shadows like Gollum hiding his “Precious” from prying eyes.

I dare not let her see the monstrosities that came before the work of genius.

And… this went on. For years. Predictably. Rhythmically.

Until, one day… my 75th drawing was really good.

How? It was 25 drawings early! That’s not how it was supposed to work. That wasn’t the plan.

But there it was. A really amazing drawing of a spaceship I came up with out of my head. It had lasers and a cockpit and wings and…It was glorious. And it was totally unexpected.

Maybe NOW I was an expert and I no longer needed to make bad art? Would today be the day I would only make masterpieces?

I quickly turned the page and began to draw what would soon be my second greatest work of art and… NOPE.

Still crap.

Hm. But… something was different. It was still crap. But… it wasn’t as “crappy” as the other crap.

I grabbed my previous sketchbooks and looked at the bad drawings from previous years and… guess what? My older bad drawings were WORSE than my newer bad drawings!

Apparently, the more I drew… the better my BAD drawings got too.   

Okay. So. I drew 75 more “not as crappy” bad drawings and… predictably… I made another great drawing!

I was… IMPROVING.

This went on for years. I went to high school. Then art school. I hated MOST of my art… but as I practiced… the number of BAD art I had to make to get to the GOOD art got lower and lower. Soon it was 50 bad pieces for 1 good one. Then 25. Then 10.

It took decades when I noticed… I liked my art more often than not.

It was a complete surprise. I was in my 40’s when this happened. I was SO conditioned to just accept I was going to hate my art that I hadn’t noticed that I had made 5 paintings that didn’t suck. IN A ROW!!!

Unheard of!

But, there it was. 5 good paintings. One right after the other.

The 6th one was complete trash. Tossed it in the garbage.

But, the 7th one? I liked. And the 8th. And the 9th.

I’m now 54 and I know I still have SO much bad art in me. I can feel it. Always ready to pop up and ruin my day.

But, I “pooped out” so much bad art over the years that I’m not really worried about those pop up bad art surprises. I know it’s just temporary.

I like my art now. And that’s because I got MOST of the bad art out of me and into those old sketchbooks.

I know it may seem daunting doing 100 bad drawings just to get to 1 good one. But… if you love that feeling of making that one GOOD piece of art… you need to be patient and get the bad ones out. They’re blocking the good ones. Keeping them deep inside you.

So, crack open that sketchbook. Poop out those bad pieces of art and never look back.

You’ll thank me in like 40 years or so. I promise.

(Oh. And sorry for all the poop references. I’m still that 11 year old when it comes to humor)

Poop.

[merakiui]

texts i think the twst cast would send with the help of liquid courage. some of them don't even need liquid courage, but it is silly to imagine a drunk text from them anyway.

warning: some of these lines are excessively cheesy and also nsfw.

riddle - i want to study you like you're my notes and do you like you're my homework.

trey - are you a pastry because i'd like to fill you. ;)

cater - heeeyyy heeyyy wanna be more than /j? ;D we can be /srs instead. <3

ace - i'm in love with you.

deuce - can i take you out? on a date. not to kill you. i would never. you're really cool and i think we should go out like best buds do. you and me together. a date. for best buds. a best buds date.

leona - bed's empty. come warm it. don't make me wait.

ruggie - starving rn. lemme feast between your legs.

jack - can we be lifelong mates?

azul - you must be my glasses because i can't see clearly without you.

jade - mushrooms double in size every day. may i show you a special species that does the same whenever i look at you? :)

floyd - life's hard. essay's hard. dick's hard. :/

kalim - just so you know, i don't need to use oasis maker on you to get you soaked. :3

jamil - you'd look pretty wearing a collar with my name on it.

vil - you would look very beautiful tangled in my sheets. shall we make this opinion of mine a fact tonight?

rook - let me inside, mon amour. in more ways than one, of course. <3

epel - you're the apple of my eye... (the follow-up text: that was so corny. can we just fuck instead?)

idia - jk but not rly but jk wannawatchthisnewshowtogetherinmyroomjustthetwoofuspleasesayyes

malleus - child of man, allow me to bestow upon you a most glorious gift: my surname.

