#griefgoddess

Random asks || always accepting

At first, there was a look of utter displeasure upon the devil's face, particularly when he read the crude message written in icing. Impressive, she had a sense of humour, as crude as it was.

Of course, Raphael naturally turned this around into a compliment. "How charming, that you thought so much of me to bake sweets. Very creative, Shadowheart." He dipped his finger into the word 'cunt' and drew it through the icing before he suckled on his finger.

( !! 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 : explicit · nsft !! ) — 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 : 𝔯𝔞𝔭𝔥𝔞𝔢𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩 × haarlep (@dvilsdesire) × shadowheart (@griefgoddess) 2 devils unmaking a naughty little priestess :3c

Raphael was sprawled across the crimson chaise that he brought nearer to his own bed, a king observing his court. His golden eyes burned as they devoured the scene before him. 

Haarlep, his perfect reflection, stood over the cleric—a pretty vision of defiant, quivering flesh. Shadowheart. A little, lost lamb brought to the altar. Perhaps not quite so lost; the woman was quite fond of his incubus, it appeared. This was better than any opera, more satisfying than any symphony. This was the music of a soul being unmade.

His tail, a restless extension of his will, slithered from beneath him, tracing idle patterns against the plush rug.

“My, are you shy now that I’m here, little priestess? Were you hoping your sneaking around would go unnoticed by the master of the house?” He crossed his legs with effortless grace. “Do go on. Consider this an order. Or perhaps you would rather be thrown to the hooks, like a common thief who dares to invade my home? To fuck my pet, no less.” He tilted his head, resting his chin on his left hand.

The devil’s attention then shifted fully to his incubus. “Haarlep” the baritone-voiced command was a mix of annoyance and arousal. Had the cleric not been to his tastes, things would be different. But why deny himself the pleasure of the show, much less allow Haarlep to have this prize all to himself?

His gaze locked onto the cleric’s face; he would enjoy breaking that. Not that it needed much. The little thing was already dripping.

“I want her on her knees. Use her pretty mouth. Drown out every last prayer she has with the taste of you.” He leaned forward slightly, his own erection straining against his trousers. “Make her gag on your cock, my pet. I want to watch her worship a real patron for a change.”

The tip of his tail twitched, a sharp, excited flick. “And when you’re done with that. . .turn her over. I want to see my own face reflected in her eyes.” 

A snap of his finger, and a goblet of merlot wine appeared in his hand. Now, that was one of his favourite pastimes: watching Haarlep play around with his toys.

ROYAL, FANTASY ROMANCE AND SPICE. // @griefgoddess

He had long ago given up hope that she would return. To long that he waited for her like a loyal dog but she didn't return. Of course he would run into her by chance now. He was overwhelmed by the emotions he was feeling. He was mad but also relieved she was alive and sad that he had been thrown to the side by her.

"Tentacles take their place."

And just to sate that curiosity further that she didn't ask about, the aberration removes his skull, allowing for a multitude of tendrils to jut out from between the gaps of the cervical bones. How kind of him to give a demonstration!

"It's why it's best most do not behead me."

Unprompted Ask | Always Accepting | @griefgoddess

A wish. It seems so simple, and yet... Cassandra's life is so damn messy. A bhaalspawn. Of course it makes sense. Maybe a part of her has always known, deep down. That's why she's this thirsty for blood all the time. It's time for a little family reunion in Baldur's Gate, and she will deal with Orin. Her sister gave her her agency back by almost killing her, even if it was obviously not her intention. She just wanted Cassandra out of the way.

@griefgoddess spoke: ❝ if  i  ask  for  a  double,  will  you  pretend  i'm  not  spiraling? ❞

⚔︎ ▍ Things Overheard At Bars ▍ ♪

Oh... That sounded like a problem that Faenethra might not be emotionally equipped to help her with. The party was in the midst of exploring Reithwin, hoping to find more information about Ketheric Thorm before a potential showdown--of which Faenethra hoped to avoid. They were approaching what looked to be a ruined tavern. The drow doubted there was anything left to drink there--and if there was, perhaps it shouldn't be consumed--much less anyone to pour a glass. Shadowheart was either making a dark joke or feeling very desperate.

" Umm... No, " she answered. Conversations could be so tricky at times, especially emotion-fueled ones like this quite possibly was. Faenethra figured it was safest to assume Shadowheart wasn't joking and was, in fact, considering a double of whatever shadow-cursed liquor was stored inside.

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙾𝚃𝙸𝙲 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁 // @griefgoddess

"May have?" The drow was familiar with such things though he never had accidentally joined a cult. When you are raised in one you can spot them fairly easily. though he didn't imagine this one had experience with such things

𝄞𝄢 HER TAIL LASHED behind her with great delight. "Ah, dealer's choice then. Hm, let's see... how about something off the cuff?"

As she retrieved her violin from its case, her mind was already spinning together a ballad like a spider with its gossamer webs. Her fingers plucked at the strings, testing the way her instrument sang, before she began to strum a basic tune. She played a few notes to build up some momentum, before she let her voice fly:

"In the cover of the softest night,

Her touch makes my heart take flight.

With the curve of her waist she teases,

With the heaven between her hips, she pleases—