#i am just experiencing severe creative burn out

[wildflowerteas]

TSP 2 Week Hiatus ( so sorry )

[pothosrays]

i am posting the links to your daily crows in a little discord server i'm in, theres a whole channel for it in the important channels section and the whole server looks forward to the crows every day. Thank you for the crows, you make the server very happy :]

im glad when people tell me things like this.. ive had many people come in my inbox and tell me that they send my crow art in discord servers every time theres an update religiously, and it is so sweet to me but i always feel so bad when im in hiatus from posting crows nowadays. cuz im like ahh im so sorry all these servers arent getting their food 🥺:(

i hope all are well in said servers. i appreciate everyones support for this series of mine with all sincerity and love, i try not to let anyone down </3.

however, i am severely burned out lately and have been experiencing a pretty bad mental health moment. so drawing at all has been rather difficult for me (and i miss it because i do love drawing :( !!)

but either way i appreciate anyone who continues to show support since i mean, i *have* drawn 900+ crows over the course of two years. theres plenty for people to look at.

i am always eternally grateful for all the traction my daily crow series gave me while i was still very active with it, and i love all my fans of it deeply since everyone has just taken the time to love my silly little cryptic bird drawings. I love that my daily crow fans send me kind words and share pictures of birds and plants they find to me, it has been a wonderful opportunity to share such things with people.

that being said, do keep in mind that "daily crow" is essentially done for in the respect of it being genuinely daily. most of the time i will just doodle a crow and assign it the tag and number, but it i am definitely not as creative or motivated with it as i once was to be able to do it daily. I wish to move onto different projects nowadays and hope people can love them too. My tumblr community especially is so supportive and sweet and i love y'all.

but thank you all for your support, always :) you're a wonderful little community of silly whimsical nature enjoyers, so please never stop being yourselves. i hope you can all take good care <3

[onlycosmere]

What book sequel are you STILL waiting for? 

marsh642: It's been weeks since Brandon Sanderson released a book. I hope he's doing ok /s

PattableGreeb: One day I hope to be like that guy output-wise. Not necessarily in terms of volume, but like, the sheer ability to just get into it and commit without much fuss.

erossthescienceboss: I’m a writer, and deeply envy his ability to work within a schedule and use his time. Has he ever experienced writers’ block? At all? Like, I’m in nonfiction — I don’t even do creative writing! Yet so often, it’s like pulling teeth.

Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott is a great book for those of us prone to writers’ block and procrastination (I related to Anne’s writing struggles deeply, and often wonder if she has undiagnosed ADHD) but I’d love to read a Sanderson guide to Actually Writing and Getting Shit Done.

Brandon Sanderson: I'd say that what you do, in nonfiction, is a different beast than what I do. I find nonfiction like pulling teeth too, sometimes!

Of course, fiction can be like that too. I do experience writer's block, but I am fortunate in several ways. One is that I managed to build a very good work ethic during my unpublished years, one I was mostly able to maintain after going professional. I also found a multitude of strategies for dealing with writer's block that have been helpful.

Once in a while, a book just doesn't work, though, and I DO abandon it and get into a funk for a while.

Simple guide for me is:

1) Make manageable goals.

2) Write consistently, and develop habits. Long hours are not as good as consistent hours. Crunching on a book burns you out. Instead, I follow the Stephen King method of shooting for around 2k words a day.

3) If I get into a funk, write anyway, planning to throw those words away. Then re-read them the next day and see if they are actually terrible, or if I was in a funk. Most common result if the words are bad is this: writing them gives my brain something to fix, and it does, giving me a new scene to try. But if I just stop, and don't write the bad words, I get stuck.

4) In emergencies, having something fun and different to work on can give a breather. This is where the Secret Projects came from.

Good luck! Don't know if that helps, but I hope it's at least interesting.

xXCoffeeCreamerXx: Step 2 is where I get caught up. I know I need to build good habits, but I simply can’t get started/stay consistent enough to form those habits. So is there a tip 1.25, 1.5, 1.75?

Brandon Sanderson: There is, but it's unfortunately not going to be quite as useful. That's the step that is most likely to be the tough one, but diagnosing what is causing it is a little like trying to diagnose a disease from a headache. Basically anything can cause you to have trouble building the habits, and so general advice is tougher to give. The solution will really depend on your personal psychology.

How have you built other habits? What motivates you? (Loaded question, I know.) An easy trick is to put your writing time just before or after something you do every week already, and don't have trouble remembering to do. Have a weekly raid with the WoW team? Add writing in before it for two hours. Go to the gym on a Saturday? Build a playlist of mood music for your story, imagine it while there, then stop at a library/cafe always on the way home and write for a few hours as part of the weekly routine.

Involving others in your life can help. Telling them your goals, and getting their buy-in to make you responsible. Starting/joining a writing group (which isn't for everyone, mind you, but works for some of us) so you have a responsibility to submit can work too, depending on if you're the type who will fill bad not having something to share each week after you promised to do so.

Like the cafe suggestion above, a lot of people have more success building a habit if it's something they go out and do--rather than something they do at home, particularly if you're trying to write in a space where you ordinarily relax.

But really, there's a WHOLE lot going on inside of us in regards to motivation, and the individual brain brew is unique to us all. I am helped by keeping a spreadsheet of work done, so I can watch the numbers count up and see my progress. Others I know need a stick or a carrot. Others work on a yearly habit (writing during the summers as a teacher, for example) rather than a weekly one.

And all of that is assuming you're not avoiding writing for other reasons, such as performance anxiety, fear of the blank page, or a sense that something's wrong with your story you don't know how to fix.

Best of luck. Like I said, the advice here might not be as good/relevant as either of us would like. But maybe there's something in it you can take away.

[stillwinterair]

Howdy kids

My name is Dee! It's not the name I went by for most of my years on Tumblr, but it's the one everyone knows me as. You might remember my url as nyriad, visovari... I went by a bunch of others too, but those are the only two I seem to remember now 😅

The last time I was on Tumblr, I was in the middle of a very difficult period of my life that I didn't really have the tools or support to navigate. But sometimes you gotta go a lil wacky and make some fresh new regrets so you can grow up a lil bit wiser and sexier

I quit the internet pretty much cold turkey for a while and it was one of the best things I ever did for myself. I spent a year pretty much focusing on nothing but my immediate surroundings, living in my own skin, learning how to love myself. I've gotten a lot more comfortable being myself, and have grown a lot more connected to the earth.

In my time away, I was diagnosed with ADHD, which even just the diagnosis has significantly improved almost every facet of my life. I've gotten so many new tools and so much new language to express myself and my needs. I've stopped feeling like there is something wrong with me and let go of a lot of shame that I held around myself, my work flow, my ability to focus, my needs for rest, etc. As I've met more people with ADHD, I've grown a lot more empowered and confident. I'm still figuring out what medication works for me (Adderall and Concerta are hell incarnate; Ritalin and Vyvanse are the bee's knees). It's been revolutionary and healing, honestly. Reading the book "Driven to Distraction" was an important first step that I recommend to everyone who's ever thought they might have ADHD, or if you were like me, always felt stupid and slow and always wondered why you never could quite get around to doing all the things you want to do.

I am also currently pursuing a diagnosis for Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, as per my doctor's suggestion. I won't get into it too much here, but it is a chronic illness that has made the last year pretty difficult. I have a lot of severe chronic joint pain and lethargy, and it's been... a lot. I'm starting physical therapy soon. This part isn't fun to talk about, but it's becoming an important part of my identity.

I've also met the love of my life, my soon-to-be fiancee, Nathalie! We were inseparable pretty much from the day we met, and spent a year as best friends. And then after that year the sexual tension became too much to handle, and now another year later, here we are, stupidly in love, utterly obsessed with each other, turning every single day into a fun, wacky, new adventure lmao. We've built the most beautiful, trusting, communicative, intimate relationship I've ever experienced and I am so filled with pride and joy and love and happiness every day. We're still best friends -- no force on this earth could ever get us to shut up when we're in the same room. She just fills me with butterflies and glee and light. Nat has this burning desire to create in whatever the most tactile medium she can find is. She loves mechanisms and fibers and all of the ways different materials interact with each other. She inspires me every day to be more open and honest and to pursue whatever creative venture has caught my interest, and I do the same for her. We dance together, create together, and share big emotions and life goals and it's just the most beautiful thing I've ever felt, and this paragraph could go on forever if I don't end it right now

I've also finally started to settle into my writing flow. I've got a space opera that's really beginning to take shape and I'm pretty proud of what it's turning into :) I also have a fantasy saga that's following a few steps behind. Both are things I've been working on for nearly a decade in fits and spurts, but I've done more work on them in the last year than in all previous years combined. I've gotten into more artistic mediums as well: oil painting, photography, beading, and so on. And very into fashion, kind of. Y'all should see my wardrobe these days -- bright colors, crazy patterns, wacky silhouettes. I feel like I finally look like myself. I'm currently rocking a purple mullet and a mustache, so... yeah, I'm having fun with it

I'm not sure how many of my old friends and mutuals are still hanging around, but I wanted to say hey, track a few of you down, and give a little update on how things are going for me post-Tumblr. I am alive, and I'm pretty happy these days. Some days I miss it here, and while I'll never come back in the same capacity as I used to, I wanted to reconnect with some of my old friends that I used to talk to and hang around with every day! I'm gonna poke around over the next while and see who's still around :) honestly I still think about some of y'all on the daily, and I got too curious about how my old friends were doing.

If you want to keep in touch, I'm on Instagram as deehollandaise. I'm on Discord much less often, but if you want to connect there, shoot me a message and I'll share the deets. Warning that I am just straight up not involved in any fandom stuff these days. It's just not for me anymore.

I will be retiring this blog in the new year, setting the whole dang thing to private and probably starting a new one with which to share some of my creative projects. I'll let y'all know about it before that happens.

I don't know, this is all kinda word vomit, I guess I just wanted to let all my old friends know that I'm still here and that I'm finally figuring myself out. I've got a lot to be proud of and grateful for and I've barely scratched the surface, so I'll leave off with some recent photos. Have a hot & sweaty 2024, you sexy things 😘

- Dee

[glacierruler]

Bipolar 1 Disorder

So there have been a few people, who on this post, weren't sure what Bipolar 1 Disorder is. Keep in mind this varies for everyone, but I'll give you the medical definition, and what it personally feels like, for me.

Also feel free to rb with questions, or how these things feel/affect you, or just to spread awareness.

