#that anon fic is killing me

[amalasdraws]

Amalassss, i was stalking the author of the formula 1 fic on tumblr and saw your art and was like “?? Woww that is really similar to amalas style” lolll then i saw that it was youuu 💀💀 you have such a distinct style!! The art turned out great! Have you ever drawn Gojo? Welcome to the satosugu side of fandom!! You asked for fic recs for satosugu right? Ill come back later with a list for you

Hahah omg I love that!! Especially since it's not colored and doesn't have one of my signature clutter bgs and you still recognized it as mine! Love it! I started the fic and binged it like crazy and now I'm in so deep! If I had the time I would draw so much fanart!! SO MUCH!!

I have drawn Gojo!! But not for the fic, and also only as some doodles. I did them some time ago to see how and if I could draw Gojo

I have some full scene fanart ideas in mind and wanted to see if I could draw Gojo and practice him a little. Sadly I didn't had the time yet to draw the full scene illustration. I want to do something with Geto and Gojo in 2006, but all is well and they are just chilling and enjoying a day together. And now I also want to draw many scenes from the Coanda Effect fic. And I don't even know F1!!! WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?!?!

Send me time and energy and I'll draw all the art :D

[devildom-moss]

Hello, could you write a scenario for Diavolo and a chubby f!mc who's really shy and self conscious, in which he helps her be more confident, specially in bed. Thank you and have a good day/night!

Thank you for the request. I'm sorry this took way longer than I hoped. But, it is relatively long. I got too into the plot, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. I tried.

Diavolo giving chubby f!mc a confidence boost

(Diavolo x f!MC)

(NSFW) (NSFW tags: slightly sub!Diavolo, afab!MC, begging, praise, oral - receiving, multiple orgasm, face riding, overstimulation, mild foodplay why do I keep doing this to him??) (other stuff: plot heavy!, "my love" used on MC, negative body image and low self-esteem, food guilt mentions)

Word Count: +4,300

Diavolo had brought you to another fancy party. One of the nobles from out of town had invited him to a massive resort; they also provided a hotel room for each guest and their plus one – should they decide to bring someone. Diavolo was determined to whisk you away and ensure that you enjoyed your time with him. He even bought you an outfit prior to your trip. It was gorgeous (perhaps because Barbatos and Asmo had assisted him with procuring an outfit complete with accessories). Although the outfit was primarily black, there were hints of your current favorite (chromatic) color in some of the details. Diavolo had put so much thought into this.

So, you were disappointed in yourself when you changed and stared, dejected, into the mirror. Everything fit perfectly, but when you looked at yourself, it felt like maybe you didn’t fit them properly. It was too late to get another outfit, so you would have to stomach (poor wording – you didn’t really want to think about your stomach) walking into the party while feeling like this.

You let out a shaky breath and firmly placed a (figurative) mask on – this, too, fit you perfectly. So much so that Diavolo beamed cluelessly at you when you stepped out of the hotel room.

“You are stunning.” Diavolo grinned and pulled you against him by your hips. His hands were wandering lower than they should have in that hotel hallway, but Barbatos wasn’t there, and you indulged his eager hands while no one was around to see you two. It gave you a moment to stare at him in all his glory. He was so handsome, and his suit accentuated his broad chest and shoulders. You couldn’t admit it to his face, but the thought of getting him out of that suit slipped into your mind and eased some of the anxiety you were feeling.

When Diavolo finally let you out of his grasp, you told him, “You look even more stunning.”

“Impossible!” Diavolo protested. Still, he was happy you liked how he looked. He locked the door behind you and carried his grin all the way downstairs to the venue.

You noticed that Diavolo was turning heads with his presence – which wasn’t surprising. How sad and insignificant you must seem standing next to him. Eventually, he found the host of the party and greeted them. A small circle of nobles – the kind whose centuries of age came out in their mannerisms and ideology – who practically screamed “bitter old man” – surrounded you both.

One of them, who was particularly distasteful already, added to his poor first impression when he whistled at one of the incubus girls at the party. He leaned into Diavolo and said, “What a body on that one. She’s almost as sexy as Maddi. Speaking of Maddi, wasn’t she chasing after you for decades? You get attention from the most gorgeous witches and demons. What’s your secret?”

He had neglected to add humans into the category of gorgeous people Diavolo attracted. Even coming from a disgusting worm of a demon like this guy, it kind of hurt.

“I don’t know if I would say all that, but I definitely attracted a beautiful lover.” Diavolo smiled at you and held your gaze. “I don’t know how I’m this lucky.”

“Certainly.” The worm-demon waved off Diavolo’s affection for you with a single word spewed from his easy-to-mistake-for-the-ass-end-of-the-body mouth. Quite frankly, Diavolo couldn’t stand the guy, either, so he was eager to get you away from there.

Diavolo pulled you deeper into the party. You had only made it into what could be considered the foyer before you had stopped. The main course was in the following room. Well, actually, this party had skipped the main course and gone straight to dessert.

A sweet smell hit your nose seconds before you walked into the room. It wasn’t a cohesive sweetness, but a mixture of them colliding chaotically. Massive tables were lined with a variety of cakes in slices and small shapes – some more ornate than others. The waiters were wandering the room and tables, offering numerous, gorgeous-looking drinks. Beelzebub would love this – although he would ultimately ruin the party with his bottomless appetite. Asmo would be Devilgramming everything. Luke, Simeon, and Barbatos would probably enjoy this, too – although this was hardly a good environment for Luke. Still, this wasn’t what you were expecting.

“What kind of party is this?” you asked Diavolo.

“One of the executives for Madam Scream’s is celebrating a prosperous first half of the fiscal year. They’re showcasing some of the most popular flavors this year. They’re even offering a first look at next season’s new and limited-edition cake options. It was no easy feat to acquire some of the seasonal ingredients in preparation for tonight’s events. I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks, but I wanted to surprise you.”

You could tell from the outpour of information that Diavolo was excited about this. After all, Madam Scream’s success owed a good deal to Diavolo’s hard work to improve the Devildom (and also Beel’s stomach). It was impossible not to stare at him affectionately as he spoke.

“I was told by the host that they’ll be offering indignation cinnamon pudding cake. Apparently, you have pudding cake in the human world. It’s pudding and a cake in one dessert. Isn’t that delightful? We have to try some.”

