wyrdhearth

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jesus, she's almost giggling as george holds her close. valentina does not giggle. at least, not if she could help it –– but she might have let one out just then. a tiny giggle! barely even a hehe. just a he. if that! ❝ respectful as I am of your boundaries, ❞ she can't keep the smug out of her voice, ❝ that doesn't really mean much to me when the evidence is to the contrary. ❞ it's important to note how breathless she is –– her verbiage allows her to seem put together. brazen. she is only one of those things. it's hard to be put together when her lips are bruised, and her clothes are thoroughly rumpled.

❝ but I won't stop you from showing me just how... affected you are. ❞ that smugness thickens like syrup, coating every word from her mouth with self-satisfaction. again, valentina's hips give a slow roll against the hardness she can feel straining beneath her. ❝ don't know if it's anything I haven't seen before, though, ❞ she muses dryly, lips quirked up in a devil may care smirk.

@ehvermore : ❝ god, you have no idea what you do to me. ❞ valentina ➵ george.

❝ I think I have some idea, ❞ valentina said, in that rather dry tone of hers, shifting purposefully on top of him as if she needed to remind them both of what was... er, pressing up against her. she had to pause kissing him to reply, of course, which was actually very annoying because as it was turning out, she was highly invested in kissing george. she'd grown to like it quite a bit –– between the taste of him as his lips yielded to hers and the sounds he made when she inevitably strayed from his mouth to his neck, it was all very much... addictive. she understood, at last, her generation's obsession with kissing, with love, with finding a boy whose lap you could sit on and whose jumpers you could wear, the sleeves rolling over your fingers just so –– she understood it all now that it was happening to her.

anyway, george was, frustratingly, trying to talk to her while they kissed, and it was even more frustratingly something she'd grown to love about him. she wanted to laugh too, because she was pretty sure this was his attempt at dirty talk. or something like it. valentina felt the urge to tell him that he didn't need all that when sometimes, just hearing his voice was enough to make her want to tear his clothes off. she decided not to say that though, because he would no doubt never let her forget it.

instead, valentina leaned in and kissed him again, tugging george close by his hair. she pressed her face then to his sweater, and breathed in his scent like it was fresh, clean air. ❝ I've changed my mind. why don't you tell me all about it. ❞

SMUT SENTENCE STARTERS : accepting.

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her fingers clench around the fan she's holding closer to her waist. she's torn for a moment between swatting him over the head with it, or throwing it at the server. luckily they leave just in time to avoid either scandal. ❝ perhaps not, but I do have to marry someone somewhat... tolerable at least, or risk my parents picking out one of those hapless peacocks, as you call them. ❞

the urge to roll her eyes heavenwards is incandescent, so much so sev'erae has to focus all her might on doing so, leaving her primed open to stumble when a hideous divot in the garden cobbles sends her grabbing at solomon for stability. ❝ damn it –– ❞ she swears as she straightens herself, pausing as she glances up to find herself all too close to comfort. her mouth dry, she folds her brows into a severe frown that –– she's been told on many occasions, only serves to turn her lips into a full-bottomed pout. still, she tries to look disapproving. ❝ thank you for that. I suppose. ❞

her hand remains on his arm. it's expected, what with their courtship. still, she wishes she could ignore how firm the muscle below feels. ❝ in any regard, you at least seem to be helping make me the talk of the ball –– though, let us be honest, that might just be the dress you helped pick out. ❞

“Come now, I’m a professional.” His voice is borderline conspiratorial as he leans down toward her, barely restraining a smirk. “I’m being paid to act like I’m madly in love with you, remember? It would be bad for business to be caught with anyone else, no matter how tempting.” His gaze strays from Sev’erae, just briefly—long enough to catch the wandering eye of a server returning to the garden. “And it is tempting.”

In truth? Sev’erae is the true prize here. It’s one thing to tell himself he won’t fall for her—that he doesn’t want her, that he’ll forget all about her once money is exchanged and he leaves the city far behind him. But in the late hours of evening, it’s her face that comes to him in the darkness. It's her body that he imagines splayed beneath him, naked and wanting.