CWs: manic episodes, depressive episodes, hallucinations, delusions, intrusive and impulsive thoughts, suicide ideation and thoughts of suicide, car crash mention, medication

According to this website, NIMH Bipolar 1 Disorder is:

Bipolar I disorder is defined by manic episodes that last for at least 7 days (nearly every day for most of the day) or by manic symptoms that are so severe that the person needs immediate medical care. Usually, depressive episodes occur as well, typically lasting at least 2 weeks. Episodes of depression with mixed features (having depressive symptoms and manic symptoms at the same time) are also possible. Experiencing four or more episodes of mania or depression within 1 year is called “rapid cycling.”

Again, every individual experiences this differently, and this won't be completely true for all individuals, but this is a good place to start your research(I do not agree with all the information in this, but it's one of the most credible sources I have). And again, you should definitely do your research, not everyone experiences this like I do.

Okay, so most of this has to do with, or is tied to emotions and feelings. Which makes explaining it harder. But bear with me here.

First, manic and depressive episodes are two extremes. And like you can feel both at the same time, despite how polar opposite they can seem, but both of them are still two extremes.

Now manic episodes in particular are interesting, because like, for me, most of the time they're chaotic and happy. But there have been a few times where I'm irrationally angry. However, at least until I reblog this with probably more information, I'm going to focus on the more happy chaotic side of manic episodes, because that's the main thing I have experience with.

During these happy chaotic moods, these manic episodes, I feel like I'm on top of the world. I legitimately think laws don't apply to me, which is not a good thing. I'm more likely to act on my impulsive thoughts, and thoughts that would usually be intrusive, become impulsive. Like, for example, burning down a building with people in it, usually that would be an intrusive thought for me, but when I'm manic, all of a sudden, I do not care about human lives, and it seems like the most fun thing I could do(this is an example of where my mind could take me). So it takes what would usually be an intrusive thought for me and turns it into an impulsive one. And while my manic episodes don't usually last for a week(has happened a few times), they do get really bad. And I will be a danger to myself or others because of these episodes. I am also like so much more honest, because I don't see the point in lying, lying takes more effort than it's worth in these episodes, which is not great when you're closeted. Thankfully I am mostly left alone when I'm like this, and have never been asked about my identity during an episode.

And while yes manic episodes can be, and in most cases are, dangerous, I can usually do my best writing/painting/drawing during these episodes. I find that I'm more creative, with ideas flowing out of me, and as long as I'm sitting at my computer or easel, I'm not nearly as dangerous.

As for depressive episodes, those are different. Er... I don't think I can explain them very well tbh. But I'll try my best.

Depressive episodes are interesting, because they themselves aren't depression. Depression is a completely different feeling. Like, don't get me wrong, depressive episodes contain depression, but that's not all they do. Depressive episodes make it harder to do anything, but in a different way than depression does. Like, at least for me, with regular depression, I can still be objective about the day that I've had. Where as with depressive episodes that reasoning that I have with myself is like, taken away? And like, depending on how bad it is, it's harder to fight off certain thoughts. And these episodes can last a few hours to a few weeks for me. I'm not explaining it well, because it sounds like regular depression, but as someone who has regular depression and depressive episodes, there's a difference in the feeling. Like depressive episodes contain depression and the hardships that come with it, but make it worse and have a different feel to them. Like, with normal depression, I might think about killing myself, but I'll be able to tell myself no, and why I'm valued. With depressive episodes, the worst one I had I almost crashed my car on purpose, and it took everything in me to not do that. (And that was when I was on my meds, so I'm very glad I didn't have it while off of them).

Now, I experience hallucinations and delusions as well and while not everyone with bipolar 1 disorder experiences this, it is common. And like it's interesting because it can be caused by manic and depressive episodes, usually manic, but with me, it's more of an everyday type thing? Like, they're stronger when I'm manic, but I still get them when I'm not experiencing manic or depressive episodes. With the hallucinations bit, I'll see shapes floating in the air, or hear a few words loudly or even a distant conversation that I just can't make out the words too. Along with some sensory hallucinations, where I'll feel random stings or crawling sensations on my skin. With delusions it's more like I believe something that is so obviously false. One common thing that happens with me, is I'll believe I'm a literal disney princess, like I'm the daughter of Ariel or something. And again, when I'm manic it's worse than when I'm not. So like, a delusion that will usually take me a few hours to break out of, might take me a few days. And hallucinations that are more obvious, become harder for me to tell the difference between, say a see through figure on the streets, and what looks almost like a full body person. (Although it's usually shapes that I see, but I have seen what looked to be a person a few times even though there was no one there). And like, sometimes my hallucinations and delusions will team up, and to keep with the previous example, I will envision the dining room in my house as this big grand ballroom, even though it is literally not big enough to be as spacious as what I'm literally seeing with my eyes. The only hint that my hallucinations aren't real is they will be slightly see through, like, even the most vivid ones I can slightly see through, but some are harder to see through than others.

Again, just to reiterate my point here, this is what I go through. Not everyone who has bipolar 1 disorder will go through these like I do. It is NOT a universal experience.

[kafus]

i've unfortunately been too busy and out of it to actually make anything for miku's birthday and i did make a little post earlier last night but i kinda wanted to elaborate just a tiny bit more. this is very stream of consciousness and not like a well thought out post but WHATEVER putting it below the cut cause i'm just rambling nonsense

this miku birthday is a tiny bit more special i guess because she hit the age she is on the box which just feels Cool somehow, and also "sweet 16" i guess though i don't really get that whole thing and i don't think it's relevant to miku LOL whatever. point is it just has me thinking about how long vocaloid has been in my life cause man i've been a vocaloid fan for over half my lifespan at this point, i have known about miku for longer than i haven't and like. you know pokemon is that comforting thing from my childhood that has been with me forever, but it did not change me because there was barely a "me" before pokemon - vocaloid Changed My Life. Severely. i wasn't there since the literal beginning of Miku (2007) but instead since 2011 and it's been a wild 12 years

i don't talk about vocaloid nearly as much as i used to (well except kafu but that's one niche part of a wider interest) due to a lot of personal and complex reasons, but i really want to emphasize how deeply important it is to me. getting into vocaloid when i was in middle school was not just Getting Into Fandom for me, it was making friends for the very first time in my life because i did not have any prior, finding a way to give voice to the turmoil i was experiencing in some of the most difficult parts of my life, and while i don't talk about my DID as much publicly as i used to, it changed my identity and how i think about and process the world on a core level and its effects are still echoing in all of my alters and my headspace to this day. one of the best weekends of my entire life if not The best was when i was 14 and traveled to new york city to see mikuexpo 2014, my first vocaloid concert, with the friends i made on a now-defunct vocaloid forum in 2012, my very first friends. i don't know if i've ever happy sobbed harder than i did during the entire length of that concert. it's burned into my retinas forever.

even though i may not be as vocal about the interest as i once was, even though i'm not really in the vocaloid fandom anymore, vocaloid has deeply impacted every aspect of my life and identity and it is inseparable from me and something i will cherish until i die. if you get to know me, like Actually know me, you will know this about me. sending vocaloid songs as a love language is even still something i do to this day. and it's all because a miku thumbnail showed up in my youtube recommended on some fateful day 12 years ago and i happened to click on it because i was curious about the Cute Anime Girl only to be opened to a world i never knew existed before. obviously vocaloid is created by its musicians and artists who use it and create for it, there would be no miku without all the producers who use her, but miku is the face of it all, the Princess or Queen of vocaloid even, and i am very grateful she exists and could bring such a creative community together that Quite Literally saved my life. i was holding a miku plushie in the mental institution i was admitted to when i was 12 for trying to kms guys. like it's everything to me everyone say thank you miku cause otherwise i might not be here

i could go on a lot longer about this and in way more detail but i'm not gonna i have a mewtwo raid to do with my friends but just know. vocaloid is the best and you should check out some of the music and culture outside of just shitposts about miku if you haven't already lol

[phobia-sweets]

Firefly burning everything while baking with S/O. He set water on fire. How.

I love baking but I am absolutely terrible at it so I wouldn’t be surprised if I managed to pull off something like this tbh

I tried to do something shorter to get my creativity running again, i've been pretty stressed the whole week :/ Firefly always helps, though.

General! Firefly x reader

Warnings & Notes: none!

You could hear Garfield complain about his boredom all the way from your kitchen. It wasn't a surprise, really - usually at this time he'd be either committing arson across gotham or something else involving causing havoc and fire, but his jetpack was not doing... good. The other wing had been severed off after a fight with the bat. You walked towards the livingroom, where he was lying across your couch, staring at the ceiling, sighing.

“If you want something to do, help me with this cake.” He turned to look at you after your suggestion, His eyes lighting up at the mention of the sugary concoction.

“Cake? You’re baking?”

“I honestly though the apron was enough of a clue, but yes.” You laughed, To which he stood up and practically ran into the kitchen. Now, his taste buds may not work as well as before due to all the damage from fire, but that wouldn’t stop him from eating desserts. Was it the texture, or the insane amount of sugar sweets have? Probably both. “Sadly we’re not flambéing anything. If we were, I’d let you do the honors.”

...

He was doing surprisingly well.

Baking wasn’t something you expected him to actually do good at – it just didn’t seem like he’d have the patience for it. Sure, he was mainly just mixing ingredients together, but still. Was he trying to cooperate so you’d actually let him flambé something later on? Probably.

“Hey, Garf’, could you give me the cake mold?”

When you turned to face him, you didn’t know how to react. Sure, it wasn’t all that surprising that he had somehow set fire to the mixture of cream cheese and sugar, but you still stared at him for a few seconds before you sputtered a “What the fuck?”

He had a wide grin on his face, seemingly proud of the current situation. As much as you wanted to keep looking at the pure joy he was experiencing from somehow setting something on fire that definitely should not be on fire, you just couldn’t risk your home burning down. “Garf’, Dear. Please put it out.”

“Come ooon, A little fire never killed nobody.” Honestly kind of ironic that he said that, considering the amount of people he’s hurt with his pyromaniac tendencies.

“Garfield Lynns.”

“Admit it, you love these flames-!”

“I swear to god I’m going to throw a bucket of water at you.”

He did not put it out.

He appearantly doesn’t like cold water being thrown at him, either. Who would’ve thought?

[ohstardew]

Revisiting Code: Realize

I have been severely emotionally and creatively stuck for a long while, and just recently settled on revisiting older media that is beloved to me, especially games, because of the way the interactive narrative speaks to me, but also because its historically what has gotten me writing. While one friends suggestion was Ace Attorney, which is absolutely in queue to be re-experienced, I got the more desperate urge to revisit Code: Realize first. As an early adopter of the english localized otome (my copy of Sweet Fuse as testament), this one has long been my gold standard, and it is also the perfect narrative to help me dislodge some back up.