lilia - if you'll allow it, i would love nothing more than to give you a delightful green gown.

silver - would you be willing to sleep beside me tonight? i'd like to meet you in my dreams.

sebek - HUMAN. YOU ARE OKAY.......FOR A HUMAN. VERY OKAY. YES.

rollo - i yearn to kiss you and taste sweetness on your lips, and in return you can taste the sin on mine.

neige - you're really so cute!!! i wanna be more than friends. :D keep this a secret, though. don't tell (name)!

che'nya - you're purrfect in everything, but nothing is nyat bad either. lemme come over and prove it. ;3c

fellow - are you in the market for a husband? i know a great candidate. i'll introduce you free of charge! it's on me! (the follow-up when you ask if it's him: no, i'm talking about hellow fonest.)

[belphegorey]

⌜power, asmodeus⌟ his long wait had only caused him to need more ships ⎯⎯ asmodeus x afab!reader tropes ⎯⎯ vaginal sex, masturbation [asmo], unprotected sex, biting, slight nipple play, praise, pact marks, simp asmo who is poly, i haven't slept so errors im assuming

The Avatar of Lust was many things; beautiful, seductive, caring… but he was not desperate. The very word was an insult to his very character. Desperate. He was not greed, he was certainly not envy — Asmodeus was pure lust. 

Others with his need may resign to the fate of need, but not him. Never him. Asmodeus could have anyone throughout the entire Devildom should he choose, all it would take was a smile and wave of his fingers. They were the ones desperate for him. Never the other way around. 

Until you. Pesky, gorgeous, witty you. Someone with patience high enough to tolerate Mammon, someone with care enough to forgive Belphegor… someone completely unattainable. Since he had met you, Asmodeus knew that you were someone he wanted. Another person that he could entertain himself with whenever the feeling hit (a constant emotion) and someone he could enjoy spa days with. 

But — nothing! He was granted nothing. Your joined spa days always ended with your declining if a shared bath. The shared meals never involved you licking his fingers of sweet dessert. The days wandering together through RAD didn’t include misadventures of exploring one another in abandoned rooms. 

Had it been anyone else, Asmodeus would have won. He would have awarded himself the pleasure of his victory. But not with you. You rejected his every advancement, danced with his flirting and ignored the growing need he felt with every passing day. His head was heavy. What was he to do? He craved you, the taste of your sweet skin below him as he gorged on the sin you allured. 

None of the others he sought out satiated the carnal need. The succubi he would tempt never held the same shine in their eyes that you had. The moans of each demon he fucked were not the exact right pitch. 

Asmodeus was desperate. He had long since given up on attempting to replace you. It only made him need you more. He laid alone in his canopy bed, curtains pulled taught in bows and the lights dim. The air was sickly hot on his body, he felt the sweat glisten down his naked skin. 

The fire of his lust burned hot within him. All day, the longest day he could recall, Asmodeus had tasted the delicious taste that was your need. Leftover remnants from your nightly adventures with… not him. All his brothers had found you, had taken you, had gorged themselves on your love. It would not bother him, it should not be, but the agony he felt was overwhelming. 

Weeks. He had survived weeks of being deprived of sex. And the only thing he was gifted were the crumbs of his brothers that radiated in your form. Why did they get to feel you first? They could never treat you correctly. Asmodeus was the ultimate personification of lust. No one could topple his throne. 

Yet, even if he had just been given an invitation to watch, he would have agreed with complete eagerness. An invitation to join in would have been a glorious dream. And still there was nothing! Not even a footnote for dear Asmodeus. 

He licked his lips. Even the crumbs of your lust were a delicacy. Still, he could smell your arousal through the home, even when his bedroom had never been granted the proper treatment, he could feel it around him. 

Downstairs, most likely in your own bedroom, but not alone. Asmodeus could recall the previous week when he had stayed in your bed with you for the night. Just sleeping. Yet, tonight it was… Lucifer… in your chambers with you. The musky scent that was the eldest’s lust wafted around with your lingering desire. 

