#visage / silk and lace

[thevamplelio]

Battle of Brattiest (or bitchiest) queer blonde vampire...

The Vampire Lestat de Lioncourt vs The Vampire Jacob Ezekiel Nash: @curseconsumed.

TLDR: really long story short I cannot see any vampire worth their vampirism as "straight" cause of the connations of 'monstrous other' and how many historical vampires are bisexual-biromantic (canon - Lestat de Lioncourt, Lord Ruthven), and since aroace people have very little representation I am headcanoning @curseconsumed's Vampire Jacob as aroace (post vampirism) (out of love, ironically enough... cause I am gonna 'blorbo' my friends characters! Y'all cannot stop me!!)

Happy pride! You are not immune to queer blonde vampires!

[ninibeingdelulu]

A sweet future ✧

Plot: You share a romantic moment with your boyfriend.

The soft strains of jazz misted through the living room like a hushed reverie as you laxly awaited your boyfriend's return.

With Emi - the impossibly huge yet sweet-natured kaiju you'd taken under your wings - finally settled down for the night in her reinforced basement enclosure, you eagerly anticipated reuniting with Kenji again alone.

These quiet reprieves had proven increasingly scarce over the harried past few weeks since welcoming the orphaned, radioactive creature into your lives.

Between your demanding day jobs and the round-the-clock regimen of feeding, cleaning up after, and just generally caring for your colossal new "baby," alone time had dwindled to precious few stolen moments like these.

You perked up instantly at the telltale thud of Kenji's footfalls padding up the stairwell, a contented smile brightening your features at his familiar silhouette emerging from the shadows.

Without hesitation, he crossed the distance separating you in a few easy strides - his arms encircling your smaller frame in a snug, demonstrative embrace.

"Hey..."

Kenji exhaled the hushed greeting against the juncture of your neck and shoulder, his solid warmth enveloping you like a calming salve after the chaos of recent days.

Instinctively nuzzling into the comforting expanse of his chest, you wound your own arms around his waist to tether him even closer.

"These last few weeks..." His lush baritone reverberated through your skin, laden with a weary sort of fondness.

"I feel like we haven't had any time just for us anymore."

A sympathetic chuckle bubbled up unbidden from the very core of your being.

Tilting your head back, you peered up at his striking visage awash in the amber glow of the flickering firelight - admiring the austere cut of those steely features you'd come to love so fiercely.

"Well, we do have a baby to care for now," you teased lightly, tender smile never faltering as you laced your fingers through the dark silk of his tousled locks.

"Even if she's not exactly a normal child...and not our own flesh and blood, I suppose little Emi has been rather excellent practice, hasn't she?"

Kenji absorbed your whimsical riposte in contemplative silence for a lingering beat as a pensive furrow cinched his brow.

You felt him subtly shift closer, scarcely a hairsbreadth of space remaining between your molded silhouettes now while his eyes smoldered with an intensity you couldn't quite parse.

"You..." he rumbled at last in little more than a gravelly murmur thickened with naked emotion.

"You really want kids one day? A family of our own...?"

The fragility of hope bleeding into his beloved baritone caressed something profoundly elemental in your very essence.

Without hesitation, you nodded - tongue darting out to wet your lips in a reflexively unconscious gesture.

"Of course I do, Kenji," you hushed back with a roll of your eyes, though the indulgent teasing underlying your tone was achingly tender and sincere.

Winding your arms around the strong column of his neck, you pulled him instinctively closer with a near-desperate sort of adoration.

"I want to raise our babies - happy, healthy children with a mom and dad that will always be there for them. As many wonderful little ones as we can handle...but only with you, baby."

Kenji let out a shuddering, nearly imperceptible breath at your passionate declaration, eyes falling briefly shut as the profound emotion streaked across those chiseled features in vivid strokes.

For several weighted heartbeats, the only sounds were your mingled pulses thundering in tandem as the revelations of your entwined future dreams sunk in.

Then, there was the first gentlest swell of sultry jazz piped through the living room speakers - the rich, soulful brass curving into existence by some ambient hand like a spirit invocation.

An unexpected accompaniment, but the melancholy melody undulated through the aura surrounding you and Kenji like the physical manifestation of your commingled desires.

As if inexplicably magnetized, you instinctively relaxed further into his solid anchoring - forehead pillowing against his sternum while his chin tucked atop the crown of your head.

One of his palms settled warm and broad against the lower curve of your spine to steady you closer still.

The two of you gradually swaying in unhurried tandem to the sensual pulse of the music safeguarding your profound quiet.

"I want that too, beautiful," your beloved confided reverently amidst the downy swirl of your hair - the words blooming to life like a flower unfurling before the first warming rays of daybreak.

"A real family...happy, healthy babies with your beaming smile to wake up to everyday..."

You felt the tender press of his lips mapping an achingly tender imprint to your crown.

"God, you have no idea how often I've dreamed of that blessed future with you."

Cradling his jaw to guide his features back into your sightline, you simply basked in the naked sincerity swimming in those amber-flecked depths.

No more profound oaths were required in that suspended instance.

Just the seamless glide of your interwoven forms locked in a silent avowal.

Just the lush rhythm of the mournful melody igniting the very air around you like a physically manifested miasma of your eternal and unbreakable devotion.

Gazes smoldering with infinite reverence, you molded your lips to Kenji's in a searing, unhurried sacrament sealing your unified dreams of a lifetime overflowing with life, laughter, and wondrous hope...

[laurorne]

༊*·˚ CRAVING YOUR WARMTH | aegon ii targaryen x targaryen bastard sister!reader

summary: two dragons who seek to move closer for warmth during their grief must remain apart, as they can only hurt one another with their sharp teeth and barely contained flames. though they both share the intentions of a close relationship, they're unable, for reasons they cannot avoid.

content: targaryen incest, angst, allusion of self-mutilation/harm, bastardphobia in westeros, night after intimacy suggested, self-hatred, blood, wonky metaphors and personification, no beta we die like vizzy t, badly written angst, that damn necklace

word count: 1.5k

a/n: let me tell you that i struggle writing angst, but god do i love reading it. i'm like my own self entertaining paradoxical concept and it astounds me

A gentle hand smoothing over his back is what stirs him from the throes of sleep, nails skating along his marked skin softly enough to tickle. He shifts as the hand moves from the expanse of his back up to his hair, rubbing circles into the crown of his head. Twirling bits of hair between deft fingers as she presses a kiss to the slope of his shoulder.

He hums, limbs stretching out clumsily as he rolls onto his side, fingers weak as his hand dances along the goose-down duvet until it reaches her. Her, and her softness, and her warmth.

“Wife.” He’s barely awake, even with the exasperated sigh that comes from his older sister.

“We are not wed, Aegon.” A gentle reminder from soft lips, her eyes taking in his tired demeanour, the curve of his brow.

She brushes the strand of choppy hair from his face, thumb dragging along the apple of his cheek.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, lids finally fluttering open as he stares up at her with those watery eyes. The ones he knew made her weak to suggestion. He lets his hand creep up her calf –where he can still feel the divets of scars from their childhood running through the gardens– until it finds home on the hand she has in her lap, he threads his fingers with hers. The number of rings adorning her fingers was thanks to him: he and his obsession with keeping his older sister glamoured. 

Imported Dornish rings that gleamed with the heat of the sun, Essosi ornate cloth and dresses that were far from the modesty of Court, hair pins adorned with pearls from the Summer Isles, and an intricate necklace crafted from the smelted metal of a Valyrian sword, inlaid with gemstones he had pulled from the Red Keeps vaults.

She was wearing it now, the stones gleaming under the sun that spotted through the lace curtains of her room. The engraved details scatter the few beams of light they catch like dew drops upon spider silk. The stones dangle between the valley her breasts create, the smallest of them twirls some intricate dance as she shifts. Like molten silver, it fits her without any of the stiffness metal should have. 

“We should be.” He glances down at his hand intertwined with hers and watches her thumb rub over his —in the way she always has ever since childhood— it makes him all the more rueful.

He’s hopeful, far beyond it. His bones ache and his head throbs from a swelling hangover, and he feels his throat ache something terrible at its use. His eyes trail from their hands to her face, he wants anything aside from sorrow to be there.

It’s worse. 

Her brows are furrowed as she stares down at him with pity, oh how he wishes it wasn’t pity.

“Oh, sweet boy.” She pulls her hand from his grasp and holds his face in her gentle hands with all the care he needs. “Some things, they just can’t be.”

His lip curls, a pathetic smile covering his visage as he cups the backs of her hands in his own. “But they could. Helaena would not care, she loathes our marriage. As do I. We could take Valyrian vows on Dragonstone. Just as our sister and uncle have. We could leave.”

“Aegon.” A wistful breath of his name, pained and twisted with grief of things that never were and never will.

“We don’t need to stay. Just you and I, riding atop Sunfyre. Across the Narrow Sea.” He moves onto his knees, staring into her wet doe-like eyes as he speaks. He doesn’t leave her an opportunity to doubt him. Doesn’t allow her to pull away as he keeps her hands on his jaw.