I thought it might be nice to keep a small journal as I play each route to sort of document what makes it so special, and help me process why it is so personally beloved. First, of course, I must replay and look at the common route. I will come back to this post with those thoughts as I go, but to start I will leave the initial premise below.

First, the premise of the game is simple, yet possesses arrangements to introduce a lot of narrative and character complexities. It is set in Victorian-era London, but with a fantasy steampunk flavor. We follow Cardia Beckford, and our introduction to her is... whoof. She is alone, and since her father left her, she has always been alone.

The opening of the game is her lamenting about who and what she is... why she even exists... because as we shortly find out, her father has told her that because he loves her, he must never let her know love. Because she is a monster. It is a painful opening as we see her shut away in a dilapidated home, her room littered with dolls and toys as she sits curled up, head to her knees, only lifting it when some of Queen Victoria's royal guard, sent to apprehend her, enter. They speculate over if she could be the monster, until one of their dogs becomes aggravated by the situation and bites her... only for her blood, and the touch of her skin, to gruesomely kill it.

Cardia tried to stop this, and thus does the commander of the guard realize she is not a monster by intent, only by her making. She is poisonous to her core, the touch of her skin enough to burn and melt another, and if that touch is prolonged, it surely will kill them. She does not know why she is like this, only that she always has been, and because of that she welcomes being taken... welcomes what she believes is certain death. Being alone as long as she has been, longing for touch the whole time and knowing she can never have it, it would be much easier that way.

But gentleman thief and master of disguise Arsène Lupin isn't about to let that happen. He shows up in proper grand flair to whisk Cardia away from the guard, from her certain demise, because he wishes to steal her heart... literally. But gentleman that he is, he will not take it off her without granting her a wish in return, and there is one thing she wants, which she asks him for quite plainly. "I want to... touch you. I want to feel you... your warmth."

He quickly understands. She has never touched another before, believes she never will as she asks if it is impossible... only for him to confidently promise he will grant this wish to her.

That is how we open the game, and boy do we still a hell of a common route to get through (per my memories, it is quite long!) but I am beyond excited. The common route will get it's own post but as a small teaser:

After the opening credits play, it opens on a scene of Cardia lamenting on how her father set rules for her to never find love, and to never leave their home until he returned for her or ruin and heartbreak will surely follow. Cardia reveals she broke this rule once, and she destroyed someone who loved her, though before we delve into this further, she remarks on the feeling of a morning breeze, and the feeling of sunshine before Lupin offers her a simple breakfast of egg and toast.

This little moment already gives us a great look at Cardia, her lamenting, but also how she is surprised by the breakfast, and catalogues to Lupin how while she can eat... it basically melts to nothing right away, but at least she can taste it, and it tastes good. We get little details of how she has to live, what it means to be the monster she is, and how she feels in a world she isn't meant for. It sets us up to feel for her, to care for her, with even more evocative moments like this to come.

Longing for touch... I felt that deeply when I first played this game, and in a post-pandemic world it resonates even deeper. I am excited to open this world of the game back up, just as well the world within me it once opened up.

One last element: please look at how beautiful this games art and design is... Cardia Beckford you will always be famous.

[stygiusfic]

17 and 18 for the writer's meme?

hi!! <3 these made me think more than I expected, but it was a good and cozy think.

17. What’s the best engagement/interaction/feedback you’ve received from someone who’s read your work?

I am very fortunate in that, since I first started posting my writing online some uhhh nearly two decades ago, I've been able to create surrounded by others who were supportive of me continuing to do the thing whether they had read it or not. Support is the lifeblood of creative communities. I don't know if I'd still be here now if I hadn't experienced that kind of community, so all those interactions are collectively the best I ever got.

So I want to do my best to encourage others when I can. Not just because I enjoy what they're making now. I want the chance to enjoy what they'll write in ten, twenty years of knowing others want to read the stories they want to tell.

18. Do you only write when you’re inspired, or do you try and sit down at specific times and write no matter what?

Sometimes (not as often as would be convenient, and in fact only when it's inconvenient) inspiration does take over like I've been possessed, and the words spill out. In this fugue state (crazy hair, levitating an inch off my chair, my eyes light up in the same technicolor pattern as my keyboard) I could write an entire fully-formed and near-perfect story in a frenzied 10 hours, or over the course of several days, with absolute focus. When this happens I just give in and accept I'm going to be a husk until the story is exorcised.

But most of the time I have a normal amount of investment in my writing. I have a scene in mind and I put some words down and pull the thread as far as it'll go on my available time and energy, and then I stop.

I don't force it when it's not working and I'm getting frustrated; I've never written anything worth keeping in that mindset. (But I might still plot or make notes at times I can't seem to dig into the rhythm of the prose). I have written on a rigid schedule before for exchange deadlines but it's very easy to burn out that way, because it turns writing into a task that I have to complete, and my brain resents tasks. It's kinder to open a note on my phone while waiting for my tea to steep or my train to arrive and go until I don't feel like it anymore. I'll have time to fix and edit later.

(please, always curious about other people's answers too!!)

[isa-ghost]

How do you hold onto hope that anything will be done with Anti or any of Sean's Egos? I fell out of love for JSE and his content about three years ago due to.. I guess just growing up? But I used to check back in from time to time because he used to promise that "Big Thing's" we're coming for his Egos. (Mind you this was before the pandemic took full effect so there wasn't that as an excuse.) I just recently checked his channel and saw he has taken a step back (Good for him and his mental health if he needs that!) from making content. Did he burn out? Is he ever going to do anything with the Ego's? I don't even know why I care at this point? I guess I just want logical answers and you are the smartest JSE fan I know? Anywho. Sorry for the rant. I'll get out of your asks. 🌶

Oookay unpacking this ask time.

Anon thanks in advance for sending this because as feisty as I felt at first, it helped me get out a lot of things I've wanted to say in this regard for a Long Long Time so, yeah. Thank you.

1. Personally I don't like the term "grew up" in reference to CCs or much of anything tbh, because you're rarely too old to enjoy the things you love. But I get what you mean regardless. Just wanted to plop out my take on that topic in general. Never think you're too old to enjoy something harmless though. :)

2. I've been shaky on hope lately, to be honest. He's not been doing a ton of videos in general lately, minus some strays and the Deltarune Chapter 2 series (I genuinely didnt expect him to play it bc he hadnt played another recently released big game I wanted to see him play but he did, and I'm super grateful bc it was killing me lowkey). Which obviously the decision not to make a ton of content at the moment is okay. He's very burnt out, he's been having severe health issues both physically and on/off mentally. The lack of content and low energy he's had lately is just disheartening if that's the right word idk. BUT!! We DO have a MASSIVE Thankmas stream coming in December to look forward to!

I miss him and some days I get kinda,, idk, bitter? About the radio silence. But unlike a lot of people that have been in and out of the JSE Community between 2018 to now, I respect his health and the fact that he's a whole ass human being and has a life and other things he is more than free to do instead whenever the fuck he wants. TLDR I think have better critical thinking skills than some people on here and Twitter lmao. And the last few years have been shit, both in the world and- at least on here -in the community (dare I mention the t*ablogs). Though lately the community is quiet and very very peaceful and enjoyable again. At least in my corner here.

The thing is, I'm not and was never here ONLY for egos. I love Sean and everything about him to bits. He made one of the worst few years I had in the 2010s infinitely more bearable and gave me an explosive amount of inspiration for creativity that I'd not really experienced before. And friends I'll never let go of.

I miss ego content. I want it to keep going. I'm extremely sad it might not continue. But as an artist, I know why he was promising big things once upon a time. When you're a creator and you have a story like this, you want to flesh it out. The motivation and muse is high. People are excited and you want to deliver. The difference with Sean is that he wanted it to be as high in quality as he could push for after all our excitement and incessant thirst for more. And his plans involved a budget and more than just himself and none of it was his main focus. It was a fun side project.

HOWEVER, big projects like this get interrupted by life, smaller projects, distractions and other things. Sean got SLAMMED by all of the above non-stop these last few years and then hit a bad burnout. I think that through it all, he hit that dreaded wall some artists with big, long term plans like the egos story hit and lost motivation. It got overhyped. Pressure got too crushing. Any plans he made to FINALLY continue the ego storyline got murdered by Covid more than once (which.. personally the term "excuse" sounds kinda shitty in reference to that imo but I digress). Making promises only to have outside variables beyond his control break them was killing him, so he just stopped promising. And people who have no respect or patience got annoying and some got straight up inexcusably vulgar, immature and hateful before dramatically fleeing the community in a tantrum like he'd personally come to their house and betrayed them. It was infuriating to watch go down.

But no matter how much it might hurt or be disappointing to see it die out, I'm here for Sean and his journey no matter where it takes him. I'm not sitting here being a stubborn beacon of anything. And I also recognize and (no matter how reluctantly) respect that we aren't OWED ego content. Never were. It was not an obligation no matter how many promises he made or how much hype he stirred up. And to be fair? We drove the hype a million miles further than he EVER did and we can't blame him for that. I hate the people who do. I'm grateful for the ego content we got and I'll cry if we ever get more. But if it's done, it's done and we just have to accept it. I, as sad as I am to, accept it. And we can always make our own.

And finally- thanks for the compliment. Idk if I'd say I'm the SMARTEST but that means a lot either way. :')

I hope this gave some answers even though it came out more of a vent/rant and PSA??

Obviously any JSE followers and mutuals please feel free to reblog this. But don't start any fights, not that I really expect there to be any?

[chadillacboseman]

I know you probably have a million requests at this point, but could we please have some of that soft post-burn Kabal? Can be nsfw or sfw, I’m not picky. <3

Kabal was kind of an asshole, there was no doubt about that. Cocky, smug, and downright full of himself when you went on missions together.

He had every right to be- he could move like a bullet and his mastery of the blades he carried was unmatched.

But it still annoyed you.

"Will you shut up for one second?" You snapped at the mercenary, your deft hands working the lockpick gun you held.

"What's that, pretty?" Kabal snorted, "Am I distracting you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, you are. Now shut up!" You snapped.

The mercenary chuckled as the lock clicked and you swung the door open- "Seems like you got it just fine."

You rolled your eyes and followed him through the door, tucking the lock picking kit back into your rucksack and drawing your gun.