Asmodeus closed his eyes and moaned as he cascades his hand down his stomach. He allowed himself the fantasy. You and he, tangled together in your cute little bed, watched by the envious Lucifer.

No. No, he needed you alone. He had been tortured enough, he could show off your pleasure in repeating days. Your scent was growing, the scent that was once turning weak shone bright. Asmodeus bit his lip and ran a finger along the slit of his erection. How mortifying. Self-gratification was not something he did. Why masturbate when he could instead have sex?

It would do. The weakness in his veins from his sudden abstinence could not continue. The beads of sweat gathered on his forehead as Asmodeus bucked into the grip of his hand. Desperation. Envy. Need. It was as though he was Leviathan, but even he had been able to taste you. 

He fantasised you on top of him. Thighs around his hips, bare cunt pressed to his erection and leaking with the desire he could smell. You would be so worried, just as you had been all day about his state of wellness (the missed skin care routine had been an obvious sign, he assumed) and you would treat him with such care. Your hands, nice and cold, along his face and caressing him while he leaned in to the touch. 

Even though Asmodeus would feign a worse state of weakness, you would allow him. You would sigh and giggle at his flirting and whimper at the twitching of his erection against you. “Just your touch is healing me, my love,” before a false cough that would make you pout. Your sweet kiss would follow, something he had only felt once before. 

He still fondly dreamed of the kiss, even though the moment was bittersweet. A goodbye. He had been so scared he would never see you again. The months that followed, with you missing from the Devildom, were torturous. More torturous than knowing you were with his brothers not him. 

Asmodeus rubbed the head of his cock with a whimper. Oh, how he craved you. The darling flower that tantalised his garden. The one who he was unable to charm. The beauty to compliment his own. His erection twitched in his palm, slick precum slipping between. 

You would look even more magnificent with the very cum glistening on your face. Others could not smell the desire as well as he, the would need the visual reminder. It was not that you were his alone, but it was best they had knowledge of your favourite demon to fuck. The one you loved most. Him. 

Perhaps he was greedy for you. Asmodeus felt himself shiver in excitement just at the idea of getting to say you were his. Both if you would be shared, but, just like the previous week, it was only you who would share his bed at nights. 

You were moving. Upstairs now, far closer to his bedroom. He could smell you better now. The intricacies, no longer clouded by the musk of Lucifer, was overwhelming his senses. His body gyrated just at the taste in his tongue. So unfiltered, raw, carnal. Unlike anything else he had tried. The strength… you must have completely drenched the underwear you wore. Better yet, there was nothing and all the need was slipping down your thighs.

He was sure that even his brothers would be able to feel the sin along your aura. It was that magnificently strong. He moaned into his hazy room, you were such a powerful sorcerer and yet you were still so soft with the world. Your gentle hands could lock him in place with a single wave, your lips could command him with ease, and yet you preferred to do neither. Such calmness to control the ocean of power. 

You walked up to his room, he could sense your feet pause before his door. Was it… him you finally wanted to see? Asmodeus nearly lost control just at the idea. Pearly white droplets spilled into his stomach, only a few to glitter his skin like stars in the sky. Still you hadn’t moved — it was torture on his mind. 

Did you want to tell him off for letting himself weaken?

Did you want to punish him for being so selfish?

Did you want to take care of him?

Did you finally wanted to touch him like he needed to touch you?

Asmodeus fisted the duvet beneath his sticky skin, using the closed grip of his hand on his cock as a fleshlight. He hadn’t the strength to collect his actual toys from the collection across his room. Already, he felt the beginning sparks of rejuvenation across his chest. Your sweet desire was the key. His blood was boiling and his inferno raged on. 

“Asmo?” Just the sound of your voice had him groaning. No one could mimic it. Not even the best of shapeshifting demons could. You slipped into his room without hesitation, closing the door behind you. 

A sweet gazelle entering the den of a lion. Asmodeus was almost scared for you, but the undeniable pleasure that came from you just being near him triumphed. He grew giddy, blessing his face with a sweet smile despite how his hips continued to gyrate. 