Her lips twitch and so do her fingers against his. “Aegon, don’t be foolish.”

“You mustn’t know what you mean to m-”

“Aegon, please.” She tries to pull away now, but he winds his hand into the hair at the nape of her neck and presses forward. Wine-stained lips crushing against the curve of her nose, fluttering across her brow like the gentle wings of a cotton moth as it devours silks and linen allied— devourer of all things beautiful and plain. 

He drags his lips to hers finally, soaking her up in a way only someone as depraved as he could. It’s like stretching out upon a rock after not feeling the son for years, like stripping yourself of shackles you’ve worn since birth. Her lips are chapped, a split in her lips from all the worrying she does to the poor thing scratches along his upper. He surges forward, pulling her so fully against him that it fills some empty part of him, like a puzzle piece that’s never been slotted into place. But oh —how it has— and how it always disappears just as quickly as it comes to him. He licks at her bottom lip, sucks it into his mouth and shudders out a breath as she reciprocates. Her lashes fluttering against his cheeks as they finally shut, as she cups his neck and presses her butterfly kisses onto him, licks into his mouth as she breathes hotly across his face in a way only Aegon can enjoy.

He nips at her tongue accidentally, overexcited and eager as he is. And that seems to bring her back from whatever hole he had dragged her into. But he persists, hand drifting down to the smooth metal of her necklace as he thumbs at a jewel. He tries to savour her presence even as her face scrunches and her fingers fist the hairs behind his ears. It nearly pains Aegon, with the way his head tilts away from her just slightly, Adams apple jumping against pale skin as he stares oh-so adoringly, heady breaths stinking of wine fanning her bruised lips.

“We could start a family in Essos. As many children as you want.” He desperately reaches for her again.

“Aegon.” 

“A home in Braavos, on the beach. Where we could lo-”

A hiccuped sob that withers in her throat is what stops him, punches the wind from his lungs.

Her lips are pursed and her hands have loosed upon his hair and move to cup his ruddy cheeks. Nails pressing into the flesh of his face hazardously. His eyes are dark and his lips part as he stares up at her, he sees the tears edging along her waterline. That deep frown she has when she’s trying not to cry, whether it's about something he had done or when she’s ordered by their Grandsire to stop her hysterics.

“Aegon,” It’s a sullen whisper as she lets his face go entirely, fingers slipping down his chest before they land in her lap again. “I am not a trueborn daughter. I will never be. I am not right in the mind. I will birth lunatics and monsters and wailing death. You can’t love me.”

He doesn’t know what to say, for once he has no sharp-tongued quip or comment. He pushed her from a height, just when she had finally reached the top of her spire. He retracts, fingers loosening from the grip he had on her pale hair, and lets her fall back onto the plush of her bed as she stares up at him like he’s burnt her. Like he’s dragged a dagger across the soft of her flesh and told her he never loved her. She pushes herself away, curling in on herself as tears cut through the flush of her cheeks. A wobbly exhale, and another as he drags a hand through her hair.

Her fingers dance down her neck and across the skin of her arms where they find home on the pale scars marring the upper parts of her arms. He can see her fingertips quivering with the urge to dig. To pull at chords of muscle beneath her skin and scratch at her bones. She had told him about things she saw. Things that hunted at the edge of her vision and scattered when she went looking. Dreams that came to the waking world with her. A pale man with the stench of darkness seeping from his pores.

“I love yo-” He leans forward to comfort her. 

“You don’t.”

“I know that I love you.”

“You know nothing, Aegon.” She pulls herself to the edge of the bed and drags herself to stand, the silk bedsheets slip away and her goosebumps raise upon her bruise-marred skin, she’s as bare as the day she was born. Her throat is too tight and her necklace feels heavy as she stumbles to the secret passage, she slips from the room unbidden and leaves a smudge of blood on the wooden grain of the bookcase as Aegon sits in her bed. Salty tears of his own roll down his face as he clenches and unclenches his fists.

[shooting-love-arrows]

A noble or bussines person in 1800s yan and the reader is their assistant or personal butler/maid. Where the yan is hiding their feelings but show it in controling way like order the reader to do the most simple stuff even if it was not their jo just to see them? Or steal few touch like head pat or on shoulder or simply their fingers touch😔

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

PAIRING: 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 x [servant] reader (gender not implied/mentioned/specified) Tw. love sick fool, soft yandere, mention of lace but every gender can wear it (?)

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Who pushes to the edge of your limits. 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 overworks you to the point where you often catch yourself fainting in the middle of performing tasks. Your position, pay and living conditions might be better than those of the other servants but the list of your tasks was long and more often than not ridiculous. Those little, useless things that took most of your time and energy. But who are you to oppose to someone who had mercifully hired you and give you a roof over your head? No one.

"I have some new tasks I want you to complete." 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 regards you coldly and hands you a paper with a list of other (ridiculous) tasks to do.

Who more than once caught you sleeping in the middle of doing your work. But that's alright. He just takes this chance to come closer and hold your hand, caress your head or cheek. Unfortunately, he has to wake you up at some point but he always uses most of this short period of time to have some type of concat with you.

"Oh dearest, if only you knew how I long for you." He whispers into your ear while you were in a deep sleep.

Who never fails to admire (stare) at you while you work. Most of the tasks given to you are either related or include him. Either way, you spent most of your time with him. 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 made sure of that and he didn't regret it one bit because he has got to be with you. Oh how he loved it when you are near him. You bring him peace he needs in his stressful and rushing life. You are just so...endearing. To this day he can't decide if he wants to flaunt you around or lock you in one of the chambers where only he would be able to look at you.

"You would look lovely in silk...perhaps some lace?" 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 thought to himself, fantasizing about you in different clothes before an image of you without them abruptly appeared in his head.

Who melts when you touch him. Especially when you dress him up and take care of his visage. The cold and calculating man becomes putty in your hands. You are surprised to see him sighing softly, closing his eyes and humming when you button up his shirt or brush his hair. From what you heard from other servants, even from outside your household, no other master seemed to be acting like that. But once again, who are you to pry and complain? And when your fingers happen to touch? A pleasurable shiver runs down his spine.

"You are my lifeline and your touch is like water. I need both of them to live."

All of the published posts on this account/blog belongs to @shooting-love-arrows. I do not consent to my works being: translated, stolen, published or reposted on this and other sites. Likes, reblogs, comments are highly appreaciated. Thank you.

[littlefireball]

Can you make a Werewolf Yeosang too?

Yah of course 😎 sub yeosang is here btw 😗

ʏꜱ|ꜱᴇx ꜱʟᴀᴠᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴡɪɴɴɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴡᴀʀᴅ (ᴍ)

ʙᴇᴛᴀ ᴡᴇʀᴇᴡᴏʟꜰ ꜱᴜʙ ʏᴇᴏꜱᴀɴɢ x ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ᴋɴɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ᴅᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ʟᴏɴɢ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ|ᴏʀᴀʟ| ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ,ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇ| ᴜꜱɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴀꜰᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅ|ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ꜱᴇx|ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ɪꜱ ᴘᴏɪꜱᴏɴᴇᴅ|ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ꜱɪɢʜᴛ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 3.5ᴋ

Masterlist

Had it not been for the poisoning incident, you would have never found yourself caught up in this questionable contest. Now, standing toe to toe with your rival, you pace anxiously, battling the discontent bubbling inside you and the "toxins" wreaking havoc on your system.

A wave of regret washes over you as you think back to your adventurous spirit that led you to sample such strange concoctions—a glass of wine laced with aphrodisiacs. With no known cure for these powerful agents, the only path back to normalcy lies in having sex with others.

A searing heat envelops your body, your heart pounds wildly in your chest, and every breath feels like a struggle. At first, you tried to withstand the agony, but the toll on your body becomes too much to bear, drastically affecting your everyday existence. In a fit of desperation, you find yourself wandering into the grim world of the slave market.

Whether it's the intoxicating haze clouding your mind or amplifying your cravings, the sight of the prized "championship trophy" stirs a fire within you that demands to be unleashed.

Yeosang—renowned as the finest sex slave in the shadowy underbelly of the black market. To be more specific, he is a werewolf slave. How unfortunate for him, as he was forsaken by his own kind. The tale is straightforward. The mate of the wolf pack's leader became infatuated with him, yet he refused to yield to her advances, leading to her slandering him. Naturally, he stood no chance against the alpha; after all, he is merely a beta.

Clad in a sleek black silk suit, he kneels within the confines of a cage, his hands and feet ensnared by heavy chains, reminiscent of a peacock deprived of its liberty. His striking beauty feels utterly misplaced in this grim reality, with his youthful visage starkly contrasting the violent chaos that surrounds him.

Yet, he remains indifferent to the impending clash, for he is merely a "trophy," and the value he offers will remain unchanged, no matter who emerges victorious.

"Oh damn, what's wrong with me…" Your gaze is irresistibly drawn to him. Yeosang bows his head, his eyes fixating on the handcuffs encircling his wrists, a look of sorrow washing over his face as he gently traces the angry red marks left by the bindings. You take in this poignant scene, but soon redirect your attention to the looming battle.

