#shouldn't take long! <3

[osamusriceballs]

Kinktober Day 21 <3

Kita x masturbation

Warnings: NSFW, fem reader

Words: ~900

Kinktober Masterlist II -> Next day

Kita groans and his head falls back while his hand steadily pumps his hard cock. There is only one thought on his mind, and that is you.

How your hands always feel so soft and warm around him. How you use just enough pressure to make his eyes roll back, your pace so teasingly slow and yet you both know that he won't last long when you touch him like this. He imagines that it's your hand wrapped around him, that your fingers graze along his tip and catch the sheer drop of precum between them. He clings to the mental image of you, but his hand feels so different compared to yours, it's hard for him to stick to his daydreams of you.

His gaze drops to the pair of red panties next to him, the ones he had sneaked from you at your last encounter. You sent him a text message with a winking emoji after noticing that he kept them, calling him a 'pervert' and telling him to enjoy himself. You demanded that he either returns them cleaned or gets you a new pair though. He quickly made up his mind to buy you a new pair- hell, he would buy the whole store for you if you wanted him to.

He squeezes his cock firmly, a wave of longing coming over him at the thought of you. Kita reaches for the flimsy red fabric, pausing for a second to look at it. His brown eyes are filled with desire when he thinks back about how good you looked wearing them, and memories of how he pulled them down with his teeth fill his mind.

"Y/n," he sighs and closes his eyes for a second before he brings the material down to his cock, almost releasing a whine when the soft fabric meets his sensitive tip. He wraps it around his cock and starts to slowly pump again, the feeling now even more pleasurable when he's imagining that it's you rubbing your panties against him, how warm you would feel, and how good you always smell. The thought about your smell has him hesitating for a second. He pauses his movements and slowly brings your panties to his face, a faint blush coating his cheeks at the thought of how you would tease him for masturbating and using your panties like this.

Kita inhales deeply, your sweet scent filling his nose along with his own, a mixture he's so familiar with. The smell reminds him of all the days he's spent entangled in his bed sheets with you, days full of whispered sweet words and the sound of skin clapping on skin as he thoroughly fucks you and makes sure you're satisfied at all times- something he considers his husband duties that he diligently fulfills every night with great pleasure.

He takes another deep breath and brings the fabric down to his cock, once again setting a slow pace that makes him clench his muscles and his cock twitch in his hand. Kita Shinsuke is a very rational and controlled man, but when it comes to anything that involves you, he finds himself filled with passion and desire that he can't explain with words, and he can feel the effect of it just now.

A soft moan leaves his lips, a deep breath coming from his nose as he increases the pace slowly, savoring every second of the pleasurable feeling. His eyes trail down to his hand, and he sees the way even more precum leaks from his tip, getting soaked up by the panties quickly.

He's close.

He grips his cock harder, slightly bucking his hips into the sensation while he keeps the pace fast and hard, just like he knows you love to be fucked. The thought of your pussy makes him groan and he finds himself so close, so damn close while his hand keeps on pumping himself, the clapping noise echoing through the room loudly. His eyes are closed, his brows furrowed when he thinks about how good you would take him, how you would ride him and make him feel good, and it's the thoughts of your pussy that make him reach his high abruptly. Thick spurts of cum stain the panties when he grabs his cock tightly, his muscles tensed as he groans your name and forgets about everything else but you. Pleasure rushes through his body, a few low grunts leaving his lips and he stops pumping his cock finally when his muscles start to relax again.

He stays in his position for a few more moments, his chest heaving heavily while he slowly calms down and shakes his head. He misses you so badly. Two weeks without you feel like an eternity to him, and he knows for sure that the twins would tease him for how lovesick he acts without you. But the need for you almost consumes him, and he can't wait to finally have you in his arms again, not the slightest bit embarrassed by his feelings.

Kita makes sure to catch all of his cum with your panties, deciding that they look even prettier like this. He ponders on sending you a picture of them, to show you how much he missed you, but he gets interrupted by these thoughts when his phone suddenly starts to ring.