You nodded. He looked so happy that you couldn’t focus on anything else – not even how you looked.

Diavolo led you to a secluded table off to the corner and encouraged you to sit while he went on a mission to retrieve the cake. Luckily, the awkwardness of sitting alone in a corner in an outfit you weren’t entirely comfortable in was interrupted by a familiar, grating chuckle.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite human.”

“Mephisto – my favorite,” you paused and stood to your feet, “I didn’t think this through.”

Mephisto took your hand and placed a kiss on your knuckles playfully. “I suppose you can’t call me your favorite demon while you’re dating the magnificent Lord Diavolo himself.”

“I don’t think you’d let me say that even as a joke,” you teased. Mephisto was one of those people who – once you got to know him – found a way to distract you from whatever you were worrying about. Perhaps because he wasn’t one to sit in silence for long. He always had some conversation starter tucked away in his back pocket.

“I’m a journalist. I can’t just let you lie to my face without fact-checking you.”

“So professional.” You rolled your eyes and pulled out a chair for him, leaving one empty seat for Diavolo between the two of you.

Diavolo returned, and his arms were loaded with different cakes. Mephisto’s eyes widened. “You’re going all in today, my Lord.”

“Absolutely. I’m not passing up an opportunity to try a bunch of cake with my gorgeous lover.” Diavolo placed the cakes on the table with a surprising lack of trouble before he placed a kiss on your cheek. “Have you tried any of the cake yet, Mephisto?”

“Yes, my Lord. The best so far was a Demonus cheesecake. It was coated in a chocolate Demonus glaze – absolutely divine. You could tell they weren’t using the cheap stuff, either.”

“I don’t think I grabbed that one yet. I’ll have to try it, but first,” Diavolo paused to place a forkful of the pudding cake he was so excited about in front of your face, “say ‘ah’ please, my love.”

You complied. Sweetness hit your tongue, and with it, a sharp sting of shame. It was so easy to indulge Diavolo that you were letting him feed you cake in public – right in front of Mephisto, no less. And there was so much cake there. You covered your mouth as you chewed. It felt as if multiple demon nobles were staring at you.

“How is it?” Diavolo asked.

“It’s good,” you answered unenthusiastically.

Diavolo shrugged it off as a personal preference and took a bite for himself. “Good? This is amazing! I must ask Barbatos to try to recreate this back at the castle.”

“Go ahead and eat the rest, then.”

“Are you sure?”

“You looked so happy after that first bite; of course, I’m sure.” Diavolo didn’t hesitate to take another bite. And another.

“MC,” Mephisto chimed in, sliding a light blue cake towards you as Diavolo enjoyed his pudding cake. “Try this one: blue hell rose milk tea tiramisu. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

“No, thank you.” You sensed even more judgmental eyes on you.

Diavolo pulled a glossy apple-shaped cake towards him and cut into it with a fork, revealing layers of spiced cake, caramelized apples, and mousse with vanilla bean specks. He brought the cake up to your lips as he had before. This time, you denied him.

“I’m not a fan of apples,” you lied.

Diavolo looked dejected and put the fork down. He grabbed another piece of cake and used the spare fork to bring this one to your lips. “What about this one? It’s black salted caramel cake topped with rainbow toffee bits. Isn’t that whimsical?”

You could hardly hear him through the feeling of demons staring at you. Something just snapped.

“I don’t want the damn cake!” you raised your voice and shot out of your seat. Mephisto and Diavolo stared at you, shocked and concerned. Embarrassed, you apologized and rushed out of the party and back to your and Diavolo’s shared room.

Diavolo stood up to go after you.

“Are you sure you want to leave, too? Maybe you should give her a chance to calm down before you intrude,” Mephisto offered his unsolicited advice.

“I have to go.”

“You don’t have to.”

“No, I have to. She didn’t get the key from me.” Diavolo held out the room key for Mephisto to see and walked away. Before he left the venue, he quickly grabbed a slice of the cheesecake Mephisto had recommended. He spoke to himself: “I’m just going to bring this with me.”

Besides, he was the prince of the Devildom. Even if he wasn’t supposed to take the cake upstairs, who was going to stop him?

Diavolo found you sitting in front of the room with your head buried in your arms. He kneeled down next to you.

“Hey, my love,” he called out before he placed a firm hand on your shoulder, so worried that he’d frighten you if he just touched you without you knowing he was there.

“Can you please just open the door?” you asked without lifting your head. This was so embarrassing.

He unlocked the door, but you didn’t move. You didn’t want to look at him; you must seem so ridiculous. You imagined the confusion and pity in his eyes as he was staring down at you. Maybe he was regretting even bringing you along. He could have gone with anyone else and enjoyed his time and his cake without you being self-conscious and ruining his night.

“You can go back to the party.” Maybe Diavolo could salvage a bit of his night if he left you to sulk and feel bad about yourself from the comfort of your hotel room.

“I did all the mingling I needed to do. I’d like to stay – if you’ll let me.” When you looked up, Diavolo was offering you his free hand. You took his hand, and that was all he needed.

Once the door was shut, Diavolo sat down on the bed, placing his cheesecake on the coffee table nearby. He pat the spot next to him. “MC, what happened? Do you suddenly hate cake?”

“I didn’t want to eat the cake. I know some of those nobles were looking at me. If I ate the cake, they were going to think, ‘oh of course. That’s how she got like that. No wonder she doesn’t have a nice body like that incubus or like Maddi.’ It’s humiliating. And this outfit doesn’t help. I feel so exposed.”

Diavolo’s heart broke. You could see it in his eyes. His face was stern as he told you, “Your body is divine.”

“You have to think that. You already like me.”

“Does my opinion not matter?” He sounded so hurt.

“It does, but it’s not enough to feel confident when I step into a room. And it’s not enough to change my opinion.”

“You know, most demons won’t compliment you because no one would dare admit how gorgeous you are in front of me. Believe me, I’m not the only one who lusts after your body.”

Diavolo kissed your hand – his eyes burning. He kissed up your arm. “Mephisto relayed some of their comments in the past – he actually recorded them because he was too ashamed to repeat them. Would you like to know what they’ve said?”

Diavolo’s hot breath hit your neck, and you shivered. You didn’t believe that any random demon – especially not the types Mephisto typically associated with – would look at you like that. Part of you was curious, but Diavolo refused to wait for your curiosity to get the better of you. He straddled your lap, and leaned over you so he could whisper in your ear.