Ho, you must be crazy because of that fucking alcohol. Why do you feel pity when you kill people for a living? Why do you have to compete in person when you can obviously solve the problem with money?

Just fuck it.

You inhale deeply, centering your thoughts back on the game. Both of you stand poised, hearts racing, waiting for your foes to make the first move.

Your eyes lock in a fierce stare, each of you radiating intensity. In your mind, you strategize, plotting the perfect moment to strike and finish the duel with a single, decisive blow.

Yet, the crowd's restlessness grows, their thirst for blood palpable.

"Just fight already! Quit stalling! You two idiots!"

A voice cuts through the tension, a man shouting in frustration at the drawn-out standoff. The knights halt their fidgeting, turning their fierce gazes toward the impatient onlookers.

Seizing the moment while your adversary is momentarily distracted, you launch yourself forward, driving your sword with all your strength!

He attempts to defend himself with crossed arms, but your blow is too powerful, sending him crashing to the ground, his trident skittering away.

You stride over him, looking down at the defeated figure, and raise your gleaming blade.

In a heartbeat, his head tumbles away like a ball kicked across the field, blood erupting like a geyser, splattering your armor and weapon.

Thus, the clash concludes—an outcome devoid of tension or buildup. The audience stands in stunned silence, unable to comprehend how this "epic battle" could be resolved in mere moments.

Even Yeosang stands in shock, having never encountered such raw power in any battle he has witnessed before. A wave of terror washes over him. Panic surges in his chest, gripping his nerves and rendering him motionless. His eyes, wide with fear, lock onto yours, as if he might crumble at any moment.

You step closer to Yeosang, your face devoid of expression, unlock the cage, and reach out your hand to him. "You belong to me now," you deliberately lower your voice, ensuring that your words remain unheard by others. After a tense pause, he finally responds, trembling as he takes hold of your hand.

You draw him out of the cage, your hand resting firmly on the back of his neck, and once more you lower your voice, whispering, "You understand what you need to do, don't you?" "Yes, Sir."

You both step into the room, the door clicking shut behind you. He reaches for your armor, but you halt his hand. Confused, he tilts his head, yet you ignore his puzzled expression and pull him onto the bed.

"Listen, I'm poisoned. I just need your help to detox, and I promise I don't have any strange habits."

"But… how can I assist you?"

"You're amusing. Did you forget your role?" Leaning down, you gently lift his chin with one finger while your other hand rests on his thigh.

"What's your safe word? I don't want to cause you any harm." He blinks in surprise, having never been posed such a question, but quickly gathers himself and replies, "Gr… Green."

"Good," you say with a smile, removing your mask and letting your hair cascade down. It's then he realizes you are a woman.

Taken aback, he stares in disbelief, struggling to grasp the reality. In all the slave competitions he's been part of, it's predominantly men who compete, with only a handful of women.

"You are staring."

"You are stunning"

He can't hold back any longer, his words spilling out in a rush as his cheeks flush with embarrassment. Your heart swells with affection at his charming confession, and you can't help but chuckle. You gently cradle his face in your hands, leaning in to press your lips against his.

This kiss is unlike any he has known; it's soft and tender, wrapping him in a blissful haze. There's no urgency, no nibbles—just the delicate dance of your lips, occasionally brushing against each other in sweet little pecks. You soon break the kiss, tracing your finger over his lips and softly ask, "Wanna feel good?" Confused, he nods his head.

"Words." you remind him. "Yes, sir… master." You stand up and remove your armor, leaving only your bra and underwear, then kneel in front of him.

Your hands caress his thighs as you kiss his sensuous lips again. With a hint of aggression, your tongue slides into his mouth while dancing with his and taking control. He can't help but moan shyly. The vibrations from each moan he releases gradually pushes you over the edge that makes you desire more.

"Oh fuck, your voice is so beautiful." You say between the kisses. The heat within your body burns like a flame, urging you to have sex with him. "Damn it…"

Your lips part once more as you settle onto his lap, rhythmically swaying your body back and forth, intentionally pressing against his member. The friction between your thighs sends shivers through you both, igniting a warmth that spreads rapidly. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, drawing nearer, occasionally brushing against his growing arousal.

Even through the fabric, the friction sends waves of excitement coursing through Yeosang. He can feel himself growing harder as the tip of his cock brushes against your lower core. A rush of heat envelops him, concentrating on his manhood, while the pre-cum seeps out, dampening his underwear, leaving him with a chill from the wetness.

With a firm grip, you pin him down, and he submits willingly to the bed, your lips locked together, creating an embarrassingly wet sound with each kiss. Breaking away from his lips, you begin to suck and lick at his neck, expertly targeting his sensitive spots. Your playful teasing elicits deep, satisfied moans from him.

"I have never used the word beautiful to describe a man." You whisper in his ears before planting a kiss on his lips. "Oh… gosh…" Yeosang has never experienced such pleasure before. For him, sex is always about service rather than enjoyment.

"Sounds good" Smiling, your hand trails down to the hem of his panties, pulling down enough to free his cock. You hold his member, feeling his hardness beneath your palm. Moving up and down slowly, you make sure he feels every move of your fingers. "Goodness…" The itchy feeling sends shivers down his spine, especially your finger rubs against his tip while giving it a hard press.

He never thought he could be so eager to have sex with anyone. Even you can say, he hates it. But you are different. Each of your movements sends a thrill through him, his desire rising like a tide of ecstasy. He craves you deeply, yearning to feel your warmth wrap around him, guiding him to the ultimate climax.

"Hmmm… I wanna enter you. Please." His beg makes you let out a low chuckle. "You're more impatient than me. Are you the one who was poisoned?" You release his handcuffs and pull him towards the headboard, where he clasps his hands onto it. Taking off all his clothes, his semi-hardened cock is revealed with precum covered on it.

"So horny, aren't you?" "Yes, yes. Please let me have you, master." You are hesitant from his words, wondering if it is education in the black market. He is supposed to be strong, brave, but not beg from others. 'What they did for him.' You think, an inexplicable anger ignites in your heart.

You will kill for him after this encounter ends. You promise.

"Be patient, little wolf." You kneel down before sinking down your face between his thighs. "Let me have a taste first." Gripping his cock, you guide it to your mouth and lick it from the bottom to the top. "Oh god." He arches his back as the numbness and the pleasure crush within his body, a long-throaty moan leaving his lips as you continue to please him with your tongue.

"Open your legs wide or I will stop," you command. "Yes, master. I am sorry." His legs wide open again as you prop against his thigh as support, moving up and down quickly while teasing his ball. Your tongue circled the head of his shaft, sucking hard, leaving a reddish mark. He rolls his hip to thrust deeper; his cock twitches each time the tip reaches your throat, and you know he is about to reach his peak. But you pull out before he comes undone in your mouth.

"Why…master…I want to cum." He cries out, tears dripping down because of delightful. "Only a good boy can cum. Will you promise? Little wolf." "Yes! I will! I promise." His begging satisfies your ego and makes it grow. Maybe the beast called desire inside you is finally breaking out of its cage.

"Then help me." Removing your panties, you throw it away before aiming at his erection, sinking down slowly. You can feel every vein of his cock as your wall tightens around it, making you carve for more. "Master, it feels so good!" "Yah, fuck!" His sperm keeps flowing out, wetting your velvet wall.

"Tell me if you can't bear it." He remains in disbelief at the words that reached his ears. You actually care for him? Is that true? What could possibly motivate that? Even if he's merely a means for your own cleansing, there's no obligation for you to feel anything for him. Yet, before he can delve deeper into his thoughts, you begin to bounce, rhythmically rising and falling after adjusting his size and the sensation of being enveloped.

Your hands press firmly on his shoulders, your nails piercing his skin just a touch too deeply, drawing blood and inflicting a sting. But he feels excited instead of painful. Your breasts bounce up and down from your movements, making him lost in this alluring sight. God, he can just watch how you bounce on him for an hour.

"Ahhh…master…gosh!!" Each time you descend, his tip brushes against your tender skin, eliciting a symphony of moans from both of you. Your rhythm accelerates, and the power behind your thrusts grows stronger. It feels as though you've drained every ounce of energy, leaving a hollow sensation in your lower body that is increasingly uncomfortable.

He yearns to explore your body, to savor every curve and contour of your skin. However, he remains immobilized, his hands bound at the head of the bed. The relentless tugging creates faint red lines on his wrists, while his palms grow slick with sweat from the tension of his clenched fists, leaving crescent-shaped marks.

Your right hand finds its way to his throat, applying pressure that steals his breath and brings dark spots to his vision. He attempts to lift his head for a gasp of air, but you have no intention of granting him a moment's relief. Your rapid up-and-down movements force him to hold his breath. The overwhelming stimulation leaves him dizzy and pushes him to the limit.

"Ahh! Ahh!! Green!!" The moment he speaks the safe word, you instantly cease all movement, loosening your hold on his throat. "Are you alright? Is there any pain?" you inquire gently, a trace of worry lacing your tone. He hesitates, words escaping him as he simply gazes into your caring eyes. You tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, your fingers gliding over his delicate skin until they rest on the vivid red birthmark.

