#demunitization

[highstakcs]

♡ . ( 🫵🫳🤜👎 )

Send ♡ to see what my muse thinks of yours // ( @demunitization )

♥️♥️♥️○○ | ATTRACTION ♥️♥️○○○ | AFFECTION ♥️♥️♥️○○ | INTEREST ○○○○○ | LOYALTY ○○○○○ | TRUST

[envoye]

can you reblog an alphabet meme so I can send you D, I, C, K.

Please please please please it'd be so funny PLEASE 🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐

Okay fine loser I hated you anyways your ass is flat ➖️ <- THIS IS YOU. YOUUUUUUU.

SENDING DICK? 🤨

🗣️ you wanna fuck me so bad you look stupid 🗣️

go sit here 👇🏻 ⬇️

[mitisangelum]

she is never opening her mouth ever again :c

[starpotentia1]

she's just thrilled to be here! thank you @demunitization for the nightmare couple ever 💖

[br4verson-m]

@demunitization says :

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

experience , start off saying bro died a virgin . no experience in life , & well , virgin in death . it isn't that he has no desire , it's that he's known for his faith , so what does lust mean ? he's not watched others in any way , & tries to abstain from all talks of it , etc etc . so no , he has no idea what he's doing , barely has an idea of it . he's got an idea of kissing , he's seen couples reunite in heaven , he's seen the rom - coms , but he will fumble until he learns what he's doing , bro needs all the patience he can get .

risk , by the very nature of his lack of experience , everything is some sort of experiment . he'll try whatever his partner suggests , sex with abel is an exercise of extreme trust . he'd like to think they would only have his best interests at heart . depending on the partner , it never feels like a risk , & he's basically ignorant to the dangers before him .

[lusturia]

“You’re awake… I was wondering how long you’d let me watch you sleep.” ( non - starter )

"Oh, don't play cute ; we know you can't get enough of watching me~" Said with a smug certainty rather than a playful jest, smirk splitting wide as all six limbs stretched right along with his massive swing span. FUCK ; he felt good. There was nothing better than sex to sleep - at least almost nothing better. Having Vox still around? Pleasant surprise. Always watching didn't mean always around and Valentino had to occasionally make a dramatic show to force the other Overlord's focus when it strayed too much for his own liking.

Big stretch accomplished, Valentino rolls over so he's on his stomach. One hand tucked beneath his chin to hold his head up, another reaching over for a finger to slide between the closest set of Vox's gills, the motion more related to fingering than simply touching.

"Now is my turn to wonder what's got you so sentimental you haven't zapped out hours ago."

Go on, Vox - feed his ego. Make him feel like the prize he knows he is.

[hellahit]

- Tell me about the moment you first realised you were in love with someone you were never supposed to want.

- Tell me about the scar you hate the most and the story you’ll take to your grave rather than explain.

😇

Tell me about the moment you first realised you were in love with someone you were never supposed to want.

Striker can't help the frown that surfaces upon hearing the first statement. He wasn't one for spilling secrets or dishing out details, but this is what he signed up for. Love is a difficult thing for him to describe to feel at other times, so when it comes to someone he wasn't supposed to want? Hell, multiple people come to mind. People he's let slip away, or those who caused him to feel more than love but conflict within. The first that comes to mind is a target-a hit he was to make on a demon in Greed. This was back when he first started, when his emotions were more like a rollercoaster. He let it control him more than once during that time. Especially with his libido? Not a good combination. Still, his dicks didn't automatically do the talking. A surprise there when all he'd done was chat them up. It became something more after that. Something he began to hate. It was love. The first of its kind, yet all the while, he knew how bad this was. Not only did he need to finish the job, but it began to remind him of his own family. How things weren't going to be happily ever after. This wasn't going to be the endgame for him as much as he wanted it to be. In the end? After all that, he shot them and ran. He doesn't know if they lived or died; he never checked in.

Tell me about the scar you hate the most and the story you’ll take to your grave rather than explain.

Hands. It'll always be his hands. There's a reason why he covers them up with gloves. There's always the excuse of helping his grip on a weapon, while true, it's not the entire truth. Not the one that makes him wince in pain when they come off or when his grip tightens. Or how the color is off compared to the rest of his body. He hates it. The story of it and how it came to be. When he was nothing more than a young man trying to survive and navigate his way through the shitstorm called life. He'd been tortured by being held against Hell's flame. The kind that could kill if left long enough. It started with his hands. Pushing them further and further into the flames as he was interrogated. He didn't last very long and sang like a bird without question. It's the first time he felt that amount of pain. The kind that never leaves you, but haunts you even in the darkest of nights. Or when he looks at himself long enough in the mirror, the slight drift of his eyes along his figure. There are so many scars littered throughout, but he lingers on the redness of his hands. The sudden reminder of the pain and torture.