“My love,” his voice was raspy, Asmodeus frowned due to it. There was none of his usual lilt, the airy joy he spoke with. He was sure that even his talent in seductive speech craft would suffer, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

He couldn’t stop himself from continuing. Even as you walked closer and your face illuminated in the sun candlelight around him. The sparkle in your eyes made his heart burn and his spine shiver. Each moment you gazed down at him, Asmodeus felt the tingle of his love burn down his skin. The sounds were so beautiful. Each wet thrust of his cock into his fist, now gazed upon by your beauty, glee flourished within him. 

You weren’t questioning him. It was not the first time you’d walked in on one of them masturbating. He could still remember the adorable blush on Leviathan’s cheeks the morning after you had interrupted him. But he was not so shy. Asmodeus would never be embarrassed by something as beautiful as sex — as lust. 

“Can I…” a cute pause entered your speech as you admired him once more. He felt so proud, so loved, it was as though your sweet worship was being played before his throne. He let his eyes fall shut under your eyes, blissfully moaning as he followed the pleasure within him. 

When your soft, cool, hand cupped his cheek, Asmodeus only whimpered louder. He knew, he knew, that you would be the glorious treatment to his burning need. There was a dip in the bed, his body leaned to follow, but Asmodeus did not question you. Never. Whatever you desired, he would happily provide. 

He heard the sweet stammer in your tone, it made his heart melt in delight. Such sweet sin drifted from your pores and onto his lips. “… No, let me help.” Confidence. How beautiful. You straddled him, thighs pushing against his plush mattress and your wrist halting his hand. Asmodeus opened his eyes, almost in disbelief just so he could take in the glory above him. 

The sight would never be matched. It must be how those lower felt when gazing upon him. The candles around you both made an angelic glow. The cascade of your hair was the shadow of the lust between you. The sparkle in your eyes… they were stars he watched each night. “You want to help me, darling?”

You had listened to him — right atop his aching erection was the slick paradise he had wished for, completely free of underwear. The short nightgown you wore was nice and thin, your nipples were hard against the material. No wonder even Lucifer had fallen to your charm. There would be no one strong enough to survive. “I know you need it, love,” the words were mere whispers in the thick air between you. Your back arched straight as you rubbed yourself against him. Sweet wetness coated his dick, teasing him as he grew closer. “We both do.”

Asmodeus felt his eyes roll back. How long had it been since he lost control over grinding? It had never been his favourite act to play, not when there was so many he could use to entertain everyone. Yet, the will in your words and the delicious taste of your lust was convincing him of more. “I’ve needed you for a very long time.”

“As have I,” you lifted your crotch from his for only a moment, the healing hand positioning his dick for him. Such determination clouded your eyes, thick lust burning in glorious pink. The pact mark along your chest, above the heart he had longed for, matched in colour. It’s hue glowed through your gown and cast your face in beauty.

To know you wanted him. It nearly felt impossible. So many times had he offered you more, even grew close to begging, and you gave him nothing. A giggle, a light shove of his shoulder — at most a kiss on his cheek. Nothing to show him that his desire was returned. “My angel -“

“Silence, Asmodeus,” slowly he felt you take his tip. The Celestial Realm had no pleasure quite like yours. He was always happy for sex, always enjoyed it, but he was not prepared for this. It was different yet so familiar. His senses burned in the lust shared between you. “Let me take care of us both.”

He placed his hands on your body, groping at every nip of skin he could. His mouth was open, pleasure rocking his heart in the ocean of need. Weeks without sex had caused complete weakness in his body, and yet it was entirely worth it. 

Asmodeus would even do it again if it meant getting to have you all over again. 

Your hips dropped and met his, a short moan blessing his ears. All he could feel was the tingle of glory all around him. Overwhelming in how snug you were, how wet and eager you were. He watched your head fall back, the glow of his candles now brighter behind your beautiful shadow. 

“All I’ve been thinking about is you, Asmo,” his hands slipped up your torso. Even with that tug in his gut threatening his long pent-up release, Asmodeus took his time to dance his fingers along your skin. The sparkle of sweat beaded on your skin just as it did his own. A memento if the union you shared. When he found your breasts, he was no worse than Mammon in his greed. “You have no idea just how hard it’s been denying you.”