The two of you made quick work of the guards in the warehouse and found the cargo crates under a tarp in the back of a flatbed truck. Kabal radioed Kano and in 15 minutes, the Black Dragon retrieval squad was loading the cargo into the extraction vehicle.

--

"Another successful run from the dream team!" Kano boomed when the two of you returned to the compound.

The dream team.

They had taken to calling you and Kabal that after a string of missions that netted the Black Dragon several big scores.

You headed straight for your bunk, exhausted and ready to put the mission behind you. Kabal's room was across the hall from yours, and his door was cracked slightly.

You glanced inside and were surprised to see that the mercenary was maskless, hunched over his sink and-

Crying?

You knocked gently and pushed the door open; Kabal straightened and made a grab for his mask.

"Kabal, wait-" you stilled his hand with yours and looked up to examine his face. The scars were long healed, but extensive, covering almost every inch of his rugged face.

He was still incredibly handsome, a fact that wasn't lost on you.

"Sorry you had to see me like this," he rasped. His voice was devoid of the usual cockiness, and his eyes looked...hurt.

"What do you mean by that?" You reached a hand out to touch his face and Kabal recoiled on instinct.

"Come on, look at me," the mercenary gestured vaguely at his face, "It's like a horror show."

You had never thought you'd see this side of Kabal. He was embarrassed, small, like a child put under the spotlight at the front of a classroom.

Again, you reached out and this time he didn't move.

You ran your hand along his cheek and to his jawline, feeling every uneven bump under your fingertips. Kabal leaned into the touch, his eyes closed, as if it was the best thing he had ever experienced.

"It's not frightening," you murmured, and your hand traveled to the exposed skin of his chest, lingering on a particularly nasty patch of scars clustered over his collarbone.

Kabal looked as if he was going to start crying again- no one had touched his face like that in years. Everyone in the Black Dragon made jokes about his skin- creative nicknames came aplenty when you were covered in scars.

He felt unworthy of human touch- of love or kindness from anyone-

Let alone you.

You stood on your tiptoes, grabbing a fistful of his shirt for leverage, and kissed him on the cheek.

His brain short-circuited.

"You deserve good things, Kabal," you whispered.

Maybe you were right.

--

@kibelakhan78 @spideypotpie @onabouteverything

[a-lil-perspective]

I have been silent for some time now. I have refrained from exhibiting any plaguing thoughts that might warrant me the label of “that person”, but I’m at the point where I’ve had my fill.

Ramble under the cut so as to not... offend or inconvenience anyone. There’s absolutely no obligation to read this. It’s Tumblr. You can block/ignore me. The option to do so is readily accessible.

I’ve been a Bad Batch fan since day one. While I didn’t start creating that very same day, it was relatively close. Point being, I’m a long-time dedicated fan. As the premiere to their series draws closer, I feel like there is going to be a great shift, rift here. That being said, I figured now is as good a time as any to make this post.

I love those boys beyond words. They’ve been the one constant in my life amidst a rapid and debilitating change. I love getting to give them life, even if my interpretations aren’t the most accurate.

Yes, I am a new Writer and yes, I am new to Tumblr, as I am sure both of those things are painfully apparent.

I get that it is impossible to please everyone. It’s something I’m learning more and more with each passing day. It’s something that gets harder to swallow, even more so.

I’d like to say that being here has been a largely positive experience, with all of these great connections and opportunities. But honestly? It’s been more isolating than anything. I’ve actually never felt more isolated than since I joined a year ago.

As a content creator or even just a general blogger, I don’t ask for much. I don’t ask for anything, in fact. I consider myself very low maintenance. I don’t demand/harass/play the martyr for reblogs. I have never mentioned it once, and never will. Some people on here are so damn passive-aggressive about it, and quite frankly, it’s embarrassing. It’s very stigmatizing. While I completely understand the frustration surrounding the like-to-reblog ratio, I think it’s neither tasteful nor reputable to threaten to call people out for not reblogging your fics. I wish I could say I was joking on that one. But I’ve seen it profoundly. Not cool.

And yet, no one says anything or raises any concern there.

Yet I make metas, harmless rambles, and I get shot down? Seriously?

—I need to “chill”, it’s “overkill”, I’m “overthinking”. I and my content are apparently just so damn arduous to interact with.

If you don’t like me, please just move on. There are plenty of other Bad Batch creators for you to enjoy. You know that. My work is absolutely not the final say, and I’ve never claimed it to be.

What is so wrong, with sharing one’s thoughts? Why do people inherently have a problem with other’s creative efforts? I see it time over again. Why do I feel like if I was making a bunch of smutty posts it wouldn’t be as much of a problem, that it in fact would be infinitely more welcome? (Absolutely NO shade to people who create smut, okay? I’ve made my own share. I admire those bold enough to do so regularly. I absolutely love them. Please teach me your ways).

This ramble really has nothing to do with the most recent event regarding my contributions. Rather, it’s a culmination of experiences over the past several months that have brewed and festered to the point where I can no longer keep downplaying it.

Social media, at its core, is one big popularity contest. It always has been, it always will be. But I’m not here to win. That’s never been my objective. That’s not what I’m about. Surprise (or not), I am not a popular blog. Not by a long shot. I’ll never claim otherwise.

I don’t ask people to view/interact with my content, I’m not an activist, I can’t even fathom exuding that kind of confidence. Even though I, admittedly, crave it. I suspect I crave interaction as much as the next creator. It’s a nice feeling. Yet there’s never been any obligation for it, especially with me, so I don’t understand what the problem is. As I’ve said, there are ample ways for you to block/avoid me. It’s the internet. In this day and age, there’s no excuse for viewing anything you don’t want to.

I came here in the hopes of finding like-minded individuals, uplifting and interacting, and exercising some otherwise stunted creativity.

All Tumblr as taught me is that creating and contributing is largely a thankless, empty endeavor. You can give and give and give and be reduced to nothing. There’s a profound imbalance between “giving” and “receiving”, and in regards to both ends of the scale, it’s became apparent to me that if you don’t cater heavily and in unreasonable degrees or get “noticed” by a popular blog, you get nothing, and your efforts are null and void.

Truthfully? I constantly feel like I walk on eggshells here, and it’s all I can do to not crack under the pressure, even though it’s my blog and my headspace. I should feel comfortable and free to express myself here, and I don’t, and I’m unsure of how to achieve that sense of stability. To be completely honestly I feel like a constant bother and a nuisance. When I post, I literally feel like there is a collective eye-roll that comes with people receiving a notification from my blog. Even though I know, rationally, that can’t be true, that’s an absurd level of thinking. I can’t say I can pinpoint exactly where it stems from.

But regardless: I hardly ever talk about/create the things I actually want. I only recently just got ballsy enough to share some metas, and we all know how well that’s going. I try not to have smut out of respect for my asexual/minor mutuals, even though the tag to blacklist is very much an option. I try not to bring up conflicting topics, Tumblr, political, or otherwise, even though with proper tagging I could. But I try not to even bring that into existence. Even though it’s my right to, I don’t.

I don’t actually feel like I fit into any narrative here, especially in the Bad Batch fandom; even though we are all basically the same steadfast group of bloggers. We all know who we are. We all coexist in the same space. It’s nearly impossible to be unaware of each other, at this point.

And yet, I’m not in a bunch of Discord servers or backed by a team of beta readers and all that jazz. It’s basically just me talking to myself out here. It’s very isolating.

Part of that—most of it—is my own crippling social anxiety, and the genuine belief that I don’t deserve to be in the same space/servers as all of these brilliant creators. Because I’m just me, and there’s not a whole lot of value there. With that mindset, it’s hard to actually feel like I belong anywhere. I know that is a mindset I have to conquer alone.

My excitement over my creations has largely dwindled into nothing. I seldom ever bounce my ideas off of others—another issue that stems from the fear of presenting as a burden—and even though I try to write for myself, even that fire has pretty much died out. I’m not even sure how or if I could even reignite it, at this point. It’s really quite sad. It makes me very sad, actually. All I wanted was to safely ramble, project all my thoughts and creativity that has otherwise been repressed through prolonged detrimental circumstances.

More than anything, I wanted to find and hold onto something that makes me feel useful, meaningful, happy. More and more I wonder if that’s even possible. I don’t think it is, not here. I often wonder if joining and sharing on Tumblr was a horrible mistake. I miss the innocent joy of when I first started creating. It was so simple. I’m trying to find that simplicity again.

But I’m burned out. I’m running on fumes. I have been for some time.

At this point it goes beyond just “taking a break” from Tumblr. It’s the fact that it all feels like this meaningless, monotonous cycle. I wonder every day if I am an isolated case in experiencing these emotions.

And yet, come tomorrow I will still be here, business as usual.

I’m not asking for sympathy or playing the victim or attacking anyone or trying to guilt-trip into more interaction. I am very aware of my shortcomings and incorrect mindsets. I’m just trying to make sense of it all. I feel very disconnected from everyone here and it’s lonely. This took a lot for me to share. I will most likely delete this because anxiety will eat me up, as it does with everything I post. Yes, everything.

[adarlingwrites]

Taste

Summary: The blue bard is sickeningly sweet for Astarion's preferences, but he'll never forget her taste.

Author’s Notes: Taste is a collection of retellings of Astarion's scenes with the player character from the Baldur's Gate 3 early access, but with a little more embellishments. Plus, it has glimpses of my tiefling's backstory.

I had horrible, horrible artist's and writer's block and I needed to get this out of my system to get the creative juices flowing again. Please excuse any typos or lack of quality.

Larian give us the bard class pls I am begging of you

I - Blueberry Wine

The time for rest has come.

Bedrolls are strewn on the campgrounds, and most of its inhabitants are already asleep. Nothing can be heard save for the crackle of fire, the chirp of birds in the woods, and soft snoring.

If it wasn’t for their common goal of removing those damned illithid tadpoles from their heads before they undergo ceremorphosis, the members of this party wouldn’t even spend five minutes within each others’ presence. Now, they’re sleeping in one place. It takes some measure of trust for that.

The dreams of the tiefling in their ragtag group aren’t sweet tonight, to say the least.

Brows furrowed as another nightmare wormed into her psyche, the tiefling tosses and turns in her bedroll, a thin film of sweat giving her forehead a slight sheen in the firelight. Eyes shooting open, she choked back a gasp, lest she wake up her companions in the camp. The crackle of the campfire and the smell of burning wood gave her some semblance of comfort, at least, reminding her of distant memories.

A warm hearth, a kind face, the smell of freshly baked blueberry pie; simple comforts from her youth that she missed terribly.