“Hate me all you like,” he says—a gentle reminder to himself of her temperament. “I know for a fact you’ve no interest in marrying any one of those hapless peacocks.”

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i know pansexuality is not just going to dissapear just because its inherently transphobic and biphobic, but when celebrities can say shit like “I always hated the word “bisexual, because that’s even putting me in a box.” in regards of being pansexual. and still no one can see how pansexuality directly harms bi people. 

how many times tv shows and movies about lgbt issues have shied from saying bisexual by saying “no labels”, and how they’ve found a new way to avoid saying bisexual. how this feeling of “bisexuality is too restricting” has become so mainstream, how so many people are convinced pansexuality is freer, more fluid than bisexuality. how dating a trans person automatically makes u “not fit” into bisexuality.

its just so sad

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MALIA PYLES in PRETTY LITTLE LIARS; SUMMER SCHOOL

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characters of the mara dyer series as jung’s archetypes.

An archetype is a universally understood symbol or term or pattern of behavior, a prototype upon which others are copied, patterned, or emulated.

part 1 / part 2 

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pâmela tomé in orgulho e paixão (2018)

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the interconnectedness between generational trauma and mental illness with genetic memory, as well as the concept of the sins of the mother falling down to the child make for really good parallels to mara's journey of reckoning with who she is and what makes her that person. there's a lot to be argued for the concept of predetermined action (aka destiny) vs free will (aka choice).

the bad guys in mara dyer will bend over backwards to try and 'fix' what's wrong with these children, but it begs the question –– do they need to be fixed? or maybe they should have just been supported and believed and not made to feel crazy.

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he, of course, is referring to their little entourage –– himself included. sev'erae gives a pretentious sniff and raises her chin as solomon falls into step with her. she scoffs, ❝ oh, please; there isn't one single humble thing about you, solomon vega. ❞ so much so that she cannot help but admire it in some small way –– in that way, they're alike. though the insult lies in the fact that sev'erae has so much more to be proud of while he's... just some man off the street.

somehow, though, he's the most interesting, alluring man she's come across since this ridiculous journey has begun. and of course, he knows it. ❝ you don't know a thing about what I want. ❞ she rolls her eyes, even as her cheeks flush. and if the bindings on her corsetry suddenly feel too tight, well, that has nothing to do with anything! ❝ anyway, don't you have some scullery maid to feel up in an alley? ❞

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"I have to admit, I'm impressed. I knew you'd amassed quite the collection of prospective suitors, but to see them all in one place, well. It's altogether humbling." His tone is velvety smooth, and yet—there's nothing humble in his stride as he falls into step beside Sev'erae, breathing deep the garden air. It's a rare opportunity to speak with her alone, away from the rest of the party, and it's one that shan't be wasted.

"Of course, I've seen some of the books in your collection, and you know there isn't a single one of them who'd do things to you like the men in your scandalous little stories... except yours truly, that is."

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for my bestie's birthday I commissioned this piece by @cheesy-cryptid and I'm obsessed! it features my earth genasi warlock, wisteria, who is a courtesan and adventurer, and her wizard boyfriend, westley (played by my bestie, who dms the campaign). <3

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Caraval Poster

Artist: @emiliesnaith_art

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I used to write ambrosia as very docile and soft and afraid, but I think that there is a lifetime's worth of anger inside of her that has never had any outlet and that could burn through her like wildfire. it could have the potential for rebirth and growth, or it could be destructive in its rage. I'd really love to explore more of that pent-up pain, because I think it terrifies her to think she might experience the ugliness of anger like that. she doesn't want to be anything like her mother; doesn't want to give people any reason to ever see amarantha in her.

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Pâmela Tomé as Jane Benedito in “Orgulho e Paixão” (2018), inspired by the novels of Jane Austen.