Asmodeus sat up, the tingle in his spine burned in a powerful roar. He felt stronger than he had in days. Weeks, even. His hair bounced along his forehead, baby hairs sticking just barely to him. The power of lust was powerful. Far more powerful than people gave him credit for. Lust was raw. It was pure passion. Passion that Asmodeus wanted to shower you in for a millennia. 

His lips found your nipples over the thin gown. Your sweet gasp was everything, the burning pink beneath only glowing brighter. You bounced on him, snug and warm as you taunted him further. Asmodeus retaliated with a roll of his thumb over your other nipple, grazing his teeth on the skin. He could feel the wings crack through his back, only slowly as his power refilled. 

“My demon,” your voice was a high lilt of pleasure as you rode him. Asmodeus moved with each bounce to push himself deeper. Each clench and whimper made his ego fly. The sweetest of giggles played between you, and he couldn’t stop from joining in. Though his shared giggle was muted against your breast, he could feel the way your heart sped. Such a similar effect you had on him. The honorary angel to his wicked demon. 

You moved like a succubus as you pushed him back down against the bed. His lips fell from your breast and dismay had him frown. Only for the sweet taste of your lips to slot against his. Slightly chapped, as delicious as the sin you created, and so perfectly you that Asmodeus moaned against you. 

He helped you bounce your hips, squeezing the swell of your ass that had taunted him for far too long. Every outfit you wore, each one he chose for you, never showcased it enough. You broke away to gasp at his hands, but Asmodeus chased your lips back to his own. 

So long. He had dreamed of your kiss for months. Years at this point. It was just as good as your cunt around him. It felt like power even flowed through the tangle of your sweet kiss. “Allow me the honour,” he whispered, hands making your hips move faster. 

Each movement was almost sloppy in its speed, though that was were the beauty came from. Sex was a work of art, and you were the finest painter he had found. The sweet symphony of your shared noises would haunt Asmodeus every moment he was gifted the opportunity to see you. The glow of the candles around you was a visage he could never forget. You — he could never forget. 

The press of your chest against his felt fantastic, your nipples almost rolling with each jump of your body. He could feel it, you were almost at the top of your peak. Asmodeus was almost fanatical as he moved you both. The chase was never his favourite part, but yet again he was questioning it all. 

Your body was just perfect on top of him. The squeeze of your cunt, the breathy way you moaned, and the warm gaze you watched him with… perfect. His thumb circled your clit, admiring how your body danced for him in response. Your lip wobbled as you pressed kisses to his collarbone, pleas whispered against him. 

And when it happened, Asmodeus felt rejuvenated in power and life. Your squeal was pitched high and almost silent from how you rubbed against his neck. Your body shuddered in his hands, warm cum slipping down his shaft. He let himself fall in tandem. His wings broke through the skin of his back as his cum spilled inside of you. Your name fell from his lips as he moaned in ecstasy, holding you closer than he had before. 

© belphegorey 2024 ⌜18+ banner from @/cafekitsune thank you <3⌟

also ⎯⎯ what happened between lucifer and you is that he walked in on you masturbating you dirty bitch [affectionate I love u mwah] and then said go check on asmo before running away also also ⎯⎯ i can’t remember if it’s canon or not but i do have this headcanon that asmo lowkey works similar to an incubus where he can deprive power from sex. it won’t kill him without but he is stronger when having sex/orgasmed 

[astaroth1357]

So. As something of a connoisseur of depictions of the 7 Deadly Sins in media, I was just mulling over FMAB and thought, “I don’t know if anyone as crossed this over with OM before, but that would actually be kinda fire though.”

Like, imagine each of the brothers with the destructive powers of their respective Homunculi.

~♡♡♡~

Lucifer coming off as the most normal at first, until MC catches how his shadow bends and curves to avoid harsh light. They swear they sometimes hear him chuckling in the dark corners of the House, but they never actually find him anything there when they check. Red eyes reveal themselves in unlit rooms and follow them through the halls, all the while they keep wondering how he always seems to know where they are whenever he's away…

Mammon hardening his skin to be tougher than diamond, then using it to reinforce his claws and smoothly cut a perfect circle into glass display case. Him letting himself get punched when things don’t matter, but instantly hardening his cheek to break the assailant's hand whenever he starts getting serious. Or literally using his body to protect MC from harm as their first man and loyal shield.