“‘I would let her crush me with those thighs just to get between them for a minute.’” Diavolo repeated the words of another demon so seductively. He continued with a mischievous smirk, “‘she could try to asphyxiate me with my tail, and I’d still try to smash.’ Even more depraved: ‘I would let her break off my horns and fuck me with them just to eat her out.’”

You shook your head. “Perverts.”

“They are demons after all.” Diavolo pulled back and stared down at you. “I know it won’t fix everything, but let me show you how beautiful you are to me.”

“I don’t know. I have a lot I need to work on before I feel confident.”

“Please?” Diavolo begged. “Please. I want you so bad that I’m having trouble controlling myself.”

The realization hit. The dirty thoughts he had just repeated weren’t unlike the thoughts running through his own head. He started kissing your neck. With a low growl, his hot breath grazed your skin before he slowly sank to his knees and stared up at you, eyes pleading.

“Please, let me make you feel good.” The need in Diavolo’s eyes made the breath catch in your throat. You wanted him almost as much as he craved you – and the firm rubbing of his hands up and down your thighs wasn’t making you any less desperate for him.

“Can we dim the lights at least?” He could at least do you the favor of giving you something to hide behind.

“Please don’t make me. I want to see every inch of you clearly while I do this.” The affection in his voice was thick and heavy. You couldn’t deny him, even if you were nervous. Diavolo kissed up your clothed thighs. Even through the fabric, you could feel the warmth of his breath. Both of his hands squeezed the tops of your thighs. “Can I? Please?”

“Yes,” you agreed, swallowing any hesitation for him.

Diavolo rose and made quick work of stripping you down to your underwear (which had, fortunately for him, been picked out by Asmo). You looked so sexy. Diavolo took a minute to admire you. It made you feel anxious – as if he was appraising you. However, considering how much the sight of you turned him on, this was less appraisal and more awe. A content sigh left his lips before he leaned in, his body pressed against your chest. He quickly unhooked your bra, sliding one strap off your shoulder with his hand and pulling the other one down with his teeth.

Your shyness resurfaced, and you held the bra to your body, creating a larger space between you and Diavolo. He pouted and gently touched your forearm.

“Please don’t hide. I want to see all of your body.”

“Even if they aren’t –”

Diavolo didn’t even let you finish your sentence before his hands were on either side of your face and his lips were on yours. Despite his desperation, Diavolo made an effort to make the kiss gentle and slow. When he pulled away, you were so pacified that he got in the next words. “My love, they’re tits – your tits. I’m going to love them regardless. So, please show me.”

You hesitated, and Diavolo sighed. He removed his jacket and tie, tossing them on the floor, before he started to unbutton his shirt. “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.”

“That’s hardly fair.” You held the fabric closer to your body. Diavolo was gorgeous and built.

“That’s true. You’re so much sexier when you’re shirtless than I am, but if showing you my body distracts you enough to let me see all of you, then I’m happy to feel like your eye candy for a bit. Besides, if you let me continue, I should probably be shirtless anyway. I want to make a mess of you.”

Maybe seeing how muscular Diavolo was didn’t help your self-esteem right now, but between his eagerness and that sexy offer, your horniness was winning. You put your arms down. Diavolo grinned.

“Thank you.” Diavolo repeated his gratitude between kisses down your sternum. He removed the bra completely and tossed it aside. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

Diavolo nuzzled against you briefly before his tongue found one of your nipples. He swirled his tongue around you and sucked gently, savoring every reaction. You were so pretty like this that he could hardly wait to skip to dessert. The shiver up your spine felt contradictory to the heat of his mouth on you. Your hands snaked into his hair, scratching his scalp gently and earning a sweet moan against your skin. Diavolo swirled his tongue around you gently once more before he slowly pulled away. Teasingly, he blew on your saliva coated nipple. The gasp he pulled out of you was intoxicating.

He continued to kiss down your body as he slid back on his knees. As his hands busied themselves by massaging your thighs, Diavolo gently bit some of the fat on your stomach.

“Don’t,” you whined. The pleasure he was giving you still fought with your insecurity. “It’s embarrassing.”

Diavolo stared up at you in confusion, “why?”

“I have rolls, and you biting them only makes me more aware of them.”

“Most people have rolls. I have rolls, too. See, when I lean into you,” Diavolo made a point to get so close between your legs that his lips were practically touching the fabric of your panties as he spoke, “I have them too.”

You could only see them slightly from that angle – not to mention how hard it was to even think straight with his hot breath so close to you.

“I love your body – so much. Can’t you let your adoring boyfriend kiss and bite your stomach a little bit? It’s so cute and soft.” Those sad, pleading eyes had returned.

Damn this man. He could get away with anything. You nodded, and with a smile, Diavolo placed a kiss on your stomach. He then lowered himself back between your legs. As much as he wanted to dig in, he couldn’t resist marking up those thick thighs he adored so much. Occasionally, as he had done before, when Diavolo pulled away from your skin, he would blow on the residual saliva.

With your thighs marked to both of your satisfaction, Diavolo wanted to give you what he knew you were craving. He noticed the wet spot forming on the fabric. Although he wouldn’t admit it to avoid embarrassing you further, Diavolo could even smell your arousal – and it only made him want you more. He looked up at you with those puppy-dog eyes again and begged, “can I, please?”

You nodded, but that wasn’t enough for him.

“Tell me what you want from me. You can even be a little bossy about it.” Diavolo smiled shyly. He was so cute, you wanted to indulge him as much as you wanted him to indulge you.

“Eat me out, Diavolo,” you demanded, snaking your hand into his hair and gently tugging his head back so he was staring up at you. A small surge of power and confidence jolted through you.

Diavolo grinned and sighed contentedly. “You are so fucking hot.”

Diavolo used his teeth to drag your panties down to your knees before pulling them off with his hands. You could feel the urgency as they slid down your calves. Diavolo licked his lips – the only sign of admiration his desperate lust would afford him.

Wet noises filled the room as he alternated between gently licking your clit and lapping up your juices – occasionally twisting his tongue into you. He felt so good that you couldn’t resist grinding into him, which only made him chuckle – sending vibrations against you. He loved knowing that he was making you feel good. Diavolo flicked his tongue over you. Panting, eyes squeezed tight, and nearing your climax, your hands found Diavolo’s hair. You pulled him closer.