His eyes dart to the small device and he reaches for it to read the name, his lips curling into a fond smile when he accepts the call.

"Hey, angel. I just thought about you."

[blindmagdalena]

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter two )

18+ 3.8k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, lite humiliation kink, lite somnophilia, breaking & entering, petty theft, sublander flavored. nebulously takes place post s1. part 2/4. AO3 link. | CH I | CH 3 | CH 4

Homelander is the most powerful man in the world, and all he wants is to be yours.

After spending the majority of your evening and the following morning anticipating being fired, walking into work the next day feels like traversing a thinly frozen lake, each step webbing out in precarious cracks.

Clearly you’re not the only one who thinks so: you clock a handful of surprised looks from coworkers who’d attended the meeting and took note of the tension between you and Vought’s golden boy.

Maybe they’d taken bets on whether or not you’d be coming in this morning.

There’s no sign of Homelander on your way in. Not that you were expecting him–yesterday was the first time you actually saw him in person–but you still find yourself on the lookout. It’s hard to say whether you’re anticipating or dreading him. Part of you is still expecting to open your door and find a letter on your desk politely informing you that they’ve determined you aren’t a good “culture fit” for the company, and that your probation has been terminated.

After all, who in their right mind would take your side over Homelander’s?

You push open your office door, and sure enough, there is a letter waiting for you, but not in the way you expected. You stand in the doorway, staring in quiet incomprehension. The envelope, crisp and bright white, is propped up in a bed of rich red roses sitting in a pretty vase upon your desk. You glance behind you before you step inside, closing the door behind you, and approach the desk cautiously. You pluck the paper out of the bouquet, taking a moment to smell the flowers–they smell as good as they look–before you carefully rip open the envelope, tearing the small american flag sticker that sealed it.

Inside, there’s only one word on the folded piece of paper, scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

Truce?

You can’t help the incredulous little bark of laughter you give at that. It’s not even an apology. It’s a demand that he expects a gratuitous bundle of flowers will help you swallow, like taking medicine with a spoonful of sugar.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say quietly to the letter, setting it down on your desk. You give the roses one last sniff, testing one of the soft petals between your fingers. You wonder if what you said actually got through to him.

Homelander has no real reason to smooth things over with you: you’re no one. He’s posed no risk to himself by coming after you. He could no doubt have you fired by complaining that your marketing tactics don’t align with his brand. It’s hard to imagine Vought denies him much.

Yet he is apparently negotiating peace. It’s not nearly enough, but it is a start.

Or maybe it’s just more than you expected.

You sit, idly tapping the letter against your desk. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t still think him handsome. Homelander wasn’t the first man to ogle your tits while you gave a presentation, but he was certainly the first to fluster you like that when he did. His sly smile had made you want to slap him, but there was a questionable little part of you that thought about kissing it better afterwards.

Taking in a steadying breath, you slip the letter into your desk drawer and adjust the flowers to the side, admiring them a moment before you pull out your laptop.

If Homelander can behave himself enough to let you do your job without public humiliation, you can afford a truce. You don’t need to forgive or condone him to be civil, or even to continue having your own private fantasies. A little guilty pleasure now and again never hurt anyone.

You can’t know that Homelander is observing you throughout this internal conversation, watching through several layers of steel and concrete, his parted lips curving into a slow smile as you accept his offering. You can’t know that you haven’t just acknowledged a truce, but an invitation.

No, you can’t possibly know what’s to come.

Two days later, you diligently change the water that the roses in your office sit in. They’re doing well, the crimson buds having unfurled into a splay of velvety petals. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger and stroke it absently. Homelander has continued to be a scarcity, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen him. Quite the opposite: you spend most of your working hours either looking at or thinking about his face to the point where it’s starting to follow you home each day.

That’s what you tell yourself when you think of him outside of work hours, anyways.

It’s been long enough now that you wonder if the flowers were the end of it. He was simply covering his ass with a half hearted gesture that slightly resembled an apology so that you could both comfortably drop the subject. That was entirely fine by you so long as he actually did improve his behavior.