Throughout his life as a slave, comfort has been a foreign concept, with no one ever caring for his well-being. In stark contrast to your indifference towards life in the heat of battle, you show genuine concern for him, striving to bring him joy. How could he possibly resist falling for you? Perhaps he's been ensnared by a different kind of poison, one known as "love at first sight." You lean closer, brushing your lips against his, captivated by the magic in his eyes.

"I can stop if you want." You remark. "No, please. I want you, master. I want my cock deep inside you again. I want to touch you. And has your poison been cured?"

Responding to his beg, you pull out from his body and free him from his bindings. Your gaze falls upon the bruises encircling his wrists, and you gently stroke them with your thumb.

"It appears my poison still lingers. Come and help me."

In an instant, he straightens up, his hands finding their way to your shoulders as he leans over you, pinning you down. Shock flickers in your eyes at his abrupt action, but you swiftly gather your calmness and align yourself with his intentions.

"Let me serve you, my lord." His face falls into your neck, sucking and biting your skin to leave a crystal clear red mark. He is really skilled at turning others on harder;the wet muscle trails down to your breast, licking your left nipple while squeezing another with his hand. His thumb circles it along the curve, giving a hard press to make you moan and throw your head at the back.

Guiding his cock to rub against your clit, he thrusts your cunt once again, hitting your sweet dead on. "Here, right?" He smirks with a sense of pride. "Ye..yah!" Not waiting for you to finish your words, his tip hits the same place once again. The waves of numbness make you squirm, and your screams are not as high-pitched as before, but with a shy feeling.

"I love your moaning, master." You let out an exasperated sigh, feeling a surge of warmth envelop you completely. Yeosang leans in, planting soft kisses along your neck while maintaining a steady rhythm. His shaft glides against your slick walls, creating a sound reminiscent of flowing water. With each thrust, he quickens his pace, closing the gaps between each tantalizing connection to your G-spot.

Your breath becomes shallow, and your heart pounds wildly as he maps out every curve of your body with his lips and hands, as if he were intimately familiar with every secret you hold. You wrap your arms around him, your nails digging into his back, leaving a trail of marks on his skin.

Yeosang buries his head in your chest, groaning against it. You are so perfect for him, from head to toes. Just everything. Although he doesn't even know your name, your personality, he ensures you are the one he is looking for. Someone who cares about him, someone with whom he can enjoy sex.

He loathes the idea of sex, viewing it as a repugnant transaction. He has grown weary of the way others have treated him, often rough and unkind. Each encounter left him battered to some extent, reduced to nothing more than a plaything. Yet, when he sees you, everything changes. You bring him joy and tenderness, showering him with genuine care.

It may seem almost humorous, but deep down, he realizes that you are the only one he desires, and his body confirms the truth of his feelings.

He places your leg on his shoulder and thrusts as fast as possible. "Ah!Fuck!" "Please say my name, my lord. I want to hear you say it." "Oh…yeosang ar…" Shit! He is unable to control himself anymore. He withdraws a bit and pushes into your cunt in a powerful motion over and over again.

"I'm cumming, master." He feels his cock twitches as you keep sucking him in. "Cum…cum inside me." Yeosang's thrusts become rushed and lose his rhythm; you grab his shoulders, making an "O" shape with your mouth, panting as if you are about to run out of oxygen.

"Oh! Oh! God!" After a few more thrusts, you both reach climax; your hot juices cover his cock and his sperm creams your wall. He thrusts forward twice before pulling out, lying down beside you. After a short rest, the hot feeling in your body has finally dissipated, you get up and put your clothes back on, ready to leave.

"My body is already healed, thanks." You say without noticing his sadness.

"Aren't you staying?" Yeosang asks with confusion.

"Staying? Why? Didn't I tell you that I'm just here to detoxify? Also, I have work." Yes, you have to 'deal with' those people who treated Yeosang badly.

"Will you come back then?"

"Nope." You observe him bow his head, gently stroking his wrist before hesitantly reaching to the nape of his neck. Even in his silence, you can sense the thoughts swirling in his mind. "No worries. I'm gonna kill those people who treated you badly and you can be free."

"What? No…I…"

"Isn't this what you wanted? To leave the cage and no longer be bound by anyone."

"But I don't know where to go or what to do…I'm just a reward…"

"Then go find out, go explore what you want to do."

He lowers his head in silence, deep in thought. Suddenly, he tightens his embrace around you.

He bows his head, enveloped in his thoughts, and then suddenly tightens his hold around you, as if fearing you might slip away.

"Will you stay…? That's all I want. Please… don't leave me alone. You're the only one who cares for me. I'm yours, and I'd do anything for you. Just don't go."

You can't help but giggle at his endearing gesture, stroking his hair softly as you respond, "Are you really sure? I'm a knight, and my profession is to take lives."

"Yah!I'm yours! Just let me stay with you. I'll even give you a written promise, if that's what you want!""

Maybe he sees you as a lifeline. Although you have never thought about buying a slave, it seems that if you reject him, he may feel sad. Also, you don't want him to serve anyone else.

"Umm…fine."

"Really?" A radiant smile spreads across his face, his eyes sparkling with excitement. You give a nod in response.

"Can I cuddle you?" It's the first time he's asked this as a servant, and he can hardly believe he's free to follow his heart's desire. You nod again, and he gently pulls you down onto the bed, nestling his face against your chest.

"Just like a little puppy."

"Perhaps I know your name? My lord."

"Y/N."

"It sounds like a name for a genuinely good person."

"You're being overly dramatic." You chuckle softly, allowing him to wrap his arms around you as you both drift into a peaceful slumber.

Well, maybe this aphrodisiac isn't so terrible after all. And of course, you make your promise ─ kill others for him, only.

[ahungeringknife]

A Wonderful Meeting

Just wanted to write this lil thing for Tyr and Keir. Not in a writing slump so much as??? I'm just stupid??? Anyway it's really funny how much they hate each other

====+====

He was barely done with breakfast when a private announced themself at his tent. “Leeor, Drake, I have an order from the Archon.”

“Enter,” Tyr said still waking up.

The tent flap opened and the gold and white uniformed private stepped in with a missive. Tyr indicated they leave it on the table. “They said it was to be read, immediately, Leeor,” they said.

“Well I am not going to do it around you,” Tyr glared. The private, who looked barely older than seventeen, stiffened, saluted him, and scurried off.

One handed Tyr picked up the missive while eating his toast. What did the Arbiter have for- With a grin he hopped to his feet. Finally! He and his Flight had been stationed out here in the rear for weeks waiting for something to do. Finally they were making some use of them.

Breakfast forgotten Tyr went and grabbed his red command glove and infused it with what little non summoning magic he had. Despite being the one in command it still sent a needle of attention into the back of his neck. Using the glove he used the one handed sign to tell his Flight that they were for battle, ready themselves and open a portal. It was time to fly! He went and dressed himself as well, thick wool and silk and leather, as much for protection from blades and magic as to keep warm from the biting winds of flight. He used his bare hand and a mirror to paint a garish and intimidating visage on the lower part of his face with thick, richly colored, pigment. Last were his axes and his helmet.

Outside he heard a portal open and the sound of wings.

Little Drake, Tyr calls Tarathu, I? his wyrm whispered across his mind. His sweet Tarathu, her voice hissing across unknown miles and dimensions. Where the wyrms came from no one knew for sure, but come they certainly did.

Yes. There is a portal prepared, come now, Tyr thought back even as he left his tent. Other flighters were leaving their tents as well dressed for war, faces painted. Some already wore their helmets with the goggles to protect their eyes.

Tarathu, I am so excited to see you again Little Drake, Tyr, she purred so wonderfully. Looking up the purple-fire ringed portal had been opened in the sky by two of the better flighters. The first wyrm dropped through, a great beast of wing and spine and razor sharp scales. They caught themselves on wings every color of a sunset, the display a dazzling and sometimes confusing expression of a fully empowered wyrm. Another flew through before the first had even landed. Tyr made his way to the landing field nearby, specifically for this.

“Flight Leader, we’re finally going to be put to use?” Cavin called.

“Finally!” Bassum shouted and they both laughed, the teeth they’d painted on their faces looked bigger and more terrifying for it.

“We’re for the tunnel through the northern expansion,” Tyr said as his flight fell in step around him.

“Feds finally got tired of our tunnel bore huh?” Ranger said with a fierce grin just loud enough for Tyr.

“Something like that,” Tyr said with as grim a smile in return. “The Arbiter there is awaiting us.”

“Oh an Arbiter?” Tyr grunted as his friend Hedrik came up and slung an arm over his shoulder.

“All the wyrms are through?” Tyr asked, he and Cisum had been the ones controlling the portal.

“Counted twelve, unless we got a stow away,” Hedrik said with a smile that made him likeable. Everything about Hedrik was likable, wild blonde hair laced with silver and intense dark blue eyes. Tyr could admit his friend was quite handsome. Not really Tyr’s type though.