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gwyn had paused at the sight of him, appearing from the darkness like a beckoning specter. he shouldn't have been there at this hour, but whatever protests she held died at the sight of the wares he'd brought. she smiled, resisting the urge to run her hand over the buttery leather and peered at azriel with a look closest to approval.

it was then she noticed his shadows, drifting close as they always did. for a spymaster that always held himself at a distance, they were remarkably sociable –– at least when gwyn was close by, though she didn't dare ask what that meant.

that one, curling like a tendril of smoke in the wind, seemed to her the most curious of the bunch. gwyn absently nudged her calf against it, and couldn't help her smile as it seemed to respond well, winding like a ribbon around her leg. trell, she decided to call it, as it danced its way up her legs as ivy would a trellis. and then there were its companion, a nearly see-through shadow that seemed almost shy as it hovered by her slipper; bashful, gwyn named it, for reasons that were obvious. and the third, which seemed boldest loped right up to her, and like a dog might, nudged up at her palm. that one, she named darling, because she'd always wanted a hound. she said none of this aloud, but when she glanced back up at azriel, gwyn's teal eyes were bright with noticeable delight.

❝ the others will surely appreciate the option, ❞ she finally said in response, straightening up as she took his measure again. the shadowsinger seemed almost... gwyn hesitated to say boyish, but that was the word that sprung to mind. there was an indulgent part of her that enjoyed seeing him this way, as if gwyn understood implicitly how rare it might be to see him upended. she enjoyed it more than she cared to admit. ❝ normally it is. I couldn't sleep. I thought I might come train. or at the least, watch for the sunrise. ❞

she drifted past him to the window and gazed out at the still-dark sky, peppered with twinkling, ancient stars. ❝ your mother sounds great. ❞ she hesitated, uncertain, but her curiosity won out over any attempt at politeness. she had to wonder at any female who'd known azriel as a child. the thought made her smile. ❝ what is she like? ❞

he’s brought leathers for the valkyries, the newcomers who wish to train in something other than the garb of their usual position or rank. the priestesses in particular were what made him think of it. while the flow of fabric added a layer of elegance, he couldn’t help but imagine it binding around legs and ankles. so, he’d asked his mother for aid. and upon hearing that nesta archeron and her friends had reignited the valkyries? she’d been delighted, and while she’d not known specific sizes, between azriel and the shadows, they’d come up with decent approximations. with clever corsetry in the sides for loosening or tightening.

though upon his delivery he’d not expected anyone to be there, laden with packages he cannot help but look slightly… well, shocked. the shadows that normally warn him of anyone nearby are more interested in curling around her feet. a silent glare to them, mouthing traitors.

‘ i — thought i’d leave these here. for the women who’d like to change. my mother — made them. ‘

the packages set on the nearby bench, the paper wrapping unfurling to reveal the cleverly made pair of trousers and top.

‘ she — she was a laundress, for years, she mended and kept a lot of the leathers for the camps. we thought — if they felt like changing, that — these would make it better. so they’re not all… borrowed and cobbled together. ‘

he feels as if he’s been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar, he’s never caught at anything. the betraying shadows still seem to hum with enjoyment trailing along gwyn’s feel and lower calves.

‘ i didn’t mean to disturb anyone, i thought it would be empty —this hour. ‘

"nice of you to drop by." gwyn to az! // @wyrdhearth

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“Remember how Gwyn was with the ribbon? You’re the new ribbon, Az” ~ 🦇📚

✨Gwynriel week day 5: domestic day✨ Commissioned by me, drawn by Venusfolk! We hope you like this entry a lot 🥰

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@honortodth : kissing your lover because you believe you're going to die. ➵ zhenya dy'shenko.

her breath rattled in her chest. her arms were cold, her palms somehow wet and warm and icy all at once, like her skin had decided, suddenly, to reject her. to become unrecognizable. the spill of blood from her side pooled beneath her side, vision blurring black as she felt feanor's arms around her, his palm to the gaping wound cleaving her torso open. she tried to smile, but the taste of copper in her mouth was especially poignant between her teeth; she had the sneaking suspicion blood spilled down her chin.

still. goodbyes were not promised, and revivals less so, and she didn't –– wouldn't leave without one. zhenya sucked in a shaky breath and steadied feanor's grave gaze on her own. her palm pressed to his cheek, she brought his mouth down on hers. ❝ I love you, ❞ she murmured with her dying, bloodied breath. more words, in her native tongue, rasping and rough and besotted with the man holding her together. ❝ I love you. I love–– ❞

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