The comfort that accompanied the nostalgia was enough to make her drift back to sleep. Woefully, it didn’t stop the nightmares from coming back, now centered around the tiefling’s early years.

Small, bare feet pitter-pattered on the wet pavement, frantic gasps escaped her dry mouth. Choking back a sob, more people went after her, shouting, hurling words that scraped her heart.

“Stop! Thief!”

“Devil!”

“Slay the demon!”

Lungs burning from exertion, the little tiefling whelp coughs, rasps for air, and slides under a cart. In the dark, she can see a narrow alleyway, which she scurries into. The men run past her hiding spot, cursing and muttering amongst themselves. Relief floods through her as their torchlights grew dim.

Safe, at last.

Her trembling arms had been holding on to precious cargo; a stale loaf of bread, wrapped in linen. It’s not a delectable morsel of steak, or rich bone marrow, but it’s better than the rocks she grinded with her sharp teeth for breakfast.

As she takes it out of the cloth, a stone drops in her stomach and horror twists on her young face. The tiefling isn’t holding a loaf of bread, but a severed head of a drow. A scream threatened to escape her throat and pierce the night air, but the tiefling maiden could only gasp as she felt a presence behind her.

Wine red eyes still heavy with sleep met with alert, ruby ones. She isn’t dreaming any longer.

In the dim firelight, she sees him. Astarion.

Truth be told, she doesn’t quite know what to feel about the posh elf. Astarion’s handsome face and fair curls are easy on the eyes, but it only reminded her of how hellish she looks in comparison due to her infernal ancestry. His sharp, calculating eyes puts her at unease, even when his gaze isn’t directed towards her. He has a way of making people feel beneath him, like vulnerable prey. Serenity is not exempt from that, despite her efforts to be pleasant to him. Not to mention, Astarion’s attitude and mannerisms reminded her of the uppity nobles she had the displeasure of encountering in her colorful past.

In short, he’s a handsome fellow with a revolting attitude, at least to Serenity’s standards. Lust and indignation battles with each other in the tiefling’s psyche.

It doesn’t help at all that the elf is fond of calling her pet names, such as “sweetheart” or “dear”. No one calls her such sweet things with genuine intent, not after she saw the drow’s head on a pike, and to hear them from his condescending mouth stirs something dark in her heart.

It especially inflames her whenever he calls her “darling”.

She wanted to pounce on him. However, she wasn’t sure what she wanted after that.

Tear his pretty face asunder with her nails and watch his handsome features contort in agony, perhaps? Or watch him writhe underneath her in a more… carnal manner as she takes out all of her frustration by mashing her ravenous mouth against his lovely lips?

Maybe both?

“Oh, Serenity. You have no need for that sort of… decadence,” she thinks to herself.

Alas, her body says otherwise.

“Shit,” he says upon meeting eyes with her, distracting the tiefling from her thoughts. Serenity didn’t expect such a vulgar word to come out of his pretty mouth, and she didn’t expect the gleaming fangs inside of it either.

How could she not see it the first few times?

The dead boar they found on the road, the fact that she had never seen him consume any food, and the wolfish way he eyes her neck when he thought she wasn’t looking should’ve given it away.

Astarion is a vampire. Worse, he's a vampire who’s intending to sink his teeth in Serenity’s neck.

Whatever terrible things she secretly wanted to do to him, she had no chance of enacting them in this situation. Hells, if anything, Astarion is the one with the capacity to do terrible things to her. The tiefling will be at his mercy, if she doesn’t act fast. So, why isn’t her body doing anything to move?

Heart racing, she needed to say something, at least.

“Stop,” Serenity warns him, voice low, baring her own sharp teeth. The tiefling had considered smashing her precious lute over his head as a last resort. Before the bard can lash out, he pulls back, alarmed.

“No no, it’s not what it looks like, I swear!” Astarion hastily blurts, panic evident in his voice. “ I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed- well, blood.”

The elf’s admission confirms it; Astarion is a vampire, a creature enslaved to sanguine hunger.

At that moment, an expression that Serenity hasn’t seen on the elf before twists his features: guilt. The vampire knew he’s betraying her trust, and it shows.

“How long since you killed someone? Days? Hours?” Serenity asks, on guard now, but still sitting on her bedroll.

Eyes widening, Astarion’s tone becomes defensive. “I’ve never killed anyone!” he exclaims. Then, his expression turns grim. “Well, not for food. I feed on animals. Boars, deer, kobolds! Whatever I can get.”

The lass feels slightly reassured that she’s not dealing with a blood-sucking serial killer, but the possibility of him lying puts her on edge again.

“But it’s not enough,” the pale elf speaks again. Serenity half expected him to say this, he did try to bite her after all. “Not if I have to fight. I feel so… weak.”

And there it was, the last thing she expected from him: vulnerability. His reluctance to show weakness was written all over his face. Perhaps it wounds his pride? Regardless of the doubt she has for him, it changed Serenity’s perception of the vampire ever so slightly.

“If I just had a bit of blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please.”

Now this is a pleasant surprise. Astarion saying please? Is this a dream?

Still, the tiefling wanted to dig deeper at the truth. Brows knitting together in concentration, she knew better than to use the tadpole, but the damn thing established a psionic link with other infected individuals. 

Serenity pushes into the vampire’s mind to search for the truth.

“I- what’s this? What’s happening?” Astarion blurts, experiencing slight discomfort from the intrusion.

Pushing deep into the elf’s cracked and quivering memories, Serenity strains as she sifts through centuries worth of them, until she has reached its heart. There, she found herself in Astarion’s shoes; quite literally. She sees dark eyes that commanded her to feed, and instinctively, her body follows suit. Serenity, experiencing this through Astarion’s memory, opens her mouth, biting down, but not into a tender, pulsing neck. Though she wanted to recoil in disgust, there was no other choice; she couldn’t physically resist. The choice had been made for her- no, made for Astarion.

Astarion’s fangs pierce the twisting body of a rat - the only thing his master allows him to eat.

In return, Serenity’s own memories leak through the cracks of her psyche, and Astarion finds himself in the body of a wee girl with horns too big for her head. Ravenously, he inhales the sweet, buttery aroma of a freshly-baked pie resting on a windowsill. Astarion’s hands, now small and of bluish color, reach for the baked good with caution. A warm, ash-colored hand presses on his shoulder, and he sees the smiling face of a tall, drow man. Instead of hurting him for attempting to steal, the dark elf ushers him to a table, and offers him a slice with a compassionate smile. Serenity will never forget her first taste of the buttery pie crust, the sweet blueberries, and a hint of lemon and salt.

Now, Astarion will never forget that taste, either.

The connection between them severed, Serenity takes a moment to collect herself.

“You ate animals because you were forced to. Not because you wanted to,” she mumbles, eyebrows knitted together. Is it sympathy? Or perhaps his experiences reminded her of her own relationship with food?

Whatever it was, the tiefling’s perception of Astarion drastically shifted. On the surface, Astarion is a noble who turns up his nose at folks like her, but in truth, he suffered under the hands of a cruel master.

Being a pompous ass is a defense mechanism for him.

“I- yes,” Astarion says with resignation. “Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. So, you can see why I’m slow to trust you,” he continues, and Serenity swore the expression he wore on his face tugged a few strings in her heart.

“But I do trust you, and you can trust me,” Astarion tells her.

Serenity thinks it might not be fair for her not to. How can she say that she can’t, after she saw his past for herself, and he didn’t show any hostility towards her for intruding upon his darkest, most haunting memories?

“I do. I believe you,” the bard responds, and she can hear his relief when he mutters “Thank you.”

Perhaps Serenity had judged him too harshly in the past. The drow who took her in cultivated compassion in her heart, and it’s beckoning to her.

“Do you need blood?” Serenity asks him, and there is genuine surprise on his face.

“I was about to ask,” he tells her, expression shifting into something more pleasant. “I only need a taste, I swear.”

“As long as you don’t take a drop more than you need,” Serenity replies, loosening her clothing slightly, her smallclothes peeking through.

“Really?” he asks, and he sounds almost eager.

“I- of course. Not one drop more.”

That damn vampire flashes her a smile that sends lightning rippling through her veins.

Astarion’s yearning eyes flicked to her exposed flesh, barely making out the purple tinge on her bluish skin as blood rushed from her chest to her face. Seeing where his eyes are roaming, Serenity feels her heart racing faster, and she swiftly lies down, back turned away from him. The tiefling bard is not about to let her companion see her flustered state.

Face inches away from her head, Astarion catches a whiff of the tiefling’s scent. He quietly thanked the gods that she didn’t smell of sulfur or rotting meat; instead, the bard smells of ash from freshly burned incense, laced with a warm, spiced scent.

The vampire holds her gently, delicately, until he strikes.

Astarion sinks deep, fangs like shards of ice piercing her neck. Serenity lets out a gasp, and her face contorts into an expression of pain and discomfort. Thankfully, the pain is quick and sharp, and as the vampire continues to feed, it fades gently into throbbing numbness. The bard feels her blood coursing through her body, into Astarion’s mouth, who sucked and slurped it hungrily.

He leans forward, one arm almost draping over the bard’s torso to support his weight, while the other still holds her head. Palm running through her short obsidian hair, he stops as they touch one of her horns, hand enclosing into a fist around it. Gently tugging, the elf tilts  her head for better access.

Astarion’s lips are wet from his meal’s blood and sweat, and his own saliva. They glided on the sensitive skin ever so slightly as he pursed them and sucked harder. Serenity found her breath catching in her throat from his actions, pulse quickening as her hand flew to grasp Astarion’s arm, filed fingernails turning white at the end.

In a figurative and literal sense, she’s holding on to dear life.

“Ah, Astarion, that’s enough,” she mewls, hand moving to grasp his hair, fingernails running through his scalp. Not enough to hurt, but enough for the vampire to snap out of it due to the sensation it produced.

The vampire moans, almost carnally, then it is followed by a surprised, questioning grunt. Serenity’s pleas, and the scrape of her fingernails took him from his trance-like state. Immediately, he removes himself from her neck, swallowing thickly.

“Oh. Of course.”

Serenity sits up as he pulls back, light-headed from the blood loss. She turns to the pale elf, her breathing ragged as her fingers gingerly pressed on her bite wound. The tiefling felt a blush creep on her face, neck, and pointy ears as she gazes upon Astarion’s face. In the firelight, she can see that his pupils are blown out in ecstasy, and blood is trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“That- that was amazing,” Astarion purrs, wiping off her blood and bringing his fingers to his mouth, savoring it to the last drop. “My mind is finally clear. I feel strong. I feel…”

He pauses, and Serenity stopped breathing for a moment.

