#hellweep

velvet petals in ruby wine

You are refined. Your soul is royal. You will never settle for less than what you deserve. Those that deprive you of what is yours play a most dangerous game, for your wrath is not something to be taken lightly. Dignity is the core of your being, and though you entertain acquaintanceships, true companionship is hard for you to find, for there are few who can match you as an equal without drowning in your sea of red. There is beauty beyond the petals on your surface, and a depth to you that longs to be seen, to be known in some way. To be held in worthy hands. And yet you fear it, don’t you? That they will look too far past your pretty petals and see what you hide from yourself?

send 🔥and madonna will tell you one thing she finds attractive about your muse (accepting). @hellweep sent: 🔥

At the mention,  Donna feels the inextricable urge to light another cigarette  —a call that she does not answer,  not immediately.  But it tugs at her as she stares ahead,  mute,  her black eyes brimming with many thoughts.

The most attractive thing.  In the case of Mike Haywood,  it is an astonishing struggle to voice what comes to mind when what comes to mind is many and overwhelming. She loves the undiluted emotion in his eyes, the striking loveliness of his musician's hands —black ink tattoos and his long, glorious hair that tangled with her own. She loves his smile, his teeth —his Adam's apple, taste of his sweat, the shape and reach of his cock.  Her hand moves,  fingertips tracing the weighted chord of pearls that hang at her throat.  A rare display of anxiety from a perpetually cool girl.

     ❛  ...If you knew Mike,  you'd know how impossible that question is.  ❛   Spoken petulantly,  fingers knotting into the string of pearls and drawing them taut.    ❛  But you don't,  hopefully.  ❛    That would be bad.  To know Mike is to love him.  And she is as greedy as she is head-over-heels. 

    ❛  I think,  his heart.  Being held by it is like basking in the sun.  He's like a heat-lamp over my enclosure.  Never felt anything like it before,  y'know?  And it's so good,  his heart.  Pure.  Without end.  And he gives it to me,  when I let him.  Freely.  Like he's got so much and wants to share it.  Needs,  maybe.  ❛   Tips her drink toward herself,  chest tight and unkindly burning. 

[ MAIL: HEADCANON PROMPTS. ]

To begin with this, I think it's important to first mention my thoughts on turian music in general. In Mass Effect Andromeda, a character states: “Turian classical music sounds like someone rifling through a toolbox”. Harsh and metallic noises would appeal to them, I think, considering their language and vocal capabilities. I would add to this ideas of some form of throat-singing (using the flanging in their voices to create harmonies, or more likely dissonances) and probably frequencies/resonances that humans may not even be able to feel. Strong percussions befit them as well as a highly militarized race.

Considering this, I personally see Nihlus as being quite attracted to the turian equivalent of what we call metal, especially the more industrial, aggressive genres and those with electronic influences. He wouldn't be above listening to regular ol' human metal, of course. Perhaps music is their greatest cultural victory over him. I think he would listen to anything that catches his fancy, really, regardless of origin. Krogan metal probably goes hard as fuck let's be real.

Bands I associate him with are GOJIRA (specifically this remix which is on his promo), .clipping and Linkin Park's REANIMATION album. Of course, it's almost impossible to tell what precise music a guy from an alien race a hundred years into the future would listen to, so we gotta do what we gotta do lmao. And what you gotta do is a spotify playlist babeyyy work in progress

I can see him listening to music while preparing for hits, but never on the job. He needs all his senses, can't let someone sneak up on him cause he's too busy jamming. If he's just tracking a target though, something quiet and chill is on the table.

@hellweep SENT A THING AND I FORGOT TO POST IT AND :') <3 - still accepting bc i have an ego

NSFT QUESTIONS || accepting.

He isn't overly chatty, but dirty talk is a big turn-on for him, in general. Then, it is especially satisfying in the form of giving instructions. He's got a strong thing for control, which can be played verbally in a variety of ways.

He also enjoys praising his partner — or degrading them; sometimes a mixture or alternation of both.

Light-hearted banter and humor are enjoyable, too, and he'll laugh and joke during sex whenever the mood is propitious.

Antonín does favor pillow talk afterwards (beforehand as well; interesting conversation during a date is turn-on) but it depends on the partner and whether or not he feels like staying with them.