A familiarly brisk knock at your door catapults your heart up against the cage of your ribs like a spooked hare. It’s the exact same beat, you’re sure of it. You stay quiet, half expecting to be barged in upon, but when nothing happens, you move from your desk and open the door yourself, intentionally blocking it with your body.

Sure enough, Homelander stands tall on the other side. He flashes his signature smile while your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“I think I’m the one who can help you,” he says brightly, that spread of teeth downright wolfish. He lifts a handful of papers that have been stapled at the corner, gesturing for you to take it.

Still wary, you take them from him and shift, wedging your foot to keep the door firmly in place while you flip through the pages. Your brows furrow as you recognize chunks of your own presentation. Understanding dawns when you realize that he’s annotated them.

“You read my presentation,” you say, unable to mask your surprise.

“Obviously. It’s my image on the line, right? Got some notes for you, but I have to say: y’mostly nailed it,” he says, reaching out to rest a gloved hand on the doorway.

“Mostly?” You echo, quirking an eyebrow at him as you look up from the pages.

“Yeah, mostly. Again, I have some minor notes,” he says, wiggling his other hand in a vague gesture. “But I figure I owe you praise on a job mostly well done.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Crossing your arms, you abandon your stern foothold on the door in order to shift your weight, your incredulity showing in every inch of your body language.  “What you owe me is an apology.”

Homelander’s grin softens into a smile that’s no less challenging. “Looks to me like you’ve already been enjoying my apology,” he says, leaning slightly to gaze past you, to the bundle of roses sitting prettily on your desk.

You briefly glance over your shoulder, but your expression remains impassive. Unimpressed. “That? That isn’t an apology. An apology would include the words I’m sorry.”

He scoffs a dismissive laugh, swaying back to look away, but you persist.

“I’m serious,” you say, luring his ocean blue gaze back to yours. “I want you to say to me ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation. It won’t happen again.’ “

The two of you hold each other’s gaze with all the magnitude of two gunmen in a duel, hands steady over your proverbial pistols. 

To your surprise, Homelander does not fire back. He raises a dainty white flag.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation,” he says, words slow and measured. You watch his tongue flash over his bottom lip, wetting it attractively. You fight to not let your eyes linger on it. “It won’t happen again.”

You swallow, suddenly finding thought and speech an impossible task. You weren’t prepared for such raw, ready obedience from him, nor the intensity in his gaze that follows it. He reminds you of a charmed snake–docile so long as he is transfixed.

“Good,” you say, the word half a sigh. Homelander’s lips part and he breathes in like he’s caught wind of something particularly delicious smelling. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate that you took the time to do this,” you say, gesturing with the documents in your hand. “I’ll go over them and get back to you.”

He reaches out, bracing his hand on your office door. You half expect him to push it open, but he merely holds it there. “We could go over them together,” he suggests slyly.

“No,” you say, clearly disarming him. He looks as though he’s forgotten the meaning of the word. “I’m in the middle of another project at the moment.”

The leather of his gloves creaks faintly in your ear as he flexes his grip on the edge of the door. While what you’ve said is true, it’s also serving as a test. Words and flowers are pretty things, but only actions always speak the truth.

“At the moment,” he repeats, gears visibly turning in his eyes. “So… Later?” He extrapolates, displaying an uncharacteristic tentativeness alongside his obvious displeasure at the taste of rejection. You even see a glimmer of hope in the mess of his expression.. 

He did pass the test. You suppose you can reward him for that.

“Another time,” you say, giving your door an exploratory push. He relents, his hands sliding down the length of it before falling away as he takes a half-step back. “How about tomorrow on my lunch break? 1:00 o'clock sharp.”

He splits into a smile that looks more genuine than any of his you’ve seen before. “Aaalrighty-roo. Sounds gooood to meeeee,” he says, drawing out his vowels more the closer he gets to actually having to leave. At your silent, amused stare, he claps his gloved hands together with a muffled thump! and takes a few more steps backwards. “Yooooou’ll see me… tomorrow.”