“Happy,” he continued, sighing in contentment as he gave her a gentle, genuine smile.

Serenity had to blink a few times to confirm that she wasn’t seeing things.

She clears her throat, hoping to dissipate the delicious tension between them. “I look forward to seeing you fight,” the bard says to him, drawing her knees to her chest.

“Shouldn’t take long. So many people need killing,” Astarion responds, bowing ever so slightly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more… filling.”

The pale elf turns around and just like that, he is back to normal, snobbish self.

Serenity slumps back on her bedroll, exhaling slowly as her heart finally slows down. Her body crashes from the surge of adrenaline and the blood loss. Turning her head, she watches as the elf stalks towards the forest; stronger, more confident, and ready to hunt.

“This is a gift, you know,” Astarion tells her, back still turned from her, looking over his shoulder.

“I won’t forget it.”

Serenity won’t forget it either.

It didn’t take long before Astarion found a deer in the forest. As he drank the beast’s blood, he couldn’t help but compare the taste to Serenity’s blood. The animal is more filling indeed, but now? Nothing compares to the taste of the tiefling’s delicious blood.

She is the first humanoid he ever tasted, after all.

And how will he describe her taste?

The darling tiefling is bubbly, gentle, and sweet, much like her demeanor; almost sickeningly so, for his standards. It’s comparable to the Monastery of the Yellow Rose’s blueberry wine: a fragrant dessert wine he had the pleasure of consuming with delicate cheeses and light cakes back when he didn’t have any fangs.

Or perhaps he had associated her with the fruit due to her memories mingling with his.

Either way, when he said that he won’t forget it, he wasn’t just referring to the favor she did for him. Astarion was referring to Serenity’s taste as well.

Meanwhile, in the camp, Serenity draws her lute to her chest, plucking the strings softly in an attempt to lull herself to sleep. It doesn’t ease her into slumber like it usually does. Sighing, she squeezes her thighs together, heat pooling between them as she recalled the vampire’s lips on her pulsing neck. Perhaps it’s not the lute that she should be plucking at.

Reaching into the waistband of her trousers, the bard gives in to her secret desires.

At least there weren’t any more nightmares for the night.

[kemvee]

@elffyness: a response

Edit: Elffyness have since changed their url to @bluhawke. I think it's important this event, and the fact they never apologised for the harm caused, isn't lost. Therefore I have updated accordingly.

This blog is my bedroom wall. 

Since I was oh, twelve, on my bedroom wall I have had pictures of mostly fictional men. Dante, Goku, Tidus, The Goblin King played by David Bowie. As I got older it was no longer socially acceptable to have pictures of my current fictional loves on display but then last year a wonderful friend recommended Tumblr and I joined. Here finally I can express my current love of Cullen Rutherford with like minded folk. I am happy. 

But @elffyness has made a call out post. I haven't once interacted with this person, I am blocked so this is a little like seeing ‘We are cool, Kemvee drools’ on a school toilet wall but thanks to some apparent mutuals I have been able to see it. 

I think a right of response is fair. I have put some thought into this and I speak from the heart and some of you may not like what I have to say.

First let me say that I think it’s careless and honestly a little crass to bundle these two issues in together. The sexualisation of a fictional character is not and never will be on the same billet as institutionalised racism to that end I will address these issues separately.

Sexualization of fictional Characters.

The sexualization of Cullen or indeed any fictional characters is not only the realm of white content creators. And I have to vehemently oppose the insinuation presented by @elffyness that it is. I can't tell you how many times I’ve seen reference to Cullen getting a strap across the blogs of some of the biggest names in the fandom, creators who are POC. You know who they are. I won’t ‘call them out’ because I don’t find it problematic. And if I did I would drop them a message.

The Smut Coven *le gasp* is 4 people. We support each other's creative endeavors and help each other through real life hardships. It is not ‘a place where we sexualize Dragon Age Characters’ smh. The one story we have written was a reader pov and little bit of escapism during, you know the world burning around us and the misery of Lockdown. And I would like to highlight that we kept ‘readers’ characteristics neutral. It is an inclusive story just as accessible to POC as white women.

As for my own content. Do I sexualize Cullen? You are damn right I do.

That man is my current hyperfixation and I love him to little squishy bits. But sexualizing a character rarely means we, his fans, gloss over his past. Except in certain fluffy AUs where it’s just not relevant, nor is it mutually exclusive to more wholesome forms of love.

I have drawn Cullen’s butt, I am also trying to illustrate my latest story’s more ‘spicy’ scenes as a stretch goal for my art journey... I have also drawn him playing a guitar, sewing a shirt and on a nintendo switch. I always put my nsfw content below cuts and my blog is 18+. If you don’t like seeing Cullen’s butt you literally don’t have to see it.

For my own long fics NOT ONCE have I ever glossed over Cullen's trauma. It’s always is a recurring theme that spans the entirety of the story. But you don't know that because you’ve never read my works have you? I can go into more detail about how and why I discuss this in each of my stories but I won’t now.

Speaking from personal experience people need to STOP assuming every response to trauma is to regress into a virginal like state. To think otherwise is naive, inaccurate and also does a disservice to victims of sexual assault. To those of you who do believe this antiquated response is accurate, I suggest you do better to educate yourselves, it is not for the victims to educate you. 

Please stop perpetuating the idea that we can’t enjoy a sexually active Cullen. You are trying to police peoples thoughts and it is not a good look.

Racism in the fandom

Do better.

I have seen this time and time again and I agree wholeheartedly. We all need to do better especially when we see racist language, marginalization or white washing. I myself blocked several such artists and take care to re-read posts to ensure I’m not causing offence with my carelessness.

In school in the UK we are made to reflect on slavery and have discussions about institutional racism when we get to sixth form. It’s not enough but we are trying to do better.

For this reason long before I saw this message splayed across Tumblr I have taken the time to correct family members if they have fallen short. You should have heard the talking to I gave my dad when I told him I was dating an Indian man and he let his prejudice show. Two months ago I made my own mother cry when i came down a little too hard on her when she repeated some nonsense about BAME and the Coronovirus.

I am aware of and consider myself the beneficiary of white privilege. I still worry about it. I worry that my mixed-race (not white presenting) children will have to endure hardships I didn't have to face. That our foreign sounding surname will make it difficult for them to have the same opportunities as me. When my husband talks about the racism he experienced as a child and I fear for their physical safety.

And so I strive to do better in my life, so I know the world my children will grow up in will be better. And I am proud as a mother hen to those of you who have taken up the baton to fight against racism in the Dragon Age fandom.

But of course you don’t know about this. Because I like to keep my private life and thoughts private. Because this isn’t a ‘personal’ blog or my new Facebook. Because I haven't reblogged post after post about this issue. Because I can say with a complete certainty that I am an ally, just not a performative one.

This is my bedroom wall. 

If you disagree with me then my asks, including anons are on. I’ll reply to polite questions because I try to live my life kindly. But honestly look at my blog. It’s 99.99% Cullen and if this is going to be problematic for you then it is probably better if you just block me and move on. 

Please keep safe during the pandemic. Please keep fighting for equality however you can and if you can’t that’s okay too, you probably have enough going on. I’m not here to judge or throw stones.

Love to you all. 

Yes even @elffyness x

[werejusttouchingeachother]

Dancer in the Dark

Req: Spin the wheel on a chase atlantic song and then make a fic about johnny with it

Pairing: witch!reader x devil!Johnny

Genre: smut (m), fantasy

Words: 3951

Tags: slightly Satanic, supernatural/fantasy!au, knife-play (slight blood), blowjob, oral (receiving), choking, fingering, penetration, bulging kink, mentions of anal, degradation kink, cursing

Song Inspiration:  Chase Atlantic – Dancer in the Dark

A/N: Dedicated to @itskirahyung​ for this absolutely delicious creative request that I went to fucking town with (as seen from the tags above lol) and yes, Chase-Atlantic-as-the-soundtrack-of-my-sex-tape agenda continues  

Johnny would never admit it but he was addicted to you for several reasons.

As one of the thirteen Princes of Hell, Johnny had a bounteous harem to sleep with. He definitely had a charm his brothers didn’t have—while they relied on their demonic seduction prowess, Johnny had women falling at his feet with one conversation.

With the others, the preyed women usually found it easier to write off the men as ‘assholes’ who ‘ghosted’ them after the ‘one-night stand’—whatever all that was.

But Johnny was different. He left a dent with the way he always had his prey wrapped around his fingers, charming his way into more than just their underwear—he broke hearts along the way.

Johnny hurt.

He knew it and he loved this.

Which was when he’d met you.

Well, met was probably the wrong term. You’d been having your monthly moonlit ritual when you lost control and drank more rum instead of pouring it into the potion. Trying to summon Lucifer himself, you’d grown aggravated when you’d ended up calling upon a ‘mere run-of-the-mill Prince’—a phrase that had pissed off Johnny to no end.

Until he realised that he’d met his match.

For as soon as he’d appeared, the first thing he had noticed after seeing you was the decapitated head you had near to the wolfsbane, nightshade and other peculiar items lying beside the cauldron.

You were a challenge. Stronger than any other witch he’d met, more psychotic that any woman he’d ever slept with, you were a force to be reckoned with. You didn’t bat your eyes at him nor did you blush at the sweet nothings he whispered in your ear.

Instead, when you felt his lingering touch on your hip, you’d immediately slammed him against the wall. Taken aback by your sheer force, the glint of insanity in your eyes and your blood-red lips curling into a smile that could only belong to a temptress, Johnny felt a twinge in his chest that he’d never experienced in all the centuries he’d been around.

And then, you’d pressed your lips to his.

Despite being too drunk for your own good, you could still recall the way you’d stolen his breath that night, the way you’d wondered how much a kiss from the Prince of Hell cost.

“Say, Prince,” you addressed him with a malice that gave him a slight chill at the word—he convinced himself it was because of the spiteful demeaning way you said it and not because your breasts were pressed up against him, the words whispered into his throat and your warm rum-smelling breath hitting his skin.

“Johnny, is it?” You’d grinned, running the tip of the still-bloodied dagger you’d used to behead your sacrifice down the demon’s pale throat. At his nonchalant hum in agreement, you prodded, “What’s your real name? The one dear Lucifer calls you by?”

Taken aback by your daring question—to a Prince of Hell, nonetheless—and maybe even slightly turned on by it, you don’t expect Johnny to grab your waist and spin the two of you around until you’re up against the wall with his body towering over you.