“You taste so good. Cum on my tongue, please,” Diavolo begged while licking you. “Use me.”

The waves of pleasure overcame you, and the way Diavolo’s eyes darted up to stare at you – clouded with lust and affection – pushed you over the edge. You fell back against the bed, biting your lip to muffle your moaning.

You expected Diavolo to stop, but he kept going with the same eagerness as before. It wasn’t long before you were writhing. Your back arched off the bed slightly as that attentive tongue of his pushed you into your second orgasm. This time, you couldn’t stifle your moans. Still, Diavolo didn’t stop. You whimpered and pulled on his hair – less gently this time.

“Wait,” you demanded. “It’s too much.”

A low growl emitted from Diavolo’s lips as he reluctantly pulled away. He could have stayed between your legs for hours. His disappointment was short-lived as he remembered something.

“Can you indulge me a bit more?” Diavolo rested his cheek against your thigh and stared up at you. “Pretty please?”

“How so?” You narrowed your eyes.

Diavolo stood up and grabbed the cake. Confused, you watched him lay down in bed on his back and set the plate of cake on his stomach. You weren’t getting it, and when you didn’t move from your spot at the edge of the bed, Diavolo sat up slightly on his elbows, still balancing the cake on his abdomen. He looked at you coyly before admitting, “I want you to sit on my face. Let me eat you out while you eat this cake, please?”

You were worried and hesitant, but he begged so well. No one else could make the prince of the Devildom beg like you.

“Mephisto said it was divine. Just enjoy your dessert while I enjoy mine.”

You really couldn’t deny him. And you weren’t as sensitive as you were a minute ago.

You got up and positioned yourself over Diavolo, nervously. He thanked you and pulled you closer by the thighs, bringing his lips right up to your pussy.

“I want to make you feel good, so don’t you dare hover.” For once, Diavolo was making demands of his own instead of begging you. But with how good his mouth felt, you couldn’t fault him for being pushy.

Somehow, the fork had stayed on the plate with the cake even with Diavolo’s movements. You took a small bite, savoring the taste. This time, when the sweetness hit your tongue, there was no guilt or shame to accompany it. It was all pleasure. Mephisto was right; the cake was delicious. But if he wanted divine, he should try it while getting eaten out. You rolled your hips against Diavolo’s face, and you could feel him smile against you. Gently, Diavolo drew a heart on the side of your thigh, his nail dragging slowly along your skin.

He was being so good to you that you wanted to reward him somehow. You swiped two fingers along the top of the cheesecake, coating your hands in the silky chocolate Demonus glaze. You drew a heart on Diavolo’s abs and leaned over to lick it off him, earning a deep moan that shook you to your core.

You managed another two bites before Diavolo pushed you over the edge again. Your legs were trembling, and you could hardly sit up anymore. Yet again, Diavolo didn’t stop. You were starting to feel overstimulated again.

“Diavolo,” you cautioned him breathlessly.

“Please, just one more?” Diavolo’s sweet pleas reverberated against you.

It felt too good. You couldn’t even lift the fork to your lips to try to eat, so you pushed the cake aside on the bed. As he inched you closer and closer, all you could do was lean over with your chest flush against him. You were so close to the massive bulge in his pants. Maybe you couldn’t even sit up, but you could reward some of Diavolo’s hard work. You rubbed his crotch, feeling how hard he was just from eating you out. His grip on your thighs tightened enthusiastically.

Your moaning hit a fever pitch as Diavolo made you cum once more. With any luck, your neighbors were still down at the party. Left a panting, twitching mess, you barely had the energy to move. While you tried to regain some strength, Diavolo gently licked you clean – sending aftershocks of pleasure up your already spent body. By the time he finished, you could hardly roll over and collapse on the bed next to him.

Pleased with his work, Diavolo chuckled and crawled over you. He kissed you so you could taste yourself on his lips. The taste of the cake was still in your mouth. When Diavolo pulled back he smiled at you. “Somehow, I still prefer your cake to anything else I’ve eaten all night.”

You were too exhausted to roll your eyes. Diavolo laid next to you and held your hand, rubbing circles over your knuckles.

“You are so beautiful.” He caressed your face.

At least for right now, you believed him.

[voxmilia]

Sire! the people plead for inkblade headcanons and scenarios! Will thou not have mercy???

The peasantry demand inkblade, do they? Very well, I shall oblige!

My dear friend Nick @starlingcity just added a new song to our inkblade ship playlist and I got baby about it so these are gonna be more tender and more on the love half of enemies to lovers but!!

Oisin left a note in Adaine's locker asking her to prom freshman year. It was at Ivy's insistence. However, it was right before the bad kids ended up in jail for the death of Johnny Spells. So after days turned to weeks turned to months, that sliver of courage left and Oisin asked Kipperlily to break into Adaine's locker and steal it back. (It doesn't take much for Kipperlily to hate any of the bad kids but this is something she quietly judges Adaine for for years.) Oisin doesn't tell her until long after they've started dating.

It's 3 am and Oisin wakes Ivy out of trance to text her frantically, wondering if she thought it would impress Adaine if he got SO good at glyphs, he could write a message to her inside the giant orb she carries around. Ivy calls him a twat and tells him to go to bed. (The dragon in him, two years later, hopes she's impressed when that same magic throws her into the maws of his distant relatives.)

A headcanon Nick has is that Oisin is a leather worker as a hobby, making things like Ivy's quiver and his spellbook holster. He makes another spellbook holster (it's NOT a courting gift, Ivy, shut up) and leaves it in Adaine's locker early senior year (Kipperlily grumbling as she unlocks it). Adaine knows who it is by the clouds and lightning bolts etched into the leather. She does not thank him but she does wear it when she doesn't want to wear her backpack. (She thanks him belatedly, eventually)

Their first moonar yulenear as a couple, he makes her a sheath for the sword of sight. She thanks him immediately this time

Demi aroace Adaine had never had a crush before Oisin; she thinks the moment at Fabian's party is just the alcohol. She thinks it's a low grade panic attack when he waves at her in the hallway, when he messages her an apology for his party. (Embarrassingly, when she discusses it with her doctor, said doctor tells the young oracle that she likely doesn't need a higher dose of her medication because this isn't that sort of panic. She doesn't tell anyone about the mistake.)