“No that’s all of them,” Tyr said as they arrived at the field. The wyrms were milling about, all as big as a house with great long necks and a trapazoid head decorated by unique crowns of horns and spines. Their gray scales shimmered in the morning light, softly iridescent. A group of wyrms was said to be like the ocean at sunset, shimmering in all colors but deadly as the darkest sea. They were quiet, knowing it was time to work, crests and throat sacks expanding and contracting in barely restrained delight. Much like their terrestrial dragon brethren wyrms loved a good fight.

“Eyes here,” Tyr shoved Hedrik off him and raised his gloved hand. An icy prick stuck in the back of Tyr’s neck making even his eyes go to the red glove. Everyone else stopped what they were doing, all conversation ceasing, and their eyes trained on the glove. “I will be brief. Feds have come in over the mountains to the north and are attacking our eastern tunnel bore. They’d amassed enough of a force to harrow an Arbiter troops into calling us in. We will rain storm’s wrath upon them!” There was some repetition of ‘storm’s wrath’, those who hadn’t put their helmets on did so now, tightening the straps to secure them. “We fly!”

“We fight!” his flighters called back to a delighted whoop, next to them on the field the twelve wyrms joined the call for a fight and roared, making Tyr’s ears ring.

His wing took off and with practiced grace of many times before everyone mounted their wyrms. Tarathu, I, am so excited to do battle again. It has been so long.

“Yes it has,” Tyr agreed as he climbed into the saddle of his wyrm and pulled his own helmet over his black hair. Tarathu didn’t even wait for him to strap in his legs, she was far too excited and leaped into the air first, her great wings catching up under her and then they were airborn. Tyr couldn’t help the ‘WHOOP!’ that came out of him. You never got over flying. He gripped the reins and hugged the saddle tightly with his legs as they gained altitude, the rest of the flight behind him. They were almost near the lowest clouds when they leveled out. For such a short flight they wouldn’t go above the clouds, you also needed a full helmet for that. Not enough air to breathe. Only then did Tyr reach down and strap his legs in. Once he was secure he leaned down against Tarathu’s great back.

Hear me, he said.

Tarathu, I, hear you Little Drake, Tyr. Always. Shall Tarathu, Tyr, we, fly quickly now?

Yes. Lets fly fast, Tyr said a smile curling against his lips as Tarathu opened herself to him and his small human mind settled against her alien wyrm consciousness. They acted as one mind then and even though she carried him he gave her strength. Her wing beats became faster, her scales aligning themselves to be more streamlined, the wind rushing over them as their speed almost doubled. And there was such joy in this. Tarathu couldn’t fly this fast without Tyr and she loved to do so as he did with her.

All too soon the mountains that had been not too far were suddenly very close and Tyr disengaged, pulling his mind away from Tarathu’s. He had to remind himself he no longer had wings, or a tail. Down below was the fort and small town that facilitated the tunnel in this part of the mountains. He could see smoke and even at this height the land was scarred by magic.

Lets go see how we help, Tyr thought and waved the red glove in a way to indicate to his flight that they were to land.

Tarathu landed as lightly as an eagle in the snow and shook out her neck with a short bugle. He patted her shoulder. “Everyone stay mounted,” he called. “Cisum, Hedrik,” he pointed at them both as he dismounted. “The Arbiter should have our heading on where to hunt these Feds.” There was some whooping.

As Cisum and Hedrik joined him a Rear Shan ran up to them, panting slightly from the full sprint. “Leeor,” she saluted Tyr.

“At ease Rear Shan,” Tyr said and she did so.

“The Arbiter is awaiting you. She has a position she wants you to move on.”

“That’s why we’re here, lead on,” Tyr said. She nodded and walked off quickly, the three of them followed, barely having to lengthen their strides to keep up.

“Female Arbiter? Good for her,” Hedrik said.

“We know one of those,” Cisum said gravely. He was as dark as Hedrik was light, cool brown skin and short kinky black and silver hair under his helmet, eyes completely black.

“There are other female Arbiters,” Tyr waved that off. “Plenty. I bet its Car’en from Kou.”

“Could be,” Cisum said.

“Lets hope so,” Hedrik said forlornly.

They followed the Rear Shan out of the field, through the town, and into the fort where crude buildings had been erected. She led them up a flight of stairs and to the top of a short tower where a tent and covering had been constructed so you could look out across the lands and get a better view of the mountains less than a mile away. “Arbiter Rosalia, Leeor Drake, the Flight Leader, from Fort Rushing Wind, and his seconds.”

“Of course it is,” Hedrik muttered and Tyr only heard Cisum elbow him in the ribs hard enough to make him cough.

Meskeir’m Rosalia stood at the war table with her Forward Shans and other Leeors looking down at the map they’d put together. The Shans, Leeors and the Arbiter herself all looked at Tyr and his friends when they were announced. All the hair on the back of Tyr’s neck stood on end seeing Meskeir’m. She was tall for a woman, poised, dark skin and long dreaded hair she wore up into a practical bun and head wrap. Her two red eyes were sharp as blood covered daggers as their laid themselves on Tyr and his hardened in turn.

Bitch.

“Leeor, you arrive at last,” she said with cool detached professionalism begetting her station, her accent curling around each word like a melody. That was just how the accents along the gut were; pretty, succulent, lyrical even. “The Archon sent word ahead of you,” she beckoned for him to approach.

She was several years his junior but outranked him by several times. Flighters rarely gained high ranks in the Arms so it wasn’t a surprise. Flighters wanted to be in the action, not leading the troops. He never hated being a Leeor until he had to serve under Meskeir’m though. He stepped up to the table, Cisum and Hedrik on either side.

“How many in your flight?” a woman beside her asked, Tyr saw by her medallion on her breast she was also a Leeor.

“Twelve,” he said.

“So many,” the woman said, impressed. There was a bit of well meaning conferring.

“The Archon wants this dealt with properly the first time, so they sent enough,” Tyr said, clearing his throat.

“Then we will ensure its done properly,” Meskeir’m said in a way that was polite but rankled him. She didn’t trust him to not fuck up. Of course she didn’t. She was Rosalia and he was Drake. He couldn’t trust her as far as he could throw her and even given her height he could throw her pretty far. “We’re being hit by coordinated guerrilla attacks on our out port of the bore,” she said, directing everyone’s attention to the map. Tyr listened as she explained the situation, offering what insight he could for his flight, like the other officers were doing. Once a plan had been made Tyr was free to go. Finally.

The three of them left the tent. Tyr winced as one of the Forward Shans asked Meskeir’m, “Tyr Drake? Isn’t that your-

“Shut the fuck up, Hugui,” Meskeir’m snapped before he could finish.

“Wonderful,” Tyr muttered as they grew out of earshot. But in all honestly he felt the same. The last person he’d wanted to see here for this mission was his fucking wife.

[writingwenches]

Just some drabblings for a new HOTD pre-war fanfic idea. Ive been rewatching the original series, and I miss the Lannister cunning. So I'm trying to capture their sinister nature by using a "prophecy" involving three Lannister ladies to attract the attention of the very single Prince Aemond Targaryen, and potential a seat on the Iron Throne.

character ages – 🦁 Lady Cinda Lannister is seen as "almost too old for a prosperous union, if one plans on having many children." 🦁 Lady Cordelia Lannister will be referred to as "too young to bear children" and the reader can interrelate that as they will. 🦁 Lady Lynora Lannister is the same age as Prince Aemond Targaryen. musings mission statement – Let’s turn Westeros into the girlhood centric sadbae YA novel of our dreams loll ✨ HOTD Spoilers – the eventual fate of Tyland Lannister, the twin of Jason. In this story, his disfigurement happened shortly after he attempted courting Rhaenyra during the war in the Stepstones. In this story, the only woman who would have him was a Lannister woman from Lannisport, the family's semi-distant relatives. The entire Lannister family look upon this as a "queer custom," and Tyland justifies it by comparing his match to those made by House Targaryen.

Characters ––

CINDA LANNISTER

Cinda Lannister straddles the gates of maiden and spinster, as she had for many years. The Diamond of Westeros had been the most eligible bachelorette the kingdom had ever known since she was old enough to covet those precious jewels. 

She had read the stories and heard the songs. Someone younger and more beautiful was always sure to come. She prayed to The Maiden for courage, she prayed to The Mother for wisdom, and she begged The Crone to withhold her judgment for a season longer.

Her personal crest is a lioness fighting a snake made of diamonds. Threaded through her entire wardrobe, the sigil reminds her of her constant fight to preserve her status.

CORDELIA LANNISTER

Cinda did not approve of tears and Cordelia had to prepare herself for the ugly world that awaited her at the end of the King’s Road. They began their training the first night after departing Lannisport. Cordelia learned quickly as she was forced to watch her supper butchered every night. The first of seven thought of her porcelain dolls, and how their faces never changed. In their bright, bumbling carriage, Cordelia noticed how many of her dolls lacked ears. She wished for her own lack of ears, when the screams of the dying animals frolicked in her mind as she tried to sleep. 

