velven1th

[velven1th]

i honestly love when boys immediately get hard from a bit of kissing or touching, it’s cute

[velven1th]

yeah 2025 can completely fuck off.

[velven1th]

Gonna go ahead and rant for a minute cause LOL veteran and beyond disgusted that that is the case.

Okay so like none of this is feeling great, and it feels very akin to how shit got setup before we went balls to the wall into Iraq in 2003 (reading over docs about how those decisions were made while able to was fucking W I L D) and we literally just death star’d Iran because we just dropped bombs through EXHAUST VENTS in these bunkers.

WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW IM SO OVER LIVING HERE AND IN THIS CHEESE DOODLES TIMELINE.

[velven1th]

Send "Stop talking" for your muse to shut mine up by kissing them

Alternatively send "Mmph!" for my muse to be the one to interrupt yours with a kiss.

[velven1th]

....... I'm just gonna leave this here.

[velven1th]

Good morning fellow people, I hope your day starts off well.

Doing drafts today and ruining your lives with maybe that new OC I mentioned.

[velven1th]

「   ASK MEME :   HOW’S MY PORTRAYAL?   」  * send anonymously or not. feedback is appreciated!

[velven1th]

When you have a new idea for a new OC in your head and your brain is just RUNNING with it.

[velven1th]

Maybe if I could provide more amusement or enjoyment for myself, it would be easier to provide for others...

THE BEAR (2.03)

[velven1th]

sender wipes blood from receiver's face with a washcloth - for the southern gothic thingy you were talking about that ive also been chewing on ok bye

The cloth is soft. Gentler than he deserves. Gentler than most things in Hollow Hill ever are.

Luc doesn’t flinch when she touches him—he never does—but his eyes go somewhere still, somewhere deep. Like maybe he’s remembering who the blood belongs to. Like maybe it matters.

It doesn’t. Not really.

“You know that’s not yours to clean up, sugar,” he drawls low, voice thick as the bayou air, rough as a nail in wood. But he doesn’t stop her. The porch light sways above them, casting shadows that dance like ghosts with nowhere left to go. The cicadas hush as if listening. Even the land leans in when Gen touches him.

He watches her from under lashes too long for a man raised in grief. There's a smirk threatening his lips, but it’s lazy. Crooked. Wounded. Southern charm slick with sin.

“Didn’t peg you for the caretaker type,” he murmurs, as her fingers trail his jaw with something dangerously close to tenderness. “What’s next, Gen? Gonna kiss the bruises too, see if they fade like magic?”

His hands stay at his sides—mud-streaked, vein-laced, twitching with some old ache he’ll never name. But the edge of his voice, the hush in his tone—that’s inviting. Or maybe it’s a warning dressed up pretty.

He tilts his head into her touch just enough to betray himself.

“You keep doing that,” Luc says softly, “and I’m gonna start thinkin’ you don’t mind the decay around here.” The blood’s almost gone now. But something else lingers between them—salt, rust, and something sweeter. Something unholy in its softness.

“Careful, chère,” he says, almost smiling. “You clean me up too well and folks’ll forget I’m the monster they need to keep their daughters from. You know how the rumors in this town go... I'm the one that brings the bump in the night or some damn foolishness like it.” He finally meets her eyes, still and golden and impossible to read. “And then what excuse’ll they have when it’s you at my door again?”

[velven1th]

PROMPTS FOR PATCHING UP WOUNDS *  assorted dialogue, adjust as necessary

it's honestly nothing. i can deal with it myself.

next time something like this happens, you have to promise to tell me.

you're making a big deal out of nothing. i'll be fine.

how long have you had that?

i'm good at this, you know. patching up wounds.

would you cut it out? i'm trying to help you.

why didn't you tell me you were bleeding?

you didn't have to take that hit for me.

what are you hiding from me?

it's not the worst injury i've ever seen, but it's pretty bad.

how long were you going to hide this from me?

at least let me look at it.

there. it looks much better.

this will help with the pain.

i'm forever in your debt.

i didn't have anywhere else to go.

this wasn't supposed to happen.

is that your blood?

i've patched up nastier wounds than this.

stop squirming! you're going to be fine!

this is bad. this is really bad.

i just need a band-aid and a nap. i'll be fine.

we need to get you to a hospital.

how does it look? be honest.

keep your eyes open, okay? keep looking at me.

it doesn't hurt that bad.

give me your hand. let me look at it.

who taught you how to patch a wound like that?

it's not as bad as i thought it would be, that's for sure.

would you just let me help you? please?

you saved my life.

let me go find my first aid kit. it's in here somewhere.

i'll take care of it. you just sit and rest.

see? that wasn't so bad after all.

i've seen worse.

take two of these and drink some water.

ow! that really hurt!