The quick movements had caused the blade to knick a long gash down his pale throat and you’d watched, mesmerised as the scar grew crimson, droplets pooling out.

“Devils don’t really make one-sided deals, sweetheart,” he’d muttered, completely unfazed by his wound as his twinkling eyes gazed down at you, his hands still on your waist. “Why don’t you tell me your maiden name, the one your Goddess knows you by and I’ll tell you mine?”

You’d grinned so hard at that, loving the fire in his eyes that were reflective of your own as you applied a bit more pressure on the dagger at his throat, leaning forward to lick the scar clean.

You didn’t have to summon him after that, neither intentionally nor by accident. He always visited you at your cabin or interrupted your rituals—although he disagrees since he just casually materialises in the shadows mid-incantations but your eyes immediately snap open when you feel his demonic aura interfere with the circle you create and he refuses to leave no matter how much you yell at him.

He watched you now as you washed the blood of your hands in the river—this one more pungent that the regular human. Tonight’s sacrifice had been a goat and it always irked Johnny that he wasn’t powerful enough to read your mind yet as to find out what was the exact purpose for all your rituals.

Why the goat today, why the human that day: ‘a witch never kills and tells,’ you’d laughed at his query the first time, winking playfully at him.  

He may be the Prince of Hell but you were your own High Priestess. He was The Darkness and you mastered in the powers lurking in that darkness. You answered to no one and you were deranged enough that no one dared question you.

Even though Johnny was certain that he could show you a great time in Hell—something he would prove if you gave him just one night on Earth.

“I may not be able to read your mind, Y/N,” Johnny said as he followed you back into your cabin, the wooden floorboards creaking below you as the two of you walked inside. “But I do know that you’re not completely repelled by me.”

“What gave you the impression that I am, dear Prince?” You drawled as you knelt, blowing out the circle of candles on the floor one by one.

He appeared right across from you then, crouching on the floor with the candles in between the two of you as his hand grasps your chin.

“The fact that you don’t let me take you,” he muttered, voice low and husky, the flame dancing and illuminating his face in a bright yellow glow.

You smile then, leaning forward on the floor and placing your hands on his knees as you reply, “Maybe it’s because you’re quite a gentleman for the son of Lucifer.”

He blinked at your words, surprised by the brashness as always. “I cannot make an advance on you unless you give me a sign, Priestess. I’m Satan’s child, I have to abide by my Father’s rules.”

“A sign, hm,” you hummed thoughtfully, wetting your lips in a purposeful manner that had his gaze directed there. “Don’t you know that witches are children of the Moon and when in darkness, that’s all the sign that you need?”

You blow out the candle.

Johnny’s hands burn hotter than the flames you’d just doused as they reach for you, searing your skin with a delicious intensity that already had you humming in pleasure. You both knock over the remaining candles between you as he crawls on top of you, mouth already finding yours. You smile lazily up at him as he sits up, his crotch against your heated core.

Johnny’s gaze is absolutely dark and sinister as his slender fingers tug on the criss-crossed laced-up strings holding your corset together—the material loosening around your chest with every pull until he yanks it off the last grommet.

“Prince,” the word falls from your lips with a sickly sweetness that usually annoys him because of how mockingly you say it but tonight he couldn’t care less as he stared down at you—your swollen lips, the flush that had crept up your cheeks and even your chest, the top of the swell of your smooth creamy breasts that were less restrained now with the loose dress.

“Let’s not take all night,” you reminded him at his slow movements, making him raise his eyebrow.    

He lowered his torso down at that, face hovering over yours as he gazed intensely into your eyes. Your breasts were pressed up right against his chest and you could feel your nipples growing erect at the contact as he breathed softly, “Have you ever been fucked by a demon, sweetheart?”

You scoff slightly at the ridiculous question and even before you can reply, Johnny continues, “Yes, you have. But unlike your ‘mere, run-off-the-mill’ demon, I will fuck you all night even if you beg me to stop.”

“Beg?” You repeat in incredulity, rolling your eyes. “You dream too much, dear—”

You stop as Johnny straightens himself again atop you, your silver dagger glinting in the dark as he holds it above your chest. Your heart jumps to your throat as he brings it down, eyes closing reflexively and lips biting back a scream.

And that’s when you hear the rip.

You open your eyes as Johnny drags the blade down your chest and stomach, the cool metallic tip leaving goosebumps in their wake on your skin as he completely rips the dress open, velvet and mesh falling to your sides as the chilly air hits your exposed skin.

Any other man would have drank in the sight of your naked body lying deliciously invitingly like a present that was just unwrapped but Johnny’s gaze is fixated on your eyes—the fear that had pooled in them right before he drew the dagger down, the way your pupils had dilated had him feeling more aroused and needy than he’d ever been.

You understand immediately since you can now feel his erection right against your bare mounds.

And fuck, you loved it.

Johnny grabs your face then, kissing you hungrily with his tongue thrusting into your mouth roughly. You bring your own hands up to hold him but they suddenly fly up like they’d been yanked behind you and you grunt in protest as you feel a bind around your wrists, restraining your arms.

Johnny pulls away to watch you squirm as you lean your head back to see there was nothing around your wrists—except for the powers of Satan’s spawn.

“Undo it,” you spit with barely restrained fury as you struggle but Johnny only smirks and you feel a tug on your arms, stretching them farther and you bite back a sound of discomfort—not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

“Address me as Prince, sweetheart,” he mutters, hands reaching for his pants as he straightens and crawls higher up your body. “For the first time, I want to hear it.”

You barely get to say a word as he all but shoves his enormous devil cock into your gaping mouth, pushing past your lips and immediately stuffing you.

You naturally choke, gagging around his length and glaring up at him with eyes prickling with tears. Johnny raises an eyebrow challengingly at you, a small smirk on his face that angers you enough into forcing yourself to relax your mouth around his erection and slowly suction it.

You watch the bliss that falls on his face, spurring you on as you start bobbing your head over his magnificent length. Johnny wasn’t the biggest dick you’d had—you’d been with several creatures of variety sizes and lengths—but he was definitely one of them and combined with his thickness had you growing excited for when you could feel him properly inside you.

You flatten your tongue around him, your arms having gone limp over your head as you focus on Johnny’s dick. He tastes like pure sin and although giving a man an oral usually never gave you pleasure, there was something about this Prince of Hell that had pools of arousal seeping out of your own heated core while you sucked him passionately—with almost a desperate fervour to milk him dry.

Johnny was moaning and the sound was the most glorious thing you ever heard as it egged you on—but then he grabbed the sides of your head and started fucking into your mouth roughly, using you as a mere slutty hole to thrust into and ram repeatedly until you were gagging and choking as the spongy head kept hitting the back of your throat. You were blinking back tears that you refused to let him see and there was a sheen of your saliva and his pre-cum coating now as he kept fucking.

Then, you swirled your tongue around the tip and hummed around his length, the vibrations of your mouth setting him off.

Johnny came in thick delicious spurts of creamy frothy cum that quickly overfilled your mouth and began dripping down the corner of your lips. His thumbs were immediately wiping the excess that leaked and shoving it inside your cum-covered lips and you didn’t let up—continuing to swallow all of it and lick him completely clean as you revelled in how he wasn’t twitching or pulling away already from oversensitivity like the other men you’d been with.

“Such a hungry cumslut, aren’t you?” Johnny whispers, eyes dark as you suck on his thumb.

“Mmm, you would be too if you could taste yourself,” you mutter and his lips are immediately replacing his thumb as his tongue explores the walls of your mouth, groaning as he tastes his salty cum in your mouth. You shift underneath his body and Johnny pulls away, smirking at your impatience.

“Someone’s getting a little fidgety,” he teases and you grunt, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Enough,” you say, tugging at your hands to no avail. “Undo my wrists now.”

“Not yet,” he replies, starting to suck a trail of hickeys down your throat and along your chest. You jolt as you feel a sudden burn and glance down to realise that Johnny’s trailing his index finger from your earlobe down your clavicle, between the valley of your breasts before finally circling around them.

His finger burns like fire because it is on fire—the end glows with a flame similar to the ones you’d blown out earlier as he draws it over your skin in a way that it ignites the most delicious sparks all over you, a pool of heat growing in your stomach at the sensations as Johnny’s mouth wraps around your breast.

You immediately arch your back at the contrasting sensation of his cool tongue drawing circles around your erect nipple and moan his name as you feel his teeth sink down into the tender flesh, ascertaining to leave bruises that’d last for weeks.

You feel his free hand crawl between your bodies then, light and delicate and teasing as it dances down your stomach—a complete parallel to the rough brashness of his mouth’s ministrations on your breasts.

Your breaths grow faster in impatience at the tension he builds up and you’re almost about to yell at him when you feel his fingers lightly brush against your entrance.

“Fuck,” he whispers, looking up at you from your chest with awed eyes. “You’re soaked.”

You start to reply but stop and throw your head back as he inserts his finger inside your dripping cunt, your walls clenching tightly around his digits in a way that immediately had him reeling as he wondered how it would feel when his entire dick will be wrapped by your tight delicious pussy.

Johnny watches you carefully as he fucks you open—your wetness allowing him to easily slip in more fingers until all but his thumb is left to be soaked in your heat. You moan loudly as he thrusts his hand in and out of your pussy at an inhuman speed, brushing against your clit in quick successive motions that had your thighs thrashing as you felt yourself drawing closer. The sounds of your wetness and his dripping hand thrusting in and out were echoing all around you as he brought you to your high.

And right when you started screaming his name, Johnny pulled his hand out completely.

“Fuck, Johnny, no!” You whined in protest, eyes shooting open at your denied pleasure as you glare at him, feeling incredibly frustrated. “You dick, I cannot believe you—”

He shoves his sopping fingers inside your mouth and you immediately latch your lips around them, puckering your lips as you suck every finger clean of your fluids. He smiles in approval and leans down to kiss you, eyebrows furrowing as he tastes you.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes, eyes darkening as he looks at you in amazement. “You taste absolutely delectable.”

“No, no, no, no,” You moan, already dreading this as he starts lowering himself down your body. “Johnny, stop, just fuck me, pl—”

You stop yourself just in time but Johnny catches it anyway, freezing as he raises his head to look at you with an expression of mock-innocence.

“Yes, my little slut?” He calls the term with the exact same tone you’d use to address ‘Prince’ all this time. “Did you say anything? I think I heard you begging?”

“You heard nothing,” you retort, feeling your stomach tighten as he returns to crawling down your body for his goal.