Cordelia’s father had been tortured and left a frightening visage after a war he commanded on the high seas. He spared the world his ugliness by wearing a crimson silk hood to cover himself. She had heard the stories of her Ser father from her nursemaids, and she assumed they were the reason Cordelia had been raised, to this point, in Lannisport with her late mother’s Lannister family instead of at court amongst the main’s family’s branch. There was always much talk about the royal house of Targaryen when speaking of the marriage of her mother and father and match’s morality. 

Codelia would learn later of the reason for her expulsion from Lannisport. The notoriety of her mother’s match with the main branch of the Lannister family had given the young lady child the moniker of The Lady of Lannister, much to the dismay of the wife of the current Lord of Lannisport, the late mother’s elder sister-in-law.

Cinda had been prowling for the perfect opportunity to reestablish the Ruby of Westeros, a title that had been vacant for the past three generations. The elder Lady Lannister spared no expense in reviving her new ruby.  

The young Lannister girl was decorated in heart shaped red stones on a bed of golden lace. The youthful sigil matured with her into a passionate heart aflame, as she is briskly leaving childhood behind. 

A THREE PRONGED ATTACK

Cinda Lannister had learned of the three pronged attack from a diviner, on two separate occasions. She learned from a fortune teller in Pentos when she was a girl, and from a peasant in communion with the old god’s greensight on her sixteenth name day. 

"Three women. To tempt a Prince. And win his heart. And win the throne. The Maiden. The Mother. And the Crone."

Lynora Lannister was the final player in her game of thrones.

[dyxtd21]

Spiderweb Jasper aesthetic moodboard!!

Spiderweb Jasper:

Appearance: Spiderweb Jasper presents an enigmatic and unsettling visage, embodying the eerie charm of a creature from the depths of dark folklore. Her entire coloration is a stark contrast of white and black, reminiscent of the intricate patterns of spiderwebs spun across moonlit corners. The drop-cut Spiderweb Jasper gemstone gleams ominously from her right eye, a focal point of her unsettling allure.

Her features are both alluring and intimidating: sharp spider fangs protrude slightly from her mouth, adding a predatory edge to her otherwise human-like face. Her left eye, a piercing black that seems to absorb light, holds an unnerving intelligence, hinting at secrets and mysteries hidden within her gaze. Spiderweb Jasper's complexion is pale, contrasting starkly with the dark cobweb patterns that seem to weave across her skin.

Attire: Spiderweb Jasper's attire reflects her gothic and mysterious nature. She wears a short gothic dress crafted from a silky material that resembles her own unique silk and cobwebs, clinging to her form in a way that suggests both elegance and danger. The dress is adorned with intricate lace and spiderweb patterns, intricately woven into the fabric to mimic the delicate yet strong structure of actual spiderwebs.

Over her dress, she drapes a hooded cape made from her silk and cobweb, its dark hue blending seamlessly with the shadows that seem to follow her wherever she goes. The cape billows around her like living darkness, hinting at the hidden depths and potential dangers lurking beneath its surface. Despite the sinister undertones of her attire, there is a certain grace and elegance in the way she moves, each step purposeful and deliberate.

Personality: Spiderweb Jasper exudes an aura of mystery and intrigue, drawing others into her web of enigmatic charm. She possesses a cunning intelligence, able to navigate social intricacies with the skill of a master manipulator. Her voice is soft and seductive, laced with a hint of danger that simultaneously attracts and repels those around her.

She is fiercely independent and self-assured, unafraid to use her natural gifts and charms to achieve her goals. Despite her predatory instincts, Spiderweb Jasper harbors a deep curiosity about the world and its inhabitants, often observing from the shadows before making her move. Her loyalty is reserved for those who earn her respect, though few can truly claim to understand the complexities of her motivations.

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode illustrée, no. 39, 28 septembre 1863, Paris. Ameublements et Bronzes de la Mon De Commission Générale, rue d'Hauteville: 53. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

Description de toilettes:

Toilette de jeune fille. Robe en mousseline blanche, à semé de fleurettes roses, à dessins noirs encadrés de chaque côté avec une ruche en ruban de taffetas noir étroit; les rubans roses ont 4 centimètres de largeur, les rubans noirs 1 centimètre 1/2 de largeur; corsage décolleté, berthe en tulle noir et rubans roses formant épaulettes carrées; manches courtes garnies d'un large bouillonné dépassé par un bouillonné en organdi blanc. Coiffure composée de bandeaux dégageant le visage avec large nœud de cheveux formant chignon.

Girl's ensemble. Dress in white muslin, strewn with pink flowers, with black designs framed on each side with a ruffle in narrow black taffeta ribbon; the pink ribbons are 4 centimeters wide, the black ribbons 1 1/2 centimeters wide; low-cut bodice, black tulle top and pink ribbons forming square shoulder pads; short sleeves lined with a large bubble topped by a bubble in white organdi. Hairstyle composed of headbands revealing the face with a large knot of hair forming a bun.

—

Robe en taffetas lilas. Le bas de la robe est garni avec cinq bouillonnés en gaze lisse, lilas ou mousselipe de soie; sur cette robe est posée une longue tunique tombant jusqu'au premier bouillonné; la tunique est faite en tulle de chenille noir et blanc; sa garniture se compose d'une large frange en chenille noire et chenille blanche; ce tulle de chenille (l'une des nouveautés de la saison prochaine) coûte 25 francs le mètre en grande largeur; on le trouve chez Mme Aubert, modiste, rue Neuve-des-Mathurins, 6. Le corsage de la rode est décolleté; il est recouvert par un fichu demi-décolleté fait en tulle blanc avec ornements de dentelle noire et biais de gaze lisse lilas; un large nœud lilas fixe le fichu par devant; les manches courtes sont recouvertes par d'autres manches courtes tenant au fichu, et répétant ses] ornements. Coiffure en velours noir avec marguerites lilas.

Dress in lilac taffeta. The bottom of the dress is trimmed with five bouillonnés in smooth gauze, lilac or silk chiffon; over this dress is placed a long tunic falling to the first bubble; the tunic is made of black and white chenille tulle; its trim consists of a wide fringe in black chenille and white chenille; this chenille tulle (one of next season's novelties) costs 25 francs per meter wide; it can be found at Mme Aubert, milliner, rue Neuve-des-Mathurins, 6. The bodice of the dress is low-cut; it is covered by a semi-neckline scarf made of white tulle with black lace ornaments and smooth lilac gauze bias; a large lilac bow fastens the fichu in front; the short sleeves are covered by other short sleeves attached to the fichu, and repeating its ornaments. Black velvet hairstyle with lilac daisies.

[raisindave]

[Chapter 15] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

You couldn't believe it when you first heard the mission description, but the outfit they had laid out for you only solidified your disbelief. Dubious fingers slipped under the smooth items, gathering them into timid arms. Mocking floral prints on the walls, bedsheets, and lampshades made the cramped camper van surreal. Faded, muted begonias and roses on worn, plastic walls created an echo chamber that amplified the thrumming sound of your own heartbeat in your ears, save for the distant sound of helicopters chopping overhead. 

The sleek, glossy black strapless dress is complimented by a pale pink off-center stripe running down the center. It was definitely a sign of the times, looking like it was right out of the early 2000s. If you didn’t already have the pre-conceived notion that it was a dress, you might initially mistake it for a silk pillowcase, given how shapeless and short it was. Scrunched into a ball, a pair of gritty black stockings were implied to be worn as additional body armour. The magnum opus was a hot pink bra that was nothing short of an assault on your senses, be it visually or texturally, as the cheap lace felt like tree bark under your thumb. 

You figured the logical order to apply your kit was to leave the dress for last, carefully rolling the notoriously fragile stockings over your knees, letting the elastic constrict around your waist. That fucking bra was next. The cup size is definitely too small, but you suppose it would be more alarming if they got your measurements in this location exactly right. It feels like sandpaper under your arms, propping your breasts up like delicious treats on a platter for these cartel fuckers to pluck. The last step was slipping the strapless straight jacket over yourself, jumping to hoist the unforgiving rayon sheet over your rump. 

You’d be fine with the attire in any other situation. You could easily recall dozens of nights spent downtown with your friends clothed in half as much, singing in the hazy streetlights and electric with alcohol-fueled ecstasy. You had to witness the wall dividing the two sides of your personality crumble before your eyes, as the work-life separation was actively becoming a distant memory. Behind the eyes you painted with mascara in the mirror, an internal monologue dissected what life decisions led to you finding yourself in this situation.

Feeling the soft, pillowy bounce of breasts that are propped up under rib-crushing pressure, you catch your reflection in the dingy mirror, a visage of raw discontentment. Your body armour and itchy uniform were remarkably more comfortable than this, though you'd have to get used to the feeling of your own breath ghosting over your exposed chest. The major difference is that this definitely could not stop a bullet nor prevent death by hypothermia, though in this context, those might be welcome. Where you had previously found comfort in being able to wear your own underwear, exempt from the military uniform’s reach, that rule was now null.

“I better be getting the fucking Medal of Honor for this.” You called out into the void from behind the bathroom door. 

“Hah, don’t worry. You’ll be decorated like a Christmas tree after this.” Graves called in response, his tone dripping with sarcasm. 