Your smile pinches along with your brows. What a strange way to phrase it. “See you then,” you say, watching as his face is eclipsed by your closing door. You wait a beat and then let out a thin thread of breath from your pursed lips, resting your weight on the door.

Looking down at the papers in your hand, you push off from the door and head to your desk, flipping through them.

Such a strange man, you think, carrying the notes to your desk. You set them down next to the vase of roses and try not to think too much about the unconscious smile your lips keep settling into for the rest of the day.

Homelander’s got you hook, line and sinker. He’s certain of it. He lingers on the other side of your door just long enough to watch you through it while you settle, a charmed smile set on your lips. He can already imagine how those lips would feel against his own, how they’d taste. He swallows thickly and looks around before he departs, already plotting his next move.

The two of you have a date tomorrow, and in order to be at the top of his game, he’s going to have to do a little additional research. Knowing your work was a good first step. The next one will be learning about you.

Following you home is the easy part. It ultimately feels chivalrous to do so once he realizes you walk home even at this time of year, when the sun sets long before the work day ends. He drifts above you, cocking his head curiously. No wonder you walk. The streets are packed as tightly as sardine cans, and your apartment garage isn’t much better. The claustrophobia of it all serves as a stark contrast to the openness of Vought tower.

The interior of your apartment provides an even sharper juxtaposition to his penthouse. It’s tidy, but the comparatively low ceilings and minimal floor space still make it look cramped. Somehow, you simultaneously have too much and yet not much at all, the confinement of a downtown apartment making what minimal affects you do own seem crowded together.

That only becomes more apparent once he’s inside, slipped in through your balcony after sleep has taken you. Why would you bother to lock your balcony when you live on the 8th floor? It works out perfectly for him.

In all fairness, your living room feels cozier once he’s standing in the center of it. Your walls are lined with an assortment of art pieces and photographs, and the shelves are well stocked with books and knick-knacks. You have a decent film collection displayed on your media console, and he can’t help but snoop through it, bending at the waist, examining through the rows. He cocks his head.

Odd. You’d think an employee of Vought would have at least a few VCU films. He runs his index finger along the spines, slightly adjusting them flush as he goes. Pursing his lips, he straightens up and looks at the closed cabinets on either side. The left one yields an untidy assortment of electronic odds and ends, cords and the like. Nothing of much interest other than an indication that while you like to keep up appearances, you aren’t quite as together as you’d like people to think. 

It’s on the right side, however, he finds what he’s really looking for.

“Bingo,” he whispers, smiling to himself as he scopes out your little hidden collection of Vought hero flicks. Specifically, his films. He’s less interested in the handful of others you own (Queen Maeve: Her Majesty, Black Noir: Insurrection, Lamplighter: The Bright World, etc) and more so in the fact that you have nearly his entire catalog tucked away. 

Nearly. You’re missing his eighteen part miniseries, Homelander: Brightest Night.

At least that gives him something to gift you.

Closing the cabinet, he meanders about the rest of your apartment. You have some plants in varying states of decay, with only a few cacti looking to be in decent shape. Either your work keeps you too busy to properly mind them, or you just like the idea of them more than the reality. It tells him that you’re looking–and failing–to fill a void in your life. You want to feel less alone in your home, you want to nurture something. You just haven’t found the right something yet.

Striding into your kitchen, arms folded behind his back, he peers through the cheap wood veneer of your fiberboard cupboards, unveiling an unusually broad assortment of mugs. There doesn’t seem to be any particular theme: holidays, locales, characters, and a menagerie of patterns. 

He hums softly, pivoting out of the kitchen and down the hall, his steps preternaturally light. He listens for the beat of your heart as he draws near, tunes it in alongside the shallow cadence of your breath. Deep asleep. Good.

The walls are lined with pictures of you and others. Friends or family, he can’t say, but you look to have an abundance of both. He rarely sees himself in photos that aren’t promotional material. He pauses to straighten a picture frame, and finds himself so viciously jealous of the man sharing the frame with you–his lips pressed to your cheek, your laughing smile so genuine he can nearly hear it–that he almost knocks it to the ground.