@hellweep sent: He groans into the crook of her neck, not otherwise stirring from where he's sprawled half on top of her. A boyishly petulant protest against the hectoring chime melody of the clock that he's grown to find so very detestable. He'd pause time for Madonna if he could— and why couldn't he? Mike is in love, which is to say he is unstoppable. "I don't want to leave," he whispers to her, the softness in his sleep-hoarse voice so dissimilar from the gravity of what his words imply. "Not now. Not later." He nudges her chin with his nose so he may better pepper unhurried, smiling kisses on the delicate column of her neck. It's the most wonderful trade-off: she receives the warmth of his breath, and he gets to savor the scent of her skin. He could spend hours and hours just kissing her. And thus, knowing his heart, who could expect anything else than what he's about to say? "Not ever again, Donna."

Sometimes Mike scares her    ( ... )     sometimes,   he brings out feelings inside of her that scare herself.  And it's such a strange,  remarkable fear  —because it does not exist based in revulsion,  nor is it based in a lack of wanting.  But it is there.  She feels it twitching to life in her chest from the moment that unholy grandfather clock chimes its fascist pang,  signaling noon  —drawing her from the soft embrace of a half-sleep so precious,  tethered by the weight of her lover.  A warm weight,  a weight that makes promises.  He's all soft,  burning skin and long hair.  They laze like big cats in a dark cave on her big,  canopied bed,  curtains drawn and ceiling fan churning lethargically above their heads.  Her dreamy eyes crack open.  She feels the boyish groan against her throat and she smiles  —vaguely,  her full mouth kissed clean of lipstick.

Beneath satin sheets stained with their intimacy,  beneath him,  Madonna lies naked.  It is not normally that she sleeps so with a lover.  Typically,  after intimacy,  there was a chance at separation  —brief or extended,  where she might pull on her robe,  or her lover's t-shirt.  There was no separation from Mike.  Had she fallen asleep with him still inside of her?  She hopes so.  There was no chance nor desire to be anything but with him and naked.  And he was warm,  so warm  —and not selfish about sharing that warmth with her,  that eager thrum of his heartbeat. 

Her lover speaks in that sweet,  dreamy way,  still rough with sleep.  His words should make her go very still,  for these are the words she is afraid she will hear this late morning.  She should stiffen,  turn her head away and into her pillow of dark,  endless hair.  For he could not stay.  Today was Saturday.  Saturdays were for obligatory meetings and funeral black.  "Family dinner."  She has but three hours to get ready,  barely enough time to prepare herself for the bleak occasion.  Donna should tell him to go.  He really can't stay.  It was better for Mike to understand this  —to not press her,  to know that with someone like her things only went so far. 

But she does,  says,  none of these things.  She could begrudge the chime of the clock,  but she could not begrudge nor deny Mike so easily.  Her features,  still soft with remnants of sleep,  do not turn away   —nor does she stiffen,  grow cold.  It's for his magic.  Lavished upon the underside of her jaw,  warmer than sun-soaked honey  —sweeter.  The warmth of his breath,  the saccharine draw of his aching kisses down her throat  —the weight of his words,  settling like a stone on her chest.  Not now,  not later.   Not ever again,  Donna.  

Madonna's eyes close.  He speaks with so much gravity,  pure intention causing her skin to burn and flush beneath his pathway of kisses.  It makes her moan.  The peaks of her breasts stiffen,  and she's already starting to melt like wax  —easy,  easy.  She's so fucking easy for him.  She runs her hands through his tousled,  silken tresses tangled from the long night before.  Even with no heartbeat,  she can feel the moth-like flutter of wings somewhere in her body.  Her nerves,  maybe.  She can still feel pain.  She can still feel the impending devastation of turning him away,  leaving her alone in her bed,  cold,  with only the smell of him in her sheets.  She feels herself on the edge of something terrifying and wonderful.  And she is afraid.  She is afraid of how much she wants it.  

Dark eyes per down her lashes at him now as he presses those sweet,  warming kisses just beneath her collarbone. 

      ❛  ...You'll get us both into trouble.  ❛     Her words might indicate reprimand,  but her voice is all kittenish affection  —sensual curve of her spin arching into the contact.  The warm seam of his mouth brushes her left nipple,  and she makes a small noise tight in her chest.  Her fingers tighten in his hair,  at the crown.  She's flushing now.  It's his magic.  Yes. 

She's tugging at him by the shoulders,  now.  Greedy to get to his mouth. 

madonna + club-wear concepts ( requested by @hellweep )