“I think I already am…”

Steeling your nerves, you swallowed all pride. This is your job, and your job is to save this woman. You have the skills and a unique opportunity to help her, which led to you being selected. This isn’t about you. Stepping out of the claustrophobic bathroom, you were greeted with the minor consolation of a smaller audience than you were expecting, seeing only Laswell and Graves remaining. Laswell’s nose was buried in a laptop, a single headphone pad pressed to her ear, while Graves was looking through the window with a pair of binoculars, a distant helicopter chopping in the distance. Laswell looked up first, the phantom of a smile creasing her lips, amusement sparking in her eyes. If it weren’t for her politeness and steely workplace professionalism, you were certain she’d be cracking up right now. 

“Well, you definitely look the part of a Russian hooker.” Graves blurted, his voice catching you off guard. 

The amusement in Laswell’s eyes blinked away, her shifting to rise from the cubby she was seated in, holding clasped handfuls of bulky jewellery. Bulbous pink gems embedded in a matching necklace and earrings set along with a single silvery bangle. Before you got an opportunity to observe the items fully, Laswell was signalling with her hands that you hold back your hair. 

“The jewels are outfitted with cameras that can let us see a live feed. The bangle’s got a mic.”

“I didn’t know they could make cameras that small.” You posited, staring into oblivion as she clasped the necklace around your neck like a collar. Her icy fingers connected with the back of your neck, making you flinch. 

“According to public knowledge, they don’t.” 

The jewellery was remarkably heavy, and the bangle that you squeezed your wrist through felt like you could knock someone out with it. Even if you were looking for hidden cameras and microphones in these items, you could never tell. Rolling the pink gem on the choker around your throat, you stared into the shimmering glass to try to identify any red gleam of a camera. Graves, clearing his throat, snapped you out of your inspection, seeing your scrunched face displayed on his laptop screen at a horrifyingly unflattering angle. 

“Here,” Laswell spoke from behind you, making you swirl around in the cramped van to see her hands cupped around another minuscule item.

A tiny beige sphere, about the width of your pinky nail, rested in her palm. Your mind crawled for potential uses for this tiny item, as the silence was increasingly implying that you should be doing something with it. What is that thing? Her hand gestured toward you again, suggesting you pick it up. Is it a suicide pill? Another camera? Some sort of vitamin, or maybe even a weapon of some kind? In the time it took your mind to spin with potential uses of the tiny object, she must have lost patience and took it upon herself to do whatever it was you were supposed to do for you. 

“You’ll have to wear your hair on the side, but this should be essentially invisible anyway.” Laswell sighed, running her fingers over your scalp, fluffing your hair, and pushing it to the side. 

A canister of hairspray and a cheap hair comb still in its packaging that she handed to you suggested you take agency of your own hair styling. The answer to what this item was still remained unanswered, but you figured it was too late to ask now. Turning to step into the bathroom again, you delicately styled your hair into a waving bundle over your shoulder, spraying clouds of hairspray that burned in your lungs to solidify the mass. This is not even close to what you could’ve imagined yourself doing on your first mission as your new rank. A recognizable brassy tone of Price, as the squealing door parted, gave you some sort of indication to hurry up, eventually swallowing your perfectionist instincts in favour of getting this task done as quickly as possible. Stepping out of the cubicle bathroom once again, you caught Price’s eyes as he was leaving, his neck kicking back in shock ever-so-slightly, making your skin crawl.

Yeah, give me that look all you want. Yuck it up, whydontcha’. Let’s see you do a mission in stilettos, cocksucker. 

It took all remaining self-respect not to utter those words aloud, though his pale eyes had long disappeared from view by then. Laswell standing behind the door nearly made you jump out of your skin, feeling stinging unused anxiety from a burst of adrenaline trickling down your fingertips. She took your chin in the crux of her palm, rolling your head to the side and slipping the mystery pill into your ear. Default instincts urged you to jerk your head back in response to the foreign item, but recognition slipped in and made your nerves settle. It was a communication device. Resting it under the mat of smoothed, stiff hair, she tilted her head to Graves, and he slid a microphone across the plastic fold-out table. 

“Testing, testing, Houston to-” Graves spoke loudly into the microphone.

Ear-splitting feedback and thunderously loud speech erupted from the earpiece, making you double over in agony. The whirring continued, feeling like your eardrum could split under the squealing frequency, frantically clawing at your ear to pry the object free. For what felt like minutes, the pain made you feral with panic. In reality, in a matter of seconds, Laswell had lunged over to the laptop, yanking the microphone cable free from the laptop’s port. In the silence, you realized the groan that had been coming from your lips, leaving a tinging ringing in the absence of sound. 

“Well, that was unexpe-” Graves huffed.

“Are you okay, sergeant?” Laswell interrupted, her eyes intense, but a creeping grin betrayed her seriousness. 

Realizing that deafness was no longer a prospect, relieved tension translated into a relieved laugh, seeing Laswell unburden herself with the nervous chuckle that was manifesting across her mouth. 

“Yeah,” you sighed, snickering at the situation, “that’d be pretty fucked up if the linguist went deaf on an undercover mission.”

Laswell, and surprisingly, Graves, laughed in response, Laswell sitting beside him to try to unravel whatever mishap had caused your agony. Be it from the dispelling nerves of nearly going deaf only seconds ago or a genuine eagerness to save a young woman, a sort of peace washed over you. No harm done, no bad feelings. Though a prickling suspicion that Graves may have intentionally tried to spark your nerves still lingered. 

“Testing, one two.” Laswell’s voice softly called from both in front of you and your earpiece, causing a moment of confusion in your senses as to which direction to turn your response to. 

“Heard.” You spoke in response, smoothing your hair down with your palms and realigning your necklace. 

“Excellent. The boys are outside. They’ll be taking you to meet Julian, the gentleman pairing you with your new… affiliate,” She said, nodding to annunciate her words to imply you fill in the blanks. 

You nodded in response, feeling the unfamiliar weight of heavy dangling earrings sway in the motion. As Laswell so horrifyingly put it, Julian was the Dolly Manager, who would ensure you smoothly make it onto the party yacht. From there, you play the role of arm candy to some Russian mobster, hoping to spot the senator’s daughter or, at the very least, overhear vital information. 

Twisting your wrist to open the squealing camper door, a blast of humid air and blazing sunlight made you recoil. Wobbly stilettos, uncommonly high for your preference, met on searing concrete, raising your eyes to see your familiar comrades. Fuck. They all turned and looked in sync. This is a fucking nightmare. Why can’t they be the ones in tacky push-up bras?

“Ya’ look like my fuckin’ mum when she goes to the pub.” Soap boomed, though he only stood a few feet away. 

Gaz gives him a weird look, crossing his arms and blinking rapidly. Price too, furrowed his brow in response, Rudy’s head flicking from Soap to you, then back to Soap before he stifled a bubbling laugh.

“No, like- in the sense that,” he stammered, halting the sentence altogether when he caught your furrowed gaze. 

It gave you a moment’s pause from the burning eyes, a rippling smile, partially due to self-consciousness, partially due to Soap’s stammering, pulled at your cheeks. An overwhelming urge to cross your arms over your chest screamed from every instinct, feeling manifesting beads of sweat catching the smooth, warm breeze. Ghost’s gaze unsettled you the most, though his stare never wavered despite Soap’s icebreaker. He wasn’t staring at your chest, though that was the bare minimum you should expect from them. No, he was staring dead into you, through you, tracking you even when you shifted to adjust your heel in your shoe. Enough with the bashfulness. You have a job to do, and 'Squink' is probably out there, destitute and terrified. 

“Alright,” you breathed, cutting into whatever awkward banter they carried on, encouraging at least one of your comrades to take the initiative and kick the operation into motion, "Ready?"

“Yes,” Alejandro spoke up, calmly approaching your side, “We’re heading to the docks. Julian will be meeting us there.” 

It took half a mind not to grab his forearm and let him guide you, taking your temporary position a little too seriously. Yes. To the docks. It took Price barking something directly to Ghost, urging a bold and dutiful ‘Yes sir ’ from under his imposing mask did he break his death stare, and your hackles lowered. For a few seconds there, you silently wished that the mystery earpiece Laswell handed you earlier was a suicide pill because you would’ve crushed it between your molars right then and there.

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If you can recognize where the inspiration for Lua’s dress came from, you'll get a sloppy, wet kiss on the forehead.

Master List

[red-riding-wood]

Sunday Snippets

I am aware that it is no longer Sunday, but I live in the past and I can't think of a Monday alliteration. I'm also very late to this clearly so won't tag anyone.

Oh, but I was tagged by @glitter-and-gasoline! Thank you for the tag!

Snippets of some WIPs below cut!

WORLD ON FIRE

(John LeTour's POV)

Something about her seemed to soften, past the strong jaw that was held a little too tense, past the dogged look she gave her cash register. Something in her visage seemed to crack, despite her eyes still boiling cold, despite there being some nervous energy to her that made her finger tap once more against the desk before she rang the Milky Way through. “What a fucking tragedy that would be,” she said, sarcasm seeming to paste itself thick over disconsolation.