Oisin ended up with an awful stomach ache after the party at Fabian's - he was NOT built to process milk. It's karma, and even he knew it.

Adaine admits to no one that Oisin is partial inspo for why she gets a magic tattoo between junior and senior year, instead crediting only Ayda and Fabian. She and Oisin do get matching tattoos after they get together - the design Nick and I have atm is the eye of the sword of sight surrounded by lightning bolts. (She's the oracle that survived the storm, after all)

EVERYONE knows about Adaine speaking draconic and how Oisin thinks that's very hot, and how they banter and snark at each other with it. But Nick and I have decided that Adaine speaks it almost exclusively the first couple of times Oisin visits Mordred Manor - the sheer love in that house overwhelms him and speaking in a language only Adaine knows makes it feel private and he can breathe a little easier. (Aelwyn teases her relentlessly for this)

Adaine doesn't trust him afer he's revived and he's mostly understanding. It gets old, how much she assumes the worst in him - deserved but still tiring. However, he never stops her when she casts Detect Thoughts. Is it invasive? Yes. Does he believe he owes her that much? Also yes. (She finds ways to disbelieve him anyway, for her own sanity. He gets it but he hates it.)

Eventually, when everything is love now, Fig suggests a double date with Ayda (Fig, who had always been so trusting, so willing to extend a hand, is one of the first bad kids to swallow her pride and try and make begrudging amends. Lucy's presence helps.). Oisin and Ayda get along like a house on fire and Adaine "I never really felt like a kid" Abernant, gets the very sweet teenage experience of sitting in a booth at a crappy dinner, with a boy's arm around her shoulders, laughing with her friends. Content. Happy. Silly. Young.

[marimayscarlett]

Richard with a belly button piercing wawawawa

Anon you can't just throw things like that in my direction and expect me to function properly for the rest of the day

Just imagine a little silver belly button on that squishy tummy, maybe peaking through his chicken coat uuuughgg

I need to lie down now for a while and have some alone time

[necrotic-nephilim]

https://www.tumblr.com/necrotic-nephilim/760168597014413312/bftc-jaytim-fuck-nasty-in-their-batman-suits?source=share

give a whole new meaning to "at least drake took it like a man"

SCREAMING this is the funniest thing ever oh my god i choked on my dr pepper-

i love that line in general, i think it's such a fun line that says a lot about how Jason feels about Tim. but in the context of Jason saying it after fucking Tim oh my GOD that's just. it's delightful. i'm going to be giggling about this all day oh my god. thank you anon this is delightful-

[azulock]

I had this submitted to my blog just like 15 minutes ago by an anon:

Chigiri is a big chest guy? So he don’t like small boobs is that what you mean? Why? What’s so undesirable about small boobs that every single author always forget or explicit exclude women with small boobs? Are small boobs disgusting? Boring? Why is always about big boobs being better!

I’ll answer in good faith, ok: this is not what I meant. I meant “big chest guy” the same way you’d say someone is a “big movie guy”, it’s meant to be that he is big into tits, as in he likes them a lot. I generally try to be as inclusive as possible in my writing, so much so that that part was meant to include man boobs too, I reall try to be inclusive, esp in headcanons where I’m free to not go into details so that’s easier. If I’m writing a full fic then I tend to lose that a bit, and when I need details I’ll usually take them from my reality, so if you read my fics and feel like that too I apologize, it just happens that I got big tits and I’m writing the fics for myself, my life ends up being my bias. But I reiterate: I meant it as in “he really likes boobs”, if that didn’t come accross I apologize, nobody proof reads my shit and english is only my second language, the first being portuguese.

Again, I’m so sorry, I get ya, I get the rage. Every fic author out there is doing reader blushing, but my black ass can’t blush, even tho I’m not even that dark. Every fic author is writing about petite women with tiny little waists, and someone like me who is tall and thick just gets left out. It’s always rosy pussies and tiny pink nipples, it’s always flowing long hair and women getting swallowed by their boyfriend’s shirts, and I many other things that made me feel left off. I’m sorry if that was the case, really. I try to make this a space safe for people with all different bodies as much as possible, and hopefully, despite my limitations, I can at least do an ok job, for everyone.

[mxtxfanatic]

You know what I find frustrating with Shen Jiu fans sometimes ? Just because he had reasons and maybe didn't do other things he was accused of, it feels like that either justify his behavior towards Binghe and/meant it wasn't that bad when he was so abusive ?

Shen Yuan discovers that he had reasons and a tragic backstory and never once does he try to justify his abuse, he is very much "cool backstory still hurting a child who did nothing wrong" and he has so much of this that he makes the choice for Binghe and assumes he wouldn't forgive him either for that and the abyss (when it's not his choice to make).

I wouldn’t mind people discussing the complexity of Shen Jiu if it did not come paired with the need to absolve him of his shitty personality. Shen Jiu is a serial abuser who did 100% of the things he was accused of with only some of those things having a secret intent that others didn’t know about. He does go to brothels but people just didn’t know why, he is antagonistic and physically violent towards Liu Qingge because of an imagined slight, and he has abused multiple children outside of Luo Binghe out of jealousy, so much so that many left the sect before Luo Binghe became the newest target. People trying to excuse his worst behavior because a few of his lesser actions had not-bad motivations is nonsensical, since the reason why people won’t side with him to begin with is because of his toxic personality.

A great example of just how much Shen Jiu made his own bed is the Water Prison arc. Shen Jiu gets thrown into the water prison with no defenders (yqy defends him but not his actions) because with how maliciously he treated people, no one doubted that he would act maliciously in any situation. Shen Yuan, in the same situation accused of the same crimes, gets defended almost to the point of violence breaking out, making it so that he had to willingly relinquish himself to avoid a fight, because with how kindly he acted towards everyone, no one could believe that he’d either 1) kill an entire household or 2) do so without a good reason. Neither man chooses to justify their actions or deny the accusations in the face of the scrutiny, but one is immediately condemned while the other is given the benefit of the doubt. What a massive difference.

