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possamble · 7 months ago

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farcille postcanon characterization warmup that got way out of hand. beware, here be spoilers, dragoncock, and bottoming as an extreme sport.

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Marcille has always loved Falin’s voice. Soft, high, airy and girlish—it was always as gentle as the rest of her, even in the midst of pitched combat. When things went to hell in a handbasket, it was always Falin’s whispery incantations that kept Marcille grounded as blood and monster guts sailed through the air.

And that hasn’t changed. No amount of dragon could really change that, Marcille thinks. Yes, she she has moments when her voice becomes rough and ragged and guttural, mostly when she’s swinging her mace or her fists, or gritting her teeth through a monster claw stuck into her side. But maybe that urge to growl was always there, and she’s just finally able to voice it now. Marcille finds that she’s loud at times she would have been silent before—grunting with exertion when she would have grimaced quietly, singing some nonsense melody over a mundane task when she would have hummed it under her breath—and that’s a good thing.

But otherwise, nothing has changed. Falin’s voice is as delicate as ever, chiming in a lilting giggle behind a dainty gesture of her hand. Rustling like pages of well-loved books as she casts her protective wards, or ponders over how to cook a new monster, or murmurs right into Marcille’s ear while she…

Well. While she’s got Marcille bent over her own desk with her nightgown pooled at her ankles. Marcille’s not sure if it’s rude or considerate that she didn’t get a chance to dress herself before she had a girthy cock shoved up her cunt first thing in the morning.

“Marcille,” Falin whispers, unfairly shaky as if she’s the one getting fucked within an inch of her life. She’s mouthing at Marcille’s neck, draped over her and pressing as close as possible in every way, gripping Marcille’s hands tight and keening like she’s found heaven between her legs. “Marcille, Marcille…”

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that she gets to do that, that she gets to sound like that—with that sweet voice she’s always had, now making obscene little noises that are still whispery fine and almost ethereal coming from her mouth. These quiet, barely voiced sighs that puff against Marcille’s ear, the dulcet moans that thrum against her skin, and that demure little gasp when she thrusts a little harder and somehow finds even more space inside Marcille to bottom out in—

“Marcille…” she whimpers like she’s in pain, on the verge of tears, fingers tight between Marcille’s as they grip the edge of the rattling desk together. “You feel—so good, oh… You’re”—another moan buried just behind her ear—"so wet, so good…”

It’s not like Marcille got the chance to be anything else right now, did she? Not when Falin fell upon her just as she was sorting through her documents, pressed against her back and already unfastening the clasps of her gown and slipping it off her shoulders. She was fully naked before she even got a playful good morning whispered into her ear—it’s a miracle she had the forethought to push her papers out of the way just before Falin had her wrapped around her finger in the most literal sense.

Well. Fingers in the plural, really, since she always starts with two. Usually while pawing at Marcille’s tit with her other hand until her stupid knees give out and she ends up buckling over whatever surface is nearby—in this case, her desk, mercifully free of any uncapped inkwells at the moment. Now slathered with sweat that makes her tits slip and slide along the wooden varnish, of course, but otherwise non-disastrous.

Hopefully her nightgown is catching most of the mess running down her thighs, or she’s going to have to make the most humiliating request to the castle staff about her carpets for the third time this month—

“Yes…!” Falin digs her heels in and fucks her even harder, taken with some kind of mindless momentum all of a sudden. “I love you,” she pants in that stupid—feathery, daisy-light tone that has no business being this sweet while she’s ravaging Marcille like this— “you’re perfect, you’re perfect—”

Marcille’s going to die like this. This is how she’s going to go: Bleating like an animal with her cheek stuck to her desk with drool, eyes just permanently rolled back in her head, toes barely touching the floor as Falin keeps fucking her further onto the desk. She hasn’t said a single coherent word since her second orgasm however many minutes ago, just broken into an endless stream of guttural noises as her cunt slobbers and squelches around Falin’s cock almost as loudly as she’s wailing.

“Marcille,” Falin keens, sounding like a bashful princess ravished to breathlessness—just something straight out of a high-minded erotica novel—all while hammering Marcille into the desk at a shallow, breakneck pace. “You feel—feel s–o good, you’re perfect, oh—oh, you’re perfect, you’re beautiful, I love you, I love you—”

For the love of—fuck. Marcille can distantly hear herself scream, can feel the desk digging into her as she flails, her grasp on sanity getting thinner and thinner with each word that tumbles out of Falin’s mouth and shoots straight through her nerves. She’s—good god, she’s not usually this talkative. It’s almost always Marcille begging and blabbering about how much she wants Falin’s cock, how good it feels, how she wants it harder and faster and more, screaming and crying Falin’s name over and over—

But now, in the absence of Marcille’s