Running his tongue along his teeth, he continues on.

Your bedroom door is open. He slips in silently, pausing just through the doorway. Your bed's a queen, too big for just you. You’re sprawled comfortably amidst pillows, limbs splayed in just such a way that he can easily imagine fitting himself in the empty spaces between them. He can smell the lingering burn of the candle you’d lit when you got home. He picks it up off your dresser, reading the label: Cup ‘o Joe. 

Eugh. He never cared for coffee, and the artificial sweetness surrounding the note is cloying. Your perfume, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He notices the bottle alongside a few other of your things and puts the candle down in favor of that, popping the cap off. The smell hits him before he sprays it: vanilla first, then amber and something more woodsy. It’s less impressive by itself than it had been on you.

Still, it’s yours. You chose it for yourself.

Slipping off one of his gloves, he lightly sprays into the inside of it before he sets the bottle back down, recapping it. It won’t be the same, but he’s driven by the compulsion to spirit away any little pieces of you that he can. Just enough to satiate himself until he can have you properly.

That’s when he sees your blouse from today in a careless heap at the top of your laundry basket next to your dresser. Licking his lips, he tests the feel of the garment between his bare fingers. He’s always been sensitive to fabrics, and while the blend of this one is fairly cheap, it’s been worn and washed enough that it’s soft against his skin. He grabs a handful of it and lifts it to his mouth, brushing it along his lips, under his nose, and he deeply inhales your lingering scent mixing with the fresh pump of perfume.

He bites back a moan, screwing his eyes shut. His cock gives a dull little throb. Fuck, the spell you’ve cast on him makes him ache just for the smell of you, makes him salivate. He swallows it back, letting out a rough little breath as he reluctantly puts the shirt back down. Under it, he spies a little flash of something black and lacy. His stomach clenches, and he’s reaching for it before he can stop himself, fishing the black panties out of the heap and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t afford to overindulge. He won’t be able to control himself if he does, but he also can’t bring himself to put the little slip of fabric back down. He imagines he can almost taste where your sweet cunt had been pressed to it. Christ, he’s practically drooling. Out of sheer impulse, he yanks down the zipper of his pants with a quiet hiss of metal against metal and hastily pushes your underwear into his cup, biting down hard on his lip. He grinds once against his hand, savoring the feel of the fabric against his cock.

He’ll enjoy them far more than you’ll miss them.

Zipping himself back up, he carefully pulls open your top dresser drawer. He curiously pushes the contents around, mindful not to overly disturb, and his knuckles bump something solid. He shifts one of your bras–another near painful pang of arousal at the reminder of your breasts–aside and finds, to his delight, what any good marketing department would describe as  “a large purple massage wand.”

A vibrator. He chews his bottom lip briefly, turning it over in his grip. An exciting find on all fronts. It’s smooth and decently hefty, good quality. You deserve even better. You might be capable of indulging yourself with this, but he could make you scream. You’ll never need a silly little toy again. Not when you have him.

Homelander moves to put it back in the drawer, but–

“Fuck!” He hisses when the button catches on his finger, and suddenly the damn thing is buzzing.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chants mentally, jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to silence it, but pressing the same ones only makes the accursed device louder. In a frantic move, he grips the neck and squeezes. There’s a soft crunch beneath the silicone, and as abruptly as it had begun, the buzzing ends. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest. He listens to the silence, to you.

He looks over his shoulder. No movement. Your breaths remain shallow.

Christ.

So much for leaving no trace. He slips the busted toy back amidst your underthings and snatches his glove off of your dresser, tucking it under his arm. He hones his attention on you as he approaches your bed, assuring himself that you really are still asleep. He stands there for a while, admiring the part of your lips and the haphazard splay of your pajamas and where they cling to your body.

No bra.