[steelycunt]

same anon as before omg i hope i’m not talking too much on here but you are so refreshing genuinely, i love hearing you discuss the unproblematic media trend because i feel like it changes the perception of so many well known books (which you mentioned with wuthering heights) as well as books that have been published recently can feel so dry because there’s so much pressure to make characters without a single flaw 😭 of course there’s more nuance to delve into on this but i don’t want to bombard you with a huge message hahah

noo absolutely i love talking about it!! and i love getting post!! i see it in fanfiction a lot where people take characters who are meant to be flawed or bad and completely sanitize them so that they're allowed to be edgy but never actually downright mean or wrong or problematic in a larger way for fear of getting flack about the likeability of their characters or that characters people enjoyed when they were like canonical murderers or something are now irredeemable because they were toxic in a romantic relationship. which i think is a bit of a cycle of that fear driving sanitisation of characters and then a landscape of characters who never do anything wrong and speak purely in therapy-speak lowering people's tolerance of characters who actually do bad things. and its definitely bled into current litfic where however bad a character might be in their relationships its necessary that everyone retains completely modern progressive sensibilities because. idk if its that a lot of litfic authors arent really capable of tackling or depicting characters more difficult or nuanced than that? and then these expectations get thrust upon much older literature like wuthering heights where suddenly you cant call it a romance because they dont behave like cartoon canva cover characters from an emily henry novel. its just so lame!!!!!!

[anonymous-dentist]

does werewolf roier like to be pet, how ouppy does he get?

He gets SUPER ouppy, he loves to be pet and get scratches and he likes to play and chase and run around. When he and Cellbit get together, Cellbit has to buy a new container of heavy-duty tennis balls every month because Loboier wants to play fetch with him literally all night and cries when Cellbit says he’s tired

But, at the moment, he doesn’t do much of anything. There’s no one to play with, so he lays in his doghouse and he accepts the soft little pets Jaiden gives him. Poor ouppy

[taegularities]

WTF CMI JK HAS A KID SOMEWHERE?!!

🤭🤭🤭

wouldn't that be funny

[13atoms]

Anthology (Count Orlo x Reader)

There's someone in court distracting Orlo from his daily duties, who loves the written word as much as he does. 1.5k, fluff, F!Reader

📚📚_

There were very few things in the palace as predictable as Count Orlo. He rose in the mornings, he ate when food was presented to him, and he completed his work on time. When Peter teased him, he did not rise, and when he made choices he followed the most pragmatic route which still offered some kindness.  

He could name each person at court, how they were related to each other. He often didn’t know who was sleeping with who, or when cruel words were passed between courtiers, but he knew the things which mattered.

In each part of his routine there were a hundred variables each day, and he could cope with all of them.

Except for you.

When you appeared in the library, or sat beside him at dinner, or smiled at him as he stood beside Peter and suddenly made his hands shake. It confounded him, that he would look for you in every room he entered. If you were behind him on the staircase, he would grow self-concious of the way he walked, the words he spoke, the way he held his papers.

Gradually, his steady routine had become decentred, until finally he was altering it with the hopes he might spend a little more time with you.

It was one of those evenings, where sleep was too far away and work was too much of a chore. He wandered the corridors, waited for some crisis which never seemed too far away.

At each wide-hipped skirt flitting around a doorway, his heart skipped  with the hope it might be you.

Finally Orlo settled in the library, hoping that if he could not read, he might find some solace wandering amongst the books. Hoping against hope that you would be there again.

He was so set upon his wallowing for the evening, that when you were there, he hardly noticed.

Orlo had closed the door behind him and wandered halfway across the room, before he heard your soft voice.

“Good evening.”

There had been precious little opportunity to speak in private before tonight, and now it was happening, Orlo had no idea what to do.

“Evening.”

You were sat at the oversized study table, which he recalled Peter ignoring lessons at when he was a child. Around you were a dozen chairs, the ghosts of academics which no longer existed in this part of Russia. He picked a book from the shelves blindly, and fumbled to smoothly pull a chair free of the part of the rug it had become stuck in.

You looked up at him, a few chairs down from the one he had chosen, and Orlo fumbled for words.

“Do you mind if I sit there?” he asked, suddenly struck by the fear he was intruding.

“Not at all,” you replied softly, “be my guest.”

In truth, Orlo realised he had little interest in the history volume he had picked up, and the moments passed interrupted only by the scratching of your pen. Long minutes stretched by, and yet he did not grow bored. Instead, Orlo found himself fixated on the thought of his body so close to yours in space.

Of what might be in your head, whether it might chime with what was in his.

“What are you writing?”

You looked up in confusion, your forearm curled around the page protectively, and he bit back an apology.

“Hm?”

“You’re writing, I assume? If it is not personal, of course.”

“Oh, no. It’s… it’s poetry. Nothing good, I’m afraid, I just… I admire a great many poets –”

“Me too!”

Orlo regretted his interruption at once, it had seemed like a wild thing, trapped in his chest and fighting to get out. You smiled at him, and he thought from the crinkling of your eyes it must be genuine, before continuing.

“Anyway, I just… I thought I would never know if I was any good at poetry if I never tried it.”

“That’s wonderful.”

You chuckled, and Orlo found himself smiling along for no reason he could name.

“How are you doing, then? Trying it?”

With a shrug, you gestured to the page in front of you, and Orlo could see you were halfway through a notebook.

“I’m doing okay. It’s a puzzle, but I enjoy it. Truly, it’s nothing special, but I find it settles my mind.”

“Incredible,” he murmured, and you couldn’t help wondering if he was teasing you.

“Do you write?”

“Poetry? No!”

Startled, Orlo stopped attempting to read what was on your page, and instead found himself staring at your face. A prospect which induced his heart to beat even faster.

 “Could I read anything of yours?”

It was impertinent to ask. He had predicted the hesitation on your face, anticipated the moment you could freeze and turn your face away from him as embarrassment burned at your cheeks.

It was worth it, though, for the moment he watched you stand and pull a book from the shelves opposite the table. It was smaller than all the others, without an ornate cover, and as you thumbed through the pages Orlo could see it was entirely handwritten as many of the older tomes in the library were.

“This is my favourite piece,” you offered, handing the open book to him.

Orlo thought he would melt to the floor, holding his breath as he read, and you watched with an intensity he had never seen from you amongst the frivolities of court.

“I wonder if you studied under Dante himself?” he finally commented.

Orlo was delighted at your response, the fear you might misunderstand him entirely gone.