Johnny doesn’t hesitate or warn you—long thick devil tongue already flat against the outside of your pussy as he teasingly licks around the slit before lapping up the wetness along it. You focus on your breaths, biting down on your lip to hold back any pleas and then feel his hands wrap around your thighs, opening them wider as his head disappears fully inside your legs.

Your body jerks then as he opens you up, thrusting his tongue inside your slick pussy with, the tip licking around the inside of your walls as he collects all your fluids. He moans at your taste and you involuntarily clench around his thick muscle at the sensation as he then finds your clit.

You’re unable to control the guttural groan that escapes your lips as he flattens his tongue against your clit and starts circling around it, teasing and stimulating it to the extremes. You feel your arousal seep out of you and his lips are immediately latching around your pussy’s slit, drinking it all up without letting a drop go to waste.

Then, because he is truly the spawn of Satan, Johnny pushes in the fingers that you just licked clean.

You gasped at the sensation as he focused on his ministrations, completely devouring your pussy as his mouth sucked on your clit harshly while his fingers yet again scissored you open. Cum was dripping down in amounts you were sure had never happened before as he once again began fucking you to your high.

And yet again, right when you reached your orgasm, he stopped—completely unlatching his mouth from your pussy and removing his hand entirely.

Your face was flushed with exertion, blood pounding in your ears and heart racing erratically in your chest from the orgasms you were being edged to. You were near tears and you weren’t sure you could take any more—especially with your arms still being tied and having gone limp over your head.

Johnny lifts himself up and you all but whimper in relief when you feel his erection against your pussy. He kisses you tenderly and leisurely—lazy enough that you know it’s on purpose to rile you up further so you start rolling your hips underneath him for even the barest amount of friction, wanting to feel his cock.

Instead, Johnny moves slightly to give way for his hand that yet again finds your pussy, fingers lazily stroking it.

“Johnny,” you cry, giving up completely as you pull away—your voice thick with desperation and arousal. His eyes are blazing with powerlust and you want to win this game of control but you can’t find it in yourself to fight anymore—not when your head was spinning the way it was.

You needed relief and you needed it now.

“Please,” you wailed, eyes hazy as you blinked at him. “Please give me your cock, Johnny. Please just fuck me… Prince.”

“Finally,” he grunted and he didn’t waste a second longer as he nudged your knees farther apart and quickly pushed himself in—thick, delicious length filling you up so completely and stuffing you so full that you almost sobbed with relief.

You felt like it took an entire minute just for him to fill you up until the hilt and the fact that you were so damn wet helped him slip inside easily. As soon as he was completely inside you and you could feel his balls nestled against your ass, Johnny pulled back and began rutting you mercilessly.

His hands were burning hot again as they seared your skin, holding your legs high to reach inside you in spots that you didn’t even know could be reached and had you seeing stars.

“That’s right, baby, take all of me,” you hear Johnny grunt as he fucks into you over and over while you moan his name over and over like a prayer. He suddenly lets go of your thigh to slap your bouncing breasts with one hand and your eyes shoot open, screams leaving your lips at the sensation.

“Watch me fuck you,” he growls. “Watch the devil fill your tiny body up, you slut.”

Tears prick at your eyes as you look down and see the way your lower stomach bulges out with every thrust, mesmerised by the way his dick moves inside you at an erratic speed. The sight tightens the fiery knot of pleasure inside your stomach and you gasp as you feel yourself drawing close, your walls clenching around Johnny.

“Are you close, slut?” Johnny grunts, ramming harder and rougher as he sees the way you tremble and your thighs shake. “Are you gonna cum all over my cock?”

“Cum inside me,” you breathe, tears trailing down your face as you clench your pussy around him. “Fill me up with all your devil cum.”

Johnny groans at your filthy words, shaking slightly as he finally releases inside you. You cum immediately after, both of your bodies writhing together in a carnal dance as you ride out your orgasms—moaning at the sweet bliss of ecstasy that washes over you with the delicious feeling of being filled with more thick cum.

You tremble for a while, still cumming as he keeps moving to draw out both your highs and you’re close to crying with relief at the incredible orgasm you just had.

You’re panting as Johnny collapses on top of you and you suddenly feel a surge of blood in your wrists, feeling returning to them as he finally dispels the spell. You wrap your shaky hands around his broad shoulders and your body stills as you feel him harden again inside you.

Johnny’s already smirking when you look at him as he leans back, pulling out and releasing a gush of both your cum out of your pussy. Your eyes are wide in question as his fingers collect the cum and push it back inside your pussy before coming up to his own mouth that he then licks clean.

“One more hole left, Y/N,” he grins at you, lifting you up and quickly shifting you around so that you were lying on your front. You feel his sweaty body press up against your entire back as he whispers in your ear, “And so many more hours left to this night. I’m taking all of them, remember?”

Your body is completely spent and you’re even doubtful if it can take much more but you can’t deny the way his words make your thighs clench, turning you on at the thought of more.

More with this Prince of Hell.

Johnny smiles, as if able to hear your thoughts. He sucks on your earlobe as he says, “Dance with the devil all night and I’ll show you that hell is where you want to be.”

[death-himself]

Love is Dead—Chapter 4

Summary: Janus attempts to get Patton's attention, but in the process grabs the attention of a certain teenager

Word Count: 1,154

Warnings: Blood, Mention of murder, Hanahaki disease

previous next (AO3 Link)

Ugh. Love. It was a strange thing to feel after so long of not experiencing it. He hadn’t loved someone since he was alive, and he’s been dead for a while. Still though, his heart longed to be with Patton, to spend each passing moment with him. As far as he was aware he was chained to his house, unable to leave. Otherwise he probably would’ve followed Patton to college.

He needed to get his attention in some way. Which meant he had to make him realize there was a ghost in the house. Which was not too far from what he had been trying to do from the start, except instead of striking terror into the human’s heart to get him to leave, he would have to get him to notice his presence without being scared.

While having an air of familiarity, this still felt completely new to the spirit.

Janus ran through his list of less violent or terrifying options, admittedly coming up with fairly few; he had found out early on in his hauntings that those options often didn’t work nearly as well as his more deranged ideas. But, he came up with a decent amount.

As Patton was taking his shower, Janus floated into the room, keeping his eyes trained on the fogged up mirror (he was a gentleman, remember?) as he thought of what to write. So many options, and he hadn’t flirted in so long.

He racked his brain for something creative or smooth, but Patton had already stopped singing; he was going to get out soon. Janus panicked, giving up and writing a simple “hello” with a small heart before flying out, face burning red. He waited outside of the bathroom, listening as Patton stepped out of the shower, hearing his pause as he read the message.

On the other side of the door, Patton giggled. “Very funny Virgil.” What the hell. What did that even mean? Patton changed into his new pair of clothes and came out, knocking on Virgil’s door as he went. “So we’re back to the whole “ghost following you” joke? It’s been four years, Vee!”

“What?” Virgil’s muffled voice came from the other side of the door.

“Y’know, when you told me there was a ghost following the two of us around the house?”

“Okay well first off, you can’t tell me there wasn’t a ghost back then, second, I didn’t do anything.”

“Sure you didn’t.” Patton said in a teasing tone, giggling and walking back to his room.

Okay, so Janus had just accidentally copied some kind of inside joke they had. Great. Wonderful. Guess he’d be taking mirror-related ideas off his list. Which meant he now had half of his previous ideas to choose from. He groaned, thinking for a moment. Maybe dreams would work.

He sat at the edge of Patton’s bed as he focused with all his might. Ever since he learned about this ability, he hadn’t been quite fond of it. But he had learned that it tended to elicit some of the most extreme reactions if done properly.

He remembered one of the previous house owners who enjoyed writing a lot of romantic stories. She would often write the hanahaki disease into her stories in some way, shape, or form. For some reason, that was all Janus could think of as he passed dreams into Patton’s mind. And as such, that was what Patton received.

He dreamed of a faceless, figureless man; having never actually seen Janus his mind wasn’t sure what to do with the information the spirit was passing into it. The man stepped up to him, laying a gentle hand on his cheek. He opened his mouth and flowers fell out into Patton’s hands. “Hello Pa—”

And that’s when his alarm went off. Janus scrambled out of his focused state, falling off of and partially through the bed as he tried to get as far away from the noise-maker as possible. Patton groaned, smacking the alarm clock until it turned off and lying there for a moment.

“That was a weird dream.” Patton mumbled sleepily to himself. “The flowers were pretty though.” Janus watched as Patton slowly forced himself up and out of his room, then watched as the door closed, leaving him in the bedroom alone.

“Fuck!” He shouted. Why was that blasted alarm set to go off so early? Who in their right mind took college classes at six AM? What was that stupid, good for nothing, handsome as hell man doing taking classes at six in the fucking morning? If it hadn’t gone off maybe he could have at least told him his name!

Janus took a deep breath, tempted to scream out his frustrations. But no, that would be uncivilized, and Janus was a civilized gentleman.

Instead he slammed his head into Patton’s pillow and screamed into that, the scent of that idiot’s shampoo making him even more frustrated by the second. What else could he try?

Granted, Janus didn’t have many ideas. He sent more dreams, but as it turned out Patton wasn’t one to think too much about what his dreams may mean. He attempted to write a letter, but was unable to focus his power on the pen long enough to write anything past “my dearest Patton” legibly. In one of his most recent attempts, he sent kittens padding at Patton’s window, only to find out Patton was severely allergic.

Which was what led him to this. Patton was off at college, which meant the chances of someone coming into his room were slim. He stared at the blank wall above the bed, his hand over the never-ending spout of blood pouring from his heart.

He had written in his own blood before to scare previous home owners, it wasn’t something new to him. He knew that his blood being more spiritual would mean it would fade away after a few days, unable to stay visible to the living for too long, but a few days was more than enough time.

He couldn’t write a letter to Patton, so this would have to do. He drenched his fingers in his blood, beginning to write. “Dearest Patton—”

The bedroom door swung open and Virgil walked in, headphones on and hoodie up as usual, searching around on Patton’s desk. “Are you serious?” Janus hissed. Virgil grabbed a set of Copic Markers from Patton’s desk with a smirk, turning around to head back to his room.

But then he stopped, eyes trailing up from the bed to look at the bloody words on the wall. Wait, no. He wasn’t looking at the words. The wound in Janus’s heart began to throb, as if the knife that was sunk into it so long ago had stabbed him again with a vengeance.

The face of Patton’s younger brother, the face of a younger form of Janus’s murderer looked directly at him.

Tagging: @rebelrewriter @arodynamic-enby @bullet-tothefeels