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@lumenfall
LUMENFALL ꕥ a heavily headcanon-based , highly selective & private interpretation of LADY MARIA from BLOODBORNE as absolved by Puffin .
themes ↠ defecting from decadence , rejecting tradition , admired by many but known by few , the path to hell is paved with good intentions , these hands will never be clean , a life spent soaked in blood , being not a mother , not a bride , but a king .
bio | prompts | verses | thread tracker | inbox : 07 rules beneath the cut :
“Act ladylike” how about I kill you what then
prompts for specific scenarios that make me chef’s kiss
can be used as starter or plotting prompts!
1) one muse putting their hand over the other’s mouth while they have sex.
2) our muses with unspoken feelings forced to share a bed and end up cuddling.
3) our muses have unspoken feelings but one of them is upset so the other holds them.
4) our muses have a very strong bond, but haven’t admitted to romantic feelings and one of them just comes and cuddles up to the other for comfort.
5) sender is in a vulnerable state and the only person they trust is receiver, who approaches them to try and help.
6) receiver is in a vulnerable state and the only person they trust is sender, who approaches them to try and help.
7) our muses shower together after something traumatic for comfort and emotional intimacy, bonus points if they aren’t even together romantically yet.
8) receiver’s muse kills someone to protect sender’s muse. sender approaches to gently calm them down.
9) sender’s muse kills someone to protect receiver’s muse. receiver approaches to gently calm them down.
10) one muse has been brainwashed and the other one refuses to hurt them, trying to bring them back with a gentle touch.
11) muses who aren’t together yet or simply have a gruff/sof dynamic: sender’s muse is upset and receiver’s sits next to them, leading to sender leaning against them and finally breaking down.
12) muses who aren’t together yet or simply have a gruff/sof dynamic: receiver’s muse is upset and sender’s sits next to them, leading to receiver leaning against them and finally breaking down.
13) one muse is sporting injuries, the other takes a hold of their face and demands to know who did it so they can take revenge.
14) our muses aren’t together yet but one of them asks the other to stay the night so they won’t be alone.
15) our muses aren’t together yet but one of them insists on staying the night so they won’t be alone. bonus points if its to protect them.
16) gruff muse is being grumpy and the other one just crawls into their lap and kisses them.
17) softer muse makes the first move for sex and rides or tops the gruffer one who looks at them like they just found god.
18) one muse has just killed for the first time and the other more experienced muse is there to help them in the aftermath.
19) one muse is dangerous and has a soft spot for the other one, who approaches them to prevent them from hurting someone.
20) receivers muse is touch starved and sender gives them affection they aren’t used to.
21) sender’s muse is touch starved and receiver gives them affection they aren’t used to.
22) receiver’s muse is the first person sender’s muse turns to and hugs after something traumatic happens.
23) sender’s muse is first person receiver’s muse turns to and hugs after something traumatic happens.
24) one muse shows up at the other’s doorstep looking for comfort.
25) one muse shows up at the other’s doorstep because they need help and are in danger.
26) one muse thinks the other is going to hurt them but instead they protect them.
27) dangerous or antagonistic muse gently caresses the other’s face who is surprised by their affection.
28) one muse is in danger and the other, who is usually antagonistic, shows up to help them.
29) dangerous or antagonistic muse is gently caressed by the other, surprising them with affection they aren’t accustomed to.
30) one muse sees the other’s scars for the first time.
You never really had a childhood.
That old man should be grunting and sweating on top of me right now what the fuck
galadriel training númenóreans • episode v
[ from x with @lumenfall ]
Her hand clasps his tighter to the rise of her; he feels her hips rock back against him, notched on the ridge, as his hand works more eagerly still. The sound of her pleasure causes his breath to catch. Presented with the gentle incline of her head - and the subsequent, monumental trust in baring the expanse of her pale throat - he trails kisses, rough and claiming, along the side of her neck, catching the lobe of her ear between his teeth for an instant. Ah, there she is, he murmurs, jagged affection delivered via serrated breath, just past her ear. There you are, Maria.
He still can't place the moment where he realized the want: where it had blossomed from idle appreciation of her work and a growing trust in her allegiance to something hot and hungry in his belly. There must have been a moment - a shift from respect to need - but the transition had been so slow and subtle as to defy identification.
It is not subtle now; as two fingers push deeper into her heat, seeking out the fullness of her pleasure, his thumb still stroking eagerly at her clit, encouraged by the arch and the song and the way she's so Church-damned soaked for him. He can feel her clench around his exploring touch, as though trying to guide him deeper still. Some part of him aches to remove his hand, tug down his trousers - but no, there's other part that finds it sweeter still to remain focused solely on teasing out every note of that song that he can.