“Actually, I wrote something closer to his tone – though obviously incomparable…”

 As you flitted through the pages, a furrow in your brow, Orlo could only stare.

The evening passed in moments of silence and moments of laughter after that moment. You were selective in the pages you showed him, glancing nervously if his fingers strayed to turn a page.

Yet you trusted him. You returned to your words as he read, and laughed in delight as he praised your work. You had moved a seat closer to him, and brought the candles around both of you, and if Orlo focused for long enough he imagined he could feel the heat of your body in the cool night.

When the night finally grew too late, you excused yourself with a sincere regret that made Orlo’s heart ache with hope. He took the book to his room, and devoured it cover to cover, in a way only someone with a true love of a poet can.

Between each piece he thought, trying to imagine where your mind had been as you wrote it.

The tone oscillated between love and loss and distress and simple joy, from piece to piece and stanza to stanza, and some hidden part of Orlo felt voyeuristic to have such a sudden insight into your inner life.

Each page was written with the tempo of good poetry, a few dozen meticulously penned words, followed by a flowing stanza of more rushed handwriting – as though you were desperate to get the words onto the page as inspiration struck.

When he finally fell asleep, it was with a jolt awake, as he carefully removed your book from where it had fallen atop his sheets and placed it on his bedside table.

*

When Orlo awoke, there was a sealed letter on his desk. It bore no other markings, not even his name – though once the page was snapped open the handwriting seemed as familiar as his own.

Time is curious, how it hangs around us

Languorous when it seems abundant, and short when it is scarce

An hour of joy lasts barely a blink,

A second of sorrow long enough to wrinkle crows feet.

Time is not told by the clock, but by the heart as it beats.

Orlo, my days here are often meandering,

Filled with banality,

Yet I find time flies, when you are near me.

Once Orlo had finished reading, he sat on the chaise by the door, and he read again. By the morning light streaming through the windows. In the privacy of his bed, curled up against the pillows, pulling the paper to his chest once he had read. Finally, he put the paper down and rushed to the door, only to return and read it again.

When he found you, it was at the breakfast hall, your meal long abandoned and your eyes firmly set upon the main doors. He had taken a shortcut, and watched you for so long he interrupted the servers and feared you would catch him staring as they swerved, swearing, around him.

It would be a decade before Orlo acted as a proxy to help you publish your first collection of poems, but his decision was made in that moment. Once your eyes met his, the time flew by.

[skyward-floored]

...Shadow backstory in Swapped fic? 👀

You'll just have to wait and see~

[screampied]

https://www.tumblr.com/writingwritewrite-storymaker/747592284367962112?source=share this u cuz of alejandro

LMFAOOOOOOOO

[blackjackkent]

Heyyy, have you ever written your Hec and Karlach with the "blows up at the pier" ending? I am just not sure where to look for it lol but I always love imagining the "alt routes" but I understand if others are too sad to dip toes in

Oh man, anon coming in with the Big Feels out of nowhere. :D I love it. As per usual this got way longer than intended and very out of hand. XD

I have not written that before and it is indeed VERY sad to think about. But I am up for giving it a try! [rolls up sleeves, braces self]

(If you're interested, I also answered a similar version of this question a while back regarding Hector's life in a worldstate where Karlach got mind-flayered, which was ALSO sad. 😭 )

So anyway. Scenario, then: the brain fight didn't go super smoothly and Wyll is unconscious, so Hector is left with no other voice to save Karlach from her self-sacrifice.

-----

No one moves. The pier is suddenly deathly silent as the roaring of Karlach's engine falls to stillness. Hector sways unsteadily on his feet, clinging to the afterimages of the flame still burned into his eyes.

Don't breathe. Don't think. When you think, it will become real...

But there is no stopping it. Thinking is what he does best, after all. She taught him to live, for a while, to see the glory and goodness of the wide world outside the monastery, the bright intensity of its colors.

But she is gone, and he can see the grayscale already fading in again at the corners of his vision.

"No..." he whispers. His voice sounds choked in his throat. "No." Somehow he always believed, deep down, that something would come to save her, that they would find some way to make everything all right. "NO!" He falls to his knees, burying his fingers in the ashes; his palms blister in the lingering heat.

"NO. NO. NO, NO, NO, NO, NO NO NO NONONONONONO!"

He's screaming, he realizes distantly. Sobbing too. Everything has snapped; every ounce of the control that he wears like armor has vanished. He feels detached from his body, unreal, numb with grief. The tears pour down his face, blinding him.

It isn't fair. After everything they have been through, everything Karlach suffered, it isn't fair that this is how she ended, without even a body to bury in the city she loved. It isn't fair that he will never hold her again, never feel her arms around him, never protect her and be protected by her, never see the world at her side, never... never... never...

The world is so cold without her warmth.

"Gods, please... please come back to me!" he howls into the uncaring ocean view. "I can't... I can't..."

The first paroxysm of anguish starts to fade. He collapses forward on his elbows and knees, his face pressed into his fists, and sobs.

In the monastery, they taught him there was no pain that discipline and prayer could not soothe. They were wrong. He knows now just how wrong they were.

"The Moonmaiden sees me… no grief nor pain nor fury shall wrest me from her path…" He whispers the mantra brokenly, instinctively, desperate for the comfort it has brought him in other moments. But there is no comfort to be found even in Selune's light, not for this.

He is alone.

But no... not completely alone. A hand touches his shoulder softly; a form crouches gently at his side. Shadowheart. He can see the sympathy in her eyes, the compassion and shared pain.

"Come here," she says softly, and opens her arms to him, as he did to her after the House of Grief. And as she did then, he falls sideways into her embrace, presses his face into her shoulder and cries bitterly. Her armor feels cold after the furnace heat of Karlach's destruction, but the hug is tight and fierce and she rocks gently side to side, holding him.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers.

His voice is hoarse, almost inaudible. "It hurts..."

"I know... I know..." She looks up. The others are watching at a distance - those who remain, anyway. Astarion is gone into the shadows, Lae'zel to the Astral. Gale is crouched by Wyll's unconscious body, but his eyes are fixed on the back of Hector's head, unblinking. Minsc, his face drawn tight with regret, is standing a little closer, Boo balanced on one fist.