The candy bar was passed to me along the desk, and her gaze met mine again, now more cold than hot, her countenance more exhausted than vexed. “Anything else I can help you with?” she asked.

“No, that will be all,” I told her, a vestige of my previous smile tilting my lip upward as I slipped the candy bar into my pocket. My eyes caught on her nametag, and I said, “Thank you, Kelly…”

I hoped that she would tell me her whole name, that perhaps she wouldn’t be just another face that passed me by in this bustling yet hollow city.

VERUM VINDICTAE (basically the start of Chapter V. Spoilers)

(Josephine Carlisle's POV)

The floral tinge of fabric softener was laced with his scent, my nose buried in something silk. My fingers dug at the fabric, and my eyes fluttered open; I winced, though the light in the room was low, the sunlight still sliced through the partings of the drapes. The weight of a duvet was slung over my calves, and a pillow brushed my cranium where my hair splayed every which way across a startling white.

As I lifted my head, it became inexplicably heavy, and a knife scored deep into my brain. I relaxed, my cheek falling back into a bead of saliva that had dribbled onto the sheets. But I blinked, and swallowed around a dry tongue.

“Good morning.”

I nearly jumped, startled by the grate of Marcus’ voice, and an ache ran deep along the marrow of my bones. I groaned, and forced myself up onto one elbow. My stomach lurched. I eyed the silver bucket that sat nestled on the floor by my bedside, but swallowed back the taste of bile and turned my head slowly to regard my host.

Marcus was sitting beside the massive bed, across from me, working at a table. His eyes were set on the rifle he was assembling, deft fingers jamming each piece into place as if it were a Lego set rather than a lethal weapon. A beige, cashmere robe hung around his shoulders, revealing the wiry flesh of his neck, and the sight stirred a phantasm of his warmth cradling me, the touch of his hands along my spine, the damp fabric of his shirt against my cheek.

COLDFIRE (title subject to change) (NSFW)

(Norman Osborn's POV)

Was it him? Or was I speaking? I stilled, shattered a breath against her collarbone, dug my nails deeper into the blood that welled from her flesh, as I realized that I was losing control, that my world was seeming to exist around me rather than I in it; that the markings I'd left across her flesh were beginning to undulate into a canvas of a dark, dark purple and an almost pestilent green. I steadied myself against her, holding back the monster that clawed at my breastbone, whose voice grew louder and louder in my skull until it drowned out my own thoughts. Though insensate, the corner of my lip twitched, beginning to pull into his grin, but I forced it down, a shiver running through every nerve of my body.

I pulled back from the girl, threads of her wine-red hair unlatching from the slick of sweat along my neck and the ghost of her warmth seeming to fuzz my lips, and I glared at her from a fogged lens, ire darting across a blackening heart.

JUDGEMENT (spoilers... kind of. trigger warning: gore, PTSD)

(Kelly Anderson's POV)

The Mustang had caught up to the truck with exhilarating ease, and both vehicles were now parked haphazardly across the side of the road. A driver was slumped over his wheel, head rolled across the open window with a bullet in its brain, blood leaking down the side of the white paint of the truck. 

As I made my way round the back of the truck, a pungent herbal scent struck me, and I pulled my sleeve up over my nose as I daringly stepped closer to the transported goods. My eyes watered, and my vision seemed to stutter, blots of brilliant magenta and viridian exploding across my retinas.

The Bliss. This was what they were growing in the fields, what they were transporting in those green containers.

I backed away from the truck, nearly tripping over my own boots in my haste, and coughed as if to dispel the horrid drug from my lungs. I blinked madly, and I panicked for a moment as the edges of my vision began to ripple, but as I reached a hand to touch my face, I realized it was only the water from my eyes, and as I continued to blink, it shed and dribbled down my cheekbones.

This was what Jacob had used for his experiments on animals, for his experiments on his “soldiers”…

Like me.

Images of the red room flooded my brain, and I hadn’t realized that I’d slumped to the ground, my hand weakly reaching for the door to my Mustang and my body shaking, heart beating as if it was about to burst from my chest. I bit down on my lip, hard, hoping that the pain would keep away the sound of Jacob’s voice slowly crawling across my ears.

[thevamplelio]

I should not be left to my own devices, they come with prices and vices, I end up in crisis. / it must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero.

Lestat de Lioncourt and Benjamin Tallmadge: @honorhearted.

[bitter1stuff]

I posted 13,044 times in 2022

That's 2,156 more posts than 2021!

226 posts created (2%)

12,818 posts reblogged (98%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@allhailthe70shousewife

@danskjavlarna

@invincible-selfxmade-punk

@grumblingbumblebee

@weantuniverse

I tagged 1,628 of my posts in 2022

#youtube - 183 posts

#inktober - 16 posts

#me - 15 posts

#fred bitter - 14 posts

#ultimate mcguffin - 7 posts

#matchbox - 7 posts

#appliances in the wild - 6 posts

#linkits - 6 posts

#peanuts - 5 posts

#linkits box art is my favorite new thing - 5 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#okay wait...so who is who? are you vug or hafga? heml of the myrid visages could be any one of you. i'm not leaving until we clear this up.

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

FOR LEONORA CARRINGTON by Peter Lamborn Wilson

# 1 Mexico City is absolutely. Or was. With a claridad that would’ve seemed glossy as bone except for the fecality of its plutonian fruit. Especially Leonora Carrington – the secret hardness of colonial baroque – its refusal to be reasonable – its crown of owls

#2 Chocolate is Mexico’s great contribution to Surrealism. With unbroken incantations in the voice of a lion prepare (on wild rocks) a soup made of half a pink onion, a bit of perfumed wood, some grains of myrrh, a large branch of green mint, 3 belladonna pills covered with white swiss chocolate, a huge compass rose (plunge in soup for one minute) Just before serving add Chinese “cloud” mushroom which has snail-like antennae & grown on owl dung

#3 As modern Hermeticist she ranks with Fulcanelli a Madame Paracelsa who tells yr fortune in the sense of buried treasure. It seems you yourself have psychic gifts which are only exacerbated by her soups. Molé as Dalí realized surrealizes all dishes via its resemblance to excrement e. g. over boiled lobsters (serve with pink champagne). Shit you can sculpt.

#4 Like gunpowder which was invented solely to exorcize demons – a secret passed along the Silk Road to Roger Bacon who unfortunately leaked the recipe to the uninitiated – Carrington embodies both the siesta & the anti-siesta. A Madam Adam with a handcranked gramophone with a horn lacquered black with gold pinstriping that plays only beeswax cylinders of Erik Satie or Gesualdo. Here alone exile attains an elegance & impassibility known only to stoned Rosicrucians.

#5 To live absolutely. A tricky trajectory between clinical dementia & the sloppy lace curtain Irish kitchen gemütlichkeit that usually passes (present company excepted of course) for life outside literature & even for true love. Or else it’s the altitude — mushrooms & chocolate — under the asphalt the bloodsoaked landfill — cactus cowskulls & drunken fusillades of flowers.

29 notes - Posted June 10, 2022

#4

33 notes - Posted October 24, 2022

#3

McDonald's 1978 calendar.

38 notes - Posted January 21, 2022

#2

51 notes - Posted April 9, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

65 notes - Posted June 27, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[fultonunchained]

Stargazing

From The Tales of a Nomad Collection

Standing on Earth, aware of what is mine

Yet my eyes lock onto the distance, all I know is that it shines. 

Perhaps I will make a way, with persistence and with time. 

I could change my ways, a reward for being benign.

I forge a new visage, like Adam from the clay.

The facade will fade, I stand in my own way. 

I crave to feel the heaven of your skin, silk like lace.

Yet I am not your treasure, your eyes will always leave my face.

Intimacy, into me I see, 

Yet we are not a mirror, like the sky to a tree. 

The grass and glitter are the parables they teach,

Yet I long for the stars that I know I’ll never reach.

[neithergodsnormen]

Margaery Tag Drop

🌹

[love-minor-poltergeist]

I just had this thought about the devil‘s personal quarters filling up with decor once his partner starts living with him. Photographs of them both, gifts they’ve given each other, just little things that make the place feel more lived in. It’s a stark contrast to how barren the room used to look all the years prior

Wait, Anon, your mind.... I love soft, syrup-sweet sentimental scenarios like these!

The Devil's quarters, prior to his darling, were grand and rich with luxury. The walls, coated in velvet red and laced with gold filigree in its paper, held giant paintings of his monstrous visage. His bed, ginormous and dressed with soft covers and fluffy pillows, made him look absolutely small in comparison.

Before you, the demon had spent many a lonesome night in his chambers. 

Then along came you. To the Devil, your mere existence felt like a breath of fresh air to the fire and brimstone of his. 

Little by little, trinkets and baubles began to accrue in your new home. Which include, but are not limited to: a small potted cactus that sat on his work desk, the sole survivor of your attempts at gardening in Hell; a silk robe custom-tailored to your shape, currently crumpled at your side of the bed; numerous photographs of special dates. 

Birthdays, holidays-- all little things he hardly cared for at one point. Truly, you’ve brought a fragment of life to his dull existence.

Really, the possibilities are endless!