i've got you, okay? everything's going to be fine.

you're gonna have to take your shirt off.

well... it could have been worse.

it looks worse than it really is, i swear.

roll up your sleeve a little, will you?

does that feel all right?

i didn't even realize i was bleeding.

you could have been killed out there!

give me a second to patch this up.

don't close your eyes. you hear me? stay with me.

i'm not giving up on you just yet.

you still need some time to heal.

i'm right here. i won't leave your side.

thank you for taking care of me.

if you can still hear me, help is on the way!

just squeeze my hand when it starts hurting.

how long have i been out?

let me check for a fever.

did you patch this up?

i've had worse injuries than this.

where did you learn to do that?

take some deep breaths for me.

look at me. you're going to be fine.

hold still! stop moving around so much!

i'll take care of you.

what the hell were you thinking?

where does it hurt?

i'm so used to doing this myself.

lift up your shirt a little so i can see.

lay back down. you're not healed up yet.

you never should have put yourself in harm's way like that.

looks like i've got myself a really good nurse.

will you stay with me while i sleep?

no one's ever helped me like that before.

i would have died had it not been for you.

don't you get it? if you don't let me help you, you'll die.

we have to be quick about this.

this could get bad.

[velven1th]

🌺 send this to ten muns you think are wonderful 🌺

[velven1th]

what the hell were you thinking?

Luc doesn’t look up at first. He rarely does. His hands are stained—always—but this time they carry no blood, only the phantom press of memory. A flicker of some other fire. The one he didn’t start.

A slow inhale. Measured. Heavy with silence that’s almost reverent.

Then—

“You of all people should know,” he says, voice low, graveled and strangely kind, “that thinking has very little to do with it.”

[velven1th]

"Well in the grand scheme of it all, that sounds like limiting yourself. If there's nothing to hold you back, what're you worried for? Or is there someone to worry about?"

@velven1th liked for a lyric starter , here .

" Tryin' not to push my luck . " ♡ 

[velven1th]

I need to put effort into some graphics but then, like…. Effort.

[velven1th]

why didn't you tell me you were bleeding?

Luc doesn’t answer at first.

Just stands there, one hand pressed absently against his ribs where the fabric is darker now—soaked, clinging. There’s blood on his palm, smeared along the edge of his coat. It seeps like ink from a cracked page, and he barely flinches.

But her voice cuts through him.

Why didn’t you tell me...

He closes his eyes. Breathes in like it might steady the tremor he never lets anyone see.

Then, quietly—barely above the hum of the air between them—he says:

“Because it didn’t matter. Not if you were safe.”

His voice isn’t cold. It’s tired. Frayed at the edges in a way Miriam’s never heard, like the words cost something. Like every syllable is stitched with too many half-said truths.

“You don’t need to carry what breaks me.”

His eyes lift to hers then— the endless black, not a void but just a depth to them when his glamour began to fail, and she'd seen it before. There’s no bravado. No lie. Just the hollow honesty of someone who’s used to bleeding in silence, and even more used to being left when he doesn’t.

“Besides…” His mouth tilts, a bitter curve that might’ve once been a smile. “You’ve seen worse.”

But he says it like he wishes she hadn’t. Like part of him hopes for once she hadn’t noticed the blood. And another part is afraid she did.

[velven1th]

📂📂📂

He Offers Her a Name—Not Salvation

Luc never promises to save her. He doesn’t deal in redemption; he knows better. But he does offer her something she hasn’t had since the fire started burning inside her: choice. He speaks her name like it’s not cursed. He calls her Jennifer—not “the demon,” not “monster,” not “succubitch.” Just Jennifer or Jen. Like she’s still a girl someone might believe in, even if it’s too late. And maybe, in the quiet moments when she’s not tearing through someone’s chest, she almost believes him.

They Trade Kill Stories Like War Medals

He tells her about the cultist who tried to feed a town their own nightmares. She tells him about the jock who thought her no meant maybe. They sit cross-legged on kitchen counters, legs swinging, blood drying under their nails, comparing body counts like baseball cards. But every so often, there's a flicker of something else—guilt in his eyes, grief in hers. They’re not proud. They’re just surviving. She makes a joke about it, always. “Do we get a punch card or something?” Luc shrugs. “Guess we’re overdue for a free coffee.”

They Don’t Do Pet Names—Until They Do

She doesn’t call him babe or baby or anything sweet. Too cliché. Too fake. But she’ll toss him a “hey, monster,” or a sarcastic “lover boy” when she wants to get under his skin. He never calls her anything other than Jennifer, like he’s afraid if he says it enough, he might ground her soul back into her body.… Until one night when he’s patching her up after a bad one. Hands bloody, voice low, he says it—barely audible: “Sweetheart.” She doesn’t mention it. But her hands stop shaking.