And Jaheira closes with them, moving to sit on Hector's other side. The druid rests a hand on Hector's back just above where Shadowheart's arms hold him. "Silvanus guide the light to the source," she murmurs. "Take her to what she justly deserves. By nature's will, what was given is returned. What was turmoil is now peace..."

Hector draws a long, slow, shuddering breath.

"May the Moonmaiden's light follow her into the dark," Shadowheart says softly. Her voice is still a little unsteady on the Selunite prayer, but she knows Hector needs to hear it. "The silver light always at her back..."

He swallows, sits up slightly, not pulling away from either woman's touch. They are grounding him, drawing him back to himself, and his heart rate begins to calm, the sobs slowing to unsteady, hiccuping breaths. "Perhaps," he whispers hoarsely, "perhaps had I served Shar, it would be easier... I would be prepared for such loss..."

He can feel Shadowheart give a single, sharp shake of the head.

"Do not think it," Jaheira says, her voice low. "You would be empty. It is no better. The grief carries all the meaning of what was; it is the love with nowhere left to go. In time it will be bearable, cub."

He does not want it to be bearable. He wants it gone. He wants her back. He wants the hole in his heart filled back in.

"My Lady..." he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. "See her soul as it travels outward. Take it where mine would go, I beg you."

Karlach once said that she liked the thought of her soul spreading out through the world, becoming part of it. He liked the thought too, for she was always full of life and loved the world so deeply, with such fierce devotion...

But he knows the truth, as it was taught to him. She will go to the Fugue Plane to be judged. And if no god fights for her soul, she will exist in limbo forever, trapped in another unending wasteland.

"Take her to you, My Lady... please. In my place, if you must, but do not leave her forgotten..."

----

Some months later, he and Jaheira travel at Withers' behest to a gathering outside the city.

It has been a good half-year, all things considered. The city is starting to rebuild, to regain some semblance of its former life. Hector has been hard at work among the Harpers, lending his strong back to building projects and his counsel to those in need of it.

He's filled out with new muscle and a sense of pride in the Gate. Jaheira has noted it more than once - with surprise, given that he once lived in such isolation from the city's life. But they both know, truly, where that pride stems from. Karlach could not live to see her city flourish again - so Hector must see it for her.

In his pocket always he carries the three copper coins Jaheira delivered to him a few days after the brain fell. Sometimes he listens to the message recorded on them. More often, he simply places a hand against them when the loneliness threatens to overwhelm him, feeling the soft warm buzz of the enchantment on them and imagining he can almost feel Karlach's touch.

Withers finds him wandering away from the party, late in the evening, and addresses him without preamble, grave as ever.

"Thou feelst it still," the skeleton says, with something oddly like kindness. "She is not here. She who means the most. Hast thy thoughts been with brave Karlach often?"

Yes. Of course they have. He doesn't speak of it much to Jaheira and the others, and he has tried to move on - and some days he can almost manage it. But her loss always sits in the back of his mind, inescapable. Every moment of victory bears its quiet reminder that she is not here to share it with him. Every failure brings the ache for her comfort and her warmth.

"I loved her so much," he says quietly. "It isn't fair."

"No," Withers says placidly. "It is not."

He feels a sudden tightness in the back of his throat. He has not spoken of her aloud for so many weeks, but Withers of all people coming to him with kindness brings the feelings rushing back, stinging into his eyes. "I don't know how I can go on without her," he mutters.

Withers's dessicated lips curl in a slight smile. "She battled in Avernus, fueled on naught but hope," he says. "And that hope came to become truth. In but a dozen tendays, an entire life was lived. More than mortal years-- mortal centuries were hers." He gives a slow nod in acknowledgment of Hector's grief. "Thou might endure a great eon of mourning. But thou must hope, as once she did. Her life... her happiness... was you."

Great, now he really is going to cry. That strain in his throat is rapidly forming into a lump that makes it difficult to speak. "And she was mine..." he whispers.

"Thy life was hers for a while," Withers says gently. "It is now thine again. Live it well." He reaches out a hand and rests it on Hector's shoulder. It is light and skeletal and bears no warmth, but it goes with the intensity Withers suddenly has in his expression.

"In the Fugue Plane," he says, "her soul burns so bright, it pains the gods to look upon. Recall that in time, all changeth and all is rejoined. Thou shalt be with her again."

Hector feels something tight come loose in his chest, and he nods unsteadily. These are not empty words; this is Jergal speaking, not Withers. This is, perhaps, the only voice available to him that could tell him truly what he needs to know - that Karlach is not lost to him, nor beaten into dim submission by the wasteland of the Fugue.

She is still bright. And she is waiting for him. And one day, when he has brought her city back to life, he will go to find her.

[plantwriting]

Hiiii being annoying about Kian Stone again <3

I get that running a game is hard. I get that it can be difficult to make all the characters get equal attention and relevance and such. But honestly as much as I love him, Charlie did Kian dirty. Specifically with his final death.

Like he didn’t need to die, but I get why Charlie went with that, but the way it’s given basically no attention? It’s glossed over, the guys aren’t given any time to react or feel the effects or for their characters to mourn, and yeah, it’s supposed to be like a really fast paced scene and a lot is happening but just… seriously

One of the main characters just DIED. And there isn’t a single second focused on it properly. He doesn’t get last words, or a chance to say goodbye, or ANYTHING. And like comparing it to other pc deaths in jrwi its just so… empty.

Like Rolan’s death doesn’t get much flare or attention either, again, everything is going too fast and there’s just not time to focus on details, but at least he gets last words. He gets something. Condi gets to let his character go in a way that is meaningful and actually does something

And like Grizzly just. Doesn’t. He makes no choices that lead to what happens. He dies. Without having any agency in the story of his own character. The queen becomes visible, and Kian sees it without Grizz choosing to see it or anything, and he rolls some dice, and then his character is dead. Which honestly? Id be so upset about if that happened to me. It would make me feel like i might as well not have been there because i didnt get to play my character in the end

And again, i’ve dm:d before, i get it. Its hard. Its stressful and difficult and sometimes you just do things that you could have done better if youd had the chance to prepare more and i dont blame charlie at all. But its just. Upsetting :/ especially since in the rolled grizzly did say that he didnt really have a good time because they dont really like horror, i just kinda feel really bad about how things went

[daydadahlias]

I wish you’d write a small town bull rider and nurse fic yeehaw

oh you're a fucking genius