Leviathan having a MASSIVE aquatic beast form that he shoves into a normal sized body, making him feel even more distant to others. Using transformations to regularly make himself look like his favorite anime characters/idols since he can’t stand the thought of looking at his true form. Yet, he still has that conservation of mass going, so he can simultaneously look like a 12 year-old girl and kick a car down the street like a soccerball.

Satan using his gifted sight to become an absolute force of nature. Not just a mere brute, but a sophisticated and effective killing machine with the wit and reflexes to mow down entire armies before breaking a sweat. Never blinded by fury, but harnessing his rage behind every inescapable strike. Him silently vowing that any threat to MC or his family will barely get to finish a thought before he's cut them down with precision and grace.

Asmodeus mostly using his extending nails for glorious manicures, but not being afraid to pierce the heart or lungs of anyone he doesn’t much like. He hears an incubus talking shit from a few tables down and stabs a hole through the jerk's skull while never looking away from his milkshake. His fights with Mammon getting 1000 times more destructive as his razor sharp claws bounce off his brother's skin and dig into the walls and furniture. The only thing he hates about them are how long it takes to scrub the blood off his nails afterwards.

*silently contemplates the possibility of Beel ripping himself in half to reveal a nightmarish second “stomach” capable of sucking anything into a blood-filled pocket dimension of which there is no light, hope, or escape* … Okay, moving on.

And of course, for those unaware FMAB Sloth could run at like the speed of sound which was threatening because he was also a behemoth. However, Belphie probably weights 125 pounds when wet, so… I admittedly get a giggle at the idea of him giving Lucifer a speed-of-light drop kick from across the House. That is probably all he would use it for, too. Him just getting those horns out and going into ramming speed… What a menace

Bonus: Wonder what kind of alchemist Solomon would be? 🤔

[spacebarbarianweird]

Widower Astarion Headcanons

Ok, we wanted pain - I bring you pain. @astarionsbeloved @wickedwitchofthewilds @sleepykitty21 @starlight-ipomoea

Masterlist

Headcanons

Astarion isn't an idiot; he knows you are mortal, a topic you've discussed before.

Jokingly, he suggested you find a vampire lord, but even if one were found, Astarion would never allow you to turn into a vampire.

"It hurts, it's painful. The existence of a vampire is miserable. I will never do this to you."

The price of mortality is death.

You made him promise not to step into the sunlight and to keep living, carrying memories of you into the future.

You die as you always wanted: in a glorious battle, or safe and comfy in your bed, or brought home by Astarion to a place you grew up in.

You die with no regrets, sorrows, or complaints.

Astarion is numb; all the feelings he learned how to express are gone with your last breath.

He dissociates; it's not him, not now, not real—he is somewhere else.

He hides in the shadows, safe in the darkness and lonely.

Unfortunately, Astarion has never learned how to be alone; you never left him on his own for a long time.

He realizes he can't meditate; there is a mental block preventing him from doing so in your absence.

It's even worse since he can't give himself a break.

Eventually, some friends of yours give him a Potion of Angelic Slumber. He sleeps for a few days in a row, without dreams and nightmares.

When he wakes up, the first thing he does is look for you, and then he realizes you're gone.

In this moment, Astarion breaks down, crying and cursing in Elven and Common.

His back hurts as if there are flesh wounds; the cold grip of darkness holds his undead heart. The tears burn the crimson eyes.

He mourns, grieves, wishes to be dead, but the given promise and the innate desire to survive prevent him from going into the sun.

For the first few years, he lives as a hermit in your shared house, starving himself by not hunting and spending months on your side of the bed without moving at all.

It's not life; it's an existence, miserable and hopeless when he imagines you alive.

A wake-up call is sudden but almost divine.

Deep in his thoughts, he finds himself in his own grave in Baldur's Gate, seeing you six feet above him as young as you were back during the tadpole adventure.