His bare hand flexes. Being so close is too much of a temptation. He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue and bends down. He ghosts his fingers just over your cheek, not quite daring to touch. He can smell the faint remnants of your toothpaste on your breath, your shampoo, and beneath it all, you. It's intoxicating, it's…

Your brows furrow slightly in your sleep and you make a soft noise, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if you’re dreaming–dreaming of him, perhaps. He’d like to think so. He’d like to think that you’re just as affected by him wanting you as he is, and that’s the real reason you invited him to lunch. He saw it in your eyes when he echoed your words, the thrill that went through you. He could have gone to his knees for you in that moment and had you in giving himself to you.

Desperate for just a taste, he kisses ever so gently between your brows, his own breaths matching the cadence of yours. Divine. You're divine. So effortlessly perfect and so aware of your own power. How could he not want every part of you?

He means to leave it there, to walk away with nothing but the slight salt of your brow on his lips, but the pull is too great. He's greedy, drunk on the smell and the taste of you, on the feel of your panties pressed up against his cock, and he can't stop himself from sampling your lips against his.

It’s the barest hint of touch, and yet the contact lances electricity through him like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning. Your lips are soft, soft, soft. He knew they would be. Everything about you is so fucking soft. It takes everything in him to pull away, standing back to his full height.

He's aching, yearning so intensely he could rip the covers away and take you just like this, shake you awake, declare himself and have you. Would you scream, or would you have that same look of affronted understanding of him? You see him in a way few are ever brave–or stupid–enough to dare.

Not yet.

He won’t spoil the game. He agreed to play by your terms. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll do precisely that. You’ll be none the wiser in regards to his little reconnaissance mission–anything could have happened to your vibrator–and the two of you can play your little game as if you stand on equal footing.

Sucking in a silent breath, Homelander leaves alone, but not empty handed.

He’ll make very good use of his little trophy tonight.

( chapter three )

[merakiui]

omg getting tag teamed by trey and cater while drunk in these tags !! your brain is massive as always 🫶🫶

also cater getting serious orz i never knew i needed mean(er) cater in my life but i'll 100% be brainrotting about that for the forseeable future!!!

[also trey changing the flavor of his own shots in the original drunk reader post. he's so mean >:o!! (i love him still)]

Yes!!! Just two kind and helpful upperclassmen helping you when you’re drunk. <3 aren’t they so sweet?

Serious Cater is always so fun to think about. I love the idea of him dropping his outgoing, extroverted side and becoming more colder or less cheerful when you’re drunk because you’re too intoxicated to realize the shift, so you won’t ask any questions if his tone isn’t what you’re used to. It’s such a shock to hear him sound anything less than cheery, but I think it’s so good to think about. orz I love a serious Cater who doesn’t have to keep up any masks when you’re drunk.

Trey is so sneaky. (๑•̀ㅁ•́๑) !!!! His UM is very useful during drinking games because he can trick you into drinking more simply by changing the taste so it will go down easier. And you would not expect him to do such a thing because he has such a kind face and he is so patient and sweet. But it is exactly that type you have to watch out for!! (I also love him despite his mischievous behavior hehe.)

[strangcmatters]

100% need to reread hdm for any concrete thoughts but rei's daemon is a mexican gray wolf named rex and he is just as distractable as she is

[grapeagata]

I am curretnly working on the world's worst game. It was meant to be just a prototype for ONE feature but It was fun to make that I made more stuff for it

[queenbananya]

Chapter 5 is up!

Cactus Bloom (21071 words) by Queenbananya Chapters: 5/8 Fandom: Buddy Daddies (Anime) Rating: Mature Relationships: Kurusu Kazuki/Suwa Rei Characters: Kurusu Kazuki, Suwa Rei, Kugi Kyuutarou Additional Tags: Pre-Canon, catching up to end of canon, Getting Together, Bathing/Washing, Kazuki isn't doing too well, but he hides it well, Healing, in the form of caring for Rei, Birthday Presents, Haircuts, Hair Brushing, ace spec Rei, POV Kurusu Kazuki, Fluff, Dancing, Slow Dancing, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pining, Light Angst, Non-Consensual Drug Use, on a random person/small scene, Literal Sleeping Together, Canon-Typical Violence, Injury Recovery, Bisexual Disaster Kurusu Kazuki, Facial Shaving, Slow Burn Summary:

Kazuki fell first. He also fell harder.