[depascor]

❝ stop  scowling,  [ Al ],  you’re  such  a  grinch.  ❞

⌖   ╱   𝕬MERICAN   PSYCHO,   accepting;   @demunitization.

this   wretched   machine,   𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑻𝑰𝑮𝑶   𝑪𝑨𝑮𝑬   made   of   steel   &   cerulean   walls⸻   mirrored   panels   polish   him   into   near-identical   duplication;   red   pinstripes,   slender   frame,   &   the   𝖙𝖜𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖉   𝖒𝖔𝖚𝖙𝖍.   he   occupies   the   reflection   beside   him,   all   𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛   𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚠   &   𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕   𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝,   as   if   the   elevator   is   nothing   but   an   𝑶𝑼𝑻𝑫𝑨𝑻𝑬𝑫   𝑴𝑬𝑫𝑰𝑼𝑴   he   is   enduring   out   of   principle   rather   than   necessity.   their   reflections   stare   back   at   them   in   warped   strips   of   silver,   a   𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖆𝖘𝒚   𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓   that   deprives   him   of   relief⸻one   that   would   make   anyone   look   𝘷𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘺   dishonest.

comment   lands,   spins,   &   fails   to   find   purchase   [   𝙸𝚃’𝚂   𝙽𝙾𝚃   𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽   𝙲𝙻𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 …   ]   alastor   tilts   his   head   slightly,   just   enough   to   acknowledge   the   thought   without   𝖉𝖎𝖌𝖓𝖎𝖋𝒚𝖎𝖓𝖌   it   as   anything   worth   responding   to.   a   minor   gesture.   𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴,   he   opens   his   mouth⸻

the   elevator   comes   to   a   sudden   halt.   𝘪𝘵   𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴,   though   not   dramatically;   no   lurch,   no   shower   of   sparks,   no   𝑰𝑴𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑬𝑵𝑻   𝑻𝑯𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑻   of   plummeting   to   the   bottom   of   the   shaft.   it   simply   stops   moving   with   the   heavy,   𝖘𝖙𝖚𝖇𝖇𝖔𝖗𝖓   confidence   of   a   machine   that   has   decided   it   has   done   enough⸻   it’s   always   this   faulty   technology,   𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐   &   𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐   at   the   smallest   inconvenience,   𝘩𝘮𝘮.

❝   perhaps,   ❞   he   says,   the   voice   smooth   as   𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖗   over   something   broken,   ❝   i   was   rather   𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨   𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥   to   arriving.   ❞

the   air   feels   smaller,   as   though   the   walls   have   decided   to   listen   in⸻   old   leather   𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘯𝘴   as   he   clasps   gloved   hands   behind   his   back.   a   gentlemanly   posture.   a   contained   one,   regardless   of   the   cold,   𝖘𝖔𝖚𝖗   𝖓𝖆𝖚𝖘𝖊𝖆   biting   at   the   root   of   his   throat.   it   suggests   he   has   𝑨𝑳𝑳   𝑻𝑯𝑬   𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬   in   the   world,   though   none   of   it   it’s   meant   to   be   𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥.

❝   do   your   little   modern   contraptions   often   decide   to   faint  mid-conversation? [ … ]   or   is   that   particular   malfunction   reserved   exclusively   for   𝘮𝘺   presence?   ❞

his   eyes   do   not   leave   the   screen   beside   him.   the   smile   𝘸𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘴   𝘣𝘺   𝘢   𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯⸻   just   enough   to   suggest   it   might   not   be   entirely   𝖉𝖊𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖛𝖊   anymore.   perhaps,   his   body   can   afford   the   weight   of   such   implication   without   𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨   from   the   𝑩𝑰𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹   𝑲𝑵𝑶𝑾𝑳𝑬𝑫𝑮𝑬,   with   a   smug   grin   &   heavy   eyelids.   &   in   the   stalled,   𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥   𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵   of   the   shaft,   something   shifts;   not   tension   exactly,   but   the   wet,   𝖘𝖑𝖎𝖕𝖕𝖊𝖗𝒚   awareness   that   neither   of   them   is   as   alone   in   here   as   they   would   prefer.