"I didn't get you out of this grave to let you bury yourself. Come on, you promised to me to live! Then, live! This is my last gift."

He wakes up, starving and cold, goes up and leaves for hunting. He hunts for a few days, satiating himself with animal and sentient beings' blood.

As his mind returns to him, Astarion washes and repairs his clothes, brushes his hair, makes himself look decent.

He ravages through your things, collecting them carefully in one place. You wouldn't want a shrine, so he sells the things he won't be able to use anymore.

He puts on your wedding ring (now he has two identical rings) and also a necklace you always liked.

He re-sews one of your gowns into a shirt; now, it feels like you are still with him.

Astarion leaves his first forever home and starts his own journey, taking the role of a sole adventurer - a monster hunter, a protector of the weak. He has always had this heroic side in him, just never admitted.

The most difficult thing is to stay alone; people praise him for saving someone from a monster, but they fear mingling with a vampire.

Sometimes, Astarion cries in his tent, cursing the evil gods for taking the only good thing he ever had.

He constantly talks to himself, imagining you standing beside him.

He actually enjoys these one-sided monologues because he can pretend you are still here.

Years pass, memories of the happy life fade. Astarion joins groups of adventurers here and there but always feels off.

Eventually, he finds the strength to live up to his promise, to enjoy what he has.

He explores places he has never been to, does things he has never done, and hears stories he has never heard.

He makes friends, mostly among long-living creatures. "Oh, my young vampire friend! It's been a while!" A wizard elf greets him with open arms. "I am 400 years older than you, idiot," Astarion chuckles and returns a hug.

Most importantly, he preserves the memory about you, paying bards and storytellers, talking about you at campfires, and putting you as an example of kindness and bravery.

Once, Astarion hears a song, "The One Who Saved Baldur's Gate." The motive and words are nice, but the more he listens to it, the more in shock he is.

This song known to every decent bard in Swords Coast is about you, a distant memory, a long-forgotten story.

He has fulfilled your promise, made sure you live in people's hearts. This day is bittersweet; he cries his eyes out, listening to that song over and over again.

But he feels happy, the first time in years.

With decades to pass, Astarion creates the Blood Guild - a union of vampires and dhampirs who prefer to hunt monsters rather than be ones. They also keep an eye on other vampires who are a danger to mortals, especially those who make spawns and thralls out of innocent victims.

Having immortal undead friends feels nice; having friends who understand his issues, too.

He finds himself in the position of a mentor; vampires come to him for advice and emotional support.

Then he meets a person, a runaway spawn, angry with what happened to them, determined to do whatever it takes to break their chains. Astarion agrees to help; they constantly bicker about every single thing—views on life, personal experiences, shared interests.

This new person is annoying, obnoxious, brave, and lovable. Suddenly Astarion realizes he doesn't want to stay in his tent alone; he doesn't want to speak to himself anymore.

The long-forgotten feeling of loving someone aches in his undead heart, but now it's not his turn to confess.

"You know, I've been manipulating you into helping me. I am sorry. if you want, I will go away."

"You are a good person, Astarion. No one is like you. But you deserve honesty and something real."

Astarion smiles back and hugs this person.

This relationship is different; the runaway spawn is nothing like you, different in every way possible—personality, appearance, behavior, views on life, everything.

At first, there is profound guilt, as if he betrays your memory by having another romantic relationship.

They talk, sharing the darkest and saddest parts of their immortal lives—crimes they had to commit, lives they lost.

Eventually, Astarion tells them about you—how wonderful you were, how kind, how brave, how much you meant to him. His new love smiles and takes away a strand curl from his face.

"So, this is the person I must thank for you?".

He helps his new love to break the chains by killing the vampire lord.

Returning back, Astarion starts talking about the future.

Adventures? Of course! His partner is also a spawn, they need healing and freedom the same way he needed many years ago.

And then - who knows? Life is full of cruel wonders. Especially, for immortals.