Let me be foolish, he breathes, against her skin, letting the words shape a kiss as though he might brand his newfound reverence there by way of teeth and tongue. Let me ask again. For more - for more, Maria.
The slow and steady repetition of her name becomes a chant, a hymn in time with her sounds of pleasure.
That's it - just for me. Just for me...
Maria had always possessed a certain patience.
It was a lesson of the Hunt – the long stillness of the hunter poised above a stairwell, the measured breath taken before the blade flashed, the cold, deliberate pacing of a predator whose quarry must eventually falter. That same patience lived in her now, in the slow arch of her spine and the languid way she allowed the moment to unfold.
Her hand tightened around his where she had pressed it to her, guiding rather than restraining. Maria did not hurry pleasure any more than she hurried a kill.
His mouth moved along the pale sweep of her throat, rough, and she felt the scrape of his teeth at her ear like a spark struck against flint. The sound he drew from her was low, lovely, largely unguarded.
“Ah, there she is.”
Maria’s lips parted slightly at that, the corner of her mouth curving with a shadow of amusement. Her fingers drifted up from his wrist to his forearm, nails dragging lightly through the coarse hair and scarred skin there. A slow, thoughtful scrape – not cruelty, but not quite tenderness either.
Yes, here she was.
His hand moved with growing confidence and she answered it with the same unhurried certainty. Her hips rolled back against him again, slower this time, a measured press that deepened the contact between them. Maria understood precisely what she was doing, understood the way his breath hitched, the way his voice roughened when her body answered his touch.
A hunter knew when to press an advantage.
Her silver head tipped back once more, exposing the pale column of her throat beneath the dim light. Almost spectral fingers slipped higher along his arm until they reached his shoulder.
His name brushed her lips in return. Softer than his invocation of hers, but no less deliberate:
“Gorm.”
Every sound lingered between them like smoke.
When he urged her again, Maria moved, slow and fluid as tidewater, rolling her hips once more into the cradle of his hand. She was comfortable here. Comfortable in the warmth of him. Comfortable with his fingers dipping into the wet, shell-pink soft of her cunt. Comfortable with the circling of his calloused thumb, gleaming now with her arousal.
“Eager,” she murmured at last, though the word carried more fondness than reproach. Her eyes, heavy with lust, steady as winter surf, sought his solitary blue. “You would have a hymn and an encore besides.”
Even now, the old aristocratic lilt lingered, faint but unmistakable. Even now, as the porcelain of her belly tightened, as her breath shortened by degrees, each exhale softer than the last. Maria did not rush towards release. She would let it come to her, would meet it with the same composed hunger she brought to all things, even now holding herself poised at its threshold.
“And you will have it.”
Gothic Gates
What do you mean the big, emotionally-stoic man didn't tell you he loved you?? His eyes literally went soft when he glanced your way??
How to Drown a Boy, J. Bruce Fuller
pull HIM in closer by his waist
especially if he's taller than you
"...the gods might forbid a woman from being morbid, whimsical, and unsettling, but I rightly don't," Gorm muses.
Morbid, whimsical, unsettling – she had been all three, at one time or another. Her gaze slid sidelong to him, colourless and appraising, the quiet curl of her amusement deepening into something almost indulgent.
“How generous of you,” she murmured, voice soft with a dry, lilting humour. “And what, I wonder, would you permit of me next?”
"My dear and darling colleague, I fret for the man who assumes he could permit you to do anything - implying, thus, that there were permissions you might be denied," the older man chuckles, a grin cracking across his face. "Now, as for what I might ask you to do, well - that may be something not fit for gods' ears 't all, really."
Maria’s smile lingered. Warmed, perhaps, by the rare alignment of his understanding. He was not wrong – permission had always been a fiction she wore only when it suited her. At his latter remark, her brow arched just so, a flicker of something almost playful glinting beneath the pale calm of her expression.
“Then I should hope you choose your audience with care,” she replied, the softness of her accented tone belied by the faint, teasing lilt beneath it. Her gaze held his, steady and bright as moonlight. “You need not fear, I keep my confidences well, and you may find I am inclined to indulge you.”
"...the gods might forbid a woman from being morbid, whimsical, and unsettling, but I rightly don't," Gorm muses.
Morbid, whimsical, unsettling – she had been all three, at one time or another. Her gaze slid sidelong to him, colourless and appraising, the quiet curl of her amusement deepening into something almost indulgent.
“How generous of you,” she murmured, voice soft with a dry, lilting humour. “And what, I wonder, would you permit of me next?”
'Die Nacht'. Willy Kriegel. 1943.