Or, KazuRei throughout the years.

[whosname]

Ginpachi sensei!!!

[blazingstaro]

One more: Has Magolor ever gone to Lollipop Land or Wondaria before?

"Lollipop Land, yes!" He chimes with glee. "I've visited there a lot whenever I came to talk with my friend Taranza! It's been a great source of inspiration for some of my trickier attractions in Merry Magoland, hee hee!"

He pauses, pondering for a moment.

"What's Wondaria?" Stars fill his eyes. "I've never heard of it! How much is admission? What planet? System? I NEED to know more!"

[In current DotS canon, Forgotten Land has yet to occur, so he and the rest of Popstar's residents are unaware of the existence of that park. Ohhh he'd sure love it though!]

[korattata]

remind me to never ever read the comments on a game that's in early access ever again

[gl1tchxr]

the dynamic between juxt and ny is unparalleled. they learn from each other without meaning to. they're both jealous of the other. they inspire each other to be better. they absorb each other's worst habits. they seem like they would get along least but they understand each other in a way no one else can

[violetsareblue-selfships]

good morning!! <3

[journey-to-the-attic]

(Hello hi big fan love your work binged it in like 3 days) Do you think you'll be adapting Nightbringer, too, or will you be going over more of the original game's content first?

(glad you liked it!! i remember seeing your comment on the fic itself too, especially happy that you like my son mephisto too <33)

atm i don't have plans to do a formal adaptation of nightbringer - 'formal' here meaning a proper fic with, like, continuity. i'd be open to doing snapshots of certain events/stuff i've been making up in my head, though!

as for the rest of the og's content, i do at least want to do a mini-fic where ik gets to meet and befriend the s4 trio (so probably 4-5 chapters, one for each chara and then one or two just for some shenanigans together), and potentially more snapshots for the more interesting plot points - most likely the lucifer amnesia arc

that's about it for now! still no plans for any full-blown sequels, but i've got lots of idea snippets i'm excited to try out once jtta is complete! (and WOW, we're getting close...)

[chaotikanvas]

Man, sometimes it's really about letting yourself not create anything for a while and refuse to feel guilty about it huh?

I managed to draw 3 pages of the comic I haven't been able to work on for a good while now and ngl feeling good about that

[astrumocs]

My Sprite commission post is ready.... I will be posting it either later tonight or tomorrow and I’m excited <3

[chiropteracupola]

tell me if you think I'm breathing good...

[collaboration with @dxppercxdxver again]

[magnifiico]

I really love how you write Magnifico! As someone who really likes this character, I find your opinions and headcanons very interesting! If you don't mind me asking, in your opinion why does he look for an apprentice when he is the only allowed to make magic?

first of all, catch me sobbing until the end of time— that's so sweet and it means the world (the universe, really) that you are enjoying my personal interpretation of this garbage disaster man T~T so many people in this community have such remarkable ideas about mags, and the fact that you appreciate mine??? i perish. thank you!!

as for your questions! c:

i raise you this: if mags is the one teaching someone magic, then he is in complete control over what they learn and how much they learn. yet again, this puts him in a position of power and influence; he gets to decide the... uhh "curriculum" here :/c of course, there's the risk of the apprentice getting too bold and doing a few things themselves, but with so many years of practice and expertise ahead of them, mags is pretty confident he could put an end to that quickly, should they go against his orders

as for why he even wants an apprentice: i hc that mags isn't able to sire children—it's basically the "sacrifice" in dedicating your life to magic (at least his particular study of magic where he was born without it and had to more or less make it a part of himself forcibly). he does want his legacy to go on, however (and wants someone in Rosas to continue granting wishes in his place!), so bringing in an apprentice is his means of doing so! plus, mags honestly has no interest in immortality (mother g.oth/el can keep that to herself), so when he eventually does need to pass the torch on to someone else, he wants a trusted person under his wing to be that someone. uvu

hope that makes sense and clears up the confusion! c: thank you again for your kind words and your continued support/interest!