--

Tag list

@tragedybunny @caitlincat-95 @tallymonster @astarionsbeloved @lumienyx @fayeriess @elora-the-slutty-songstress @veillsar @astarion-imagine-archive @micropoe10 @starlight-ipomoea @herstxrgirl @theearthsfinalconfession @ashrio20 @not-so-lost-after-all @vixstarria @wintersire @marcynomercy

[sinizade]

Qih'Za, The Demon Slayer

Class: Paladin fighter (Oath breaker)

Romance: Gale (no god Gale, only normal nerd Gale)

Besties: Lae'Zel / Karlach

Qih'Za was the last egg to hatch in her Creche which made some of the other older Githyanki think that she would be a weak child among the others, but they ended up very mistaken as ever since she was able to hold a sword for the first time, she has always shown a clear mastery of whatever battle or training she was in. The problem that always resulted in severe punishment for Qih' Za was her curiosity... Training outside her Creche, field missions, she always left the training of the youngest to find out what was more beyond what her eyes could see and this always caused irritation in the elders, her lack of obedience and discipline were irritating in their eyes.

During her teenage years, she was the proudest point of her Creche, the first Githyanki to kill a demon with her own hands. One of the Githyanki from their Creche was using his magic to try and summon little imps to use in combat and something went terribly wrong causing a flesh and blood demon to appear right in the middle of them killing and beheading everyone in sight no matter if they were children or teenagers. Qih'Za was quick, brutal, almost animalistic against that demon, cutting off its horns, wings, tail, she was hateful and dangerous, almost no longer controlling her body and it was from that day on that she became known as the Demon Slayer, but what was a source of pride and admiration for her Creche and other Githyanki outside of it, for Qih' Za it was a trigger for some kind of disorder in her mind, seeing all these children, seeing her friends and teachers get killed in such a brutal way caused her to have small tantrums throughout her life whenever she was in combat, useful against enemies, but she lost control and always ended up attacking allies and her superiors ignored this due to her usefulness in battle, which always left her with the blood of her brothers and sisters on her hands and even more trouble on her mind.

Against her will she became a dragon rider, it was a "gift" offered by the best and most honorable warrior in her Creche and she shouldn't dare refuse. Receiving her dragon seemed to bring her more comfort... It was strange at first, but she created a great bond with her dragon, her friend, her glorious Agynih. Her first battle with her dragon was something that would never leave her mind... Seeing her dragon, her friend being killed by an Ilith ship, having her body absorbed into that incubator against her will... She just wanted to get out of there, she needed to get out of there.

Even though she didn't have much attachment to magic and even a certain fear due to her trauma, the way Gale showed it seemed to be less scary and more "simple", even beautiful in her view, he was a good teacher, a very intelligent human, there were few big noses that Qih'Za met who actually managed to have her admiration and Gale aroused both admiration and attraction. Even though he wasn't very strong, he made up for it with his mind and spells, he was fast and lethal, his body was firm and concentrated that seemed to flex with each glow that came from his hands and staff. Qih'Za wanted to try him, not just that, she wanted to devour Gale completely, feel his skin against hers and submit him to her.

She stayed with Gale and traveled with him to Water Deep... Even though her mind told her to go with Lae' Zel to fight for the freedom of her people and fight to spread the words of her prince Orpheus, that was no longer life for Qih' Za and now her heart is with Gale... She had been through so much, felt so much... She knew well that Lae'Zel was more than capable of such a mission, that she would free her people and become a legend among all Githyanki. Her companion, her friand and her sister

Some extra information about Qih' Za

She's love chocolate ever since she stole one from a big nose she found sleeping near her Creche, so now that she's trying to find a way to get this parasite out of her mind, she always tries her best to find a few more chocolates.

She's afraid of Raphael and Mizora... Not just ordinary fear, but something that makes her vision blur to the point where she almost loses control of her body again.

She hasn't had a good night's sleep since she found out about Astarion... He wasn't trustworthy, he didn't seem trustworthy and he didn't even talk like someone trustworthy, if he hadn't been so helpful with locks she would have already ripped his head off.

She wanted to taste Wyll when she first saw him, a strong and brave human, strong body almost as if waiting to be touched, but finding out about Mizora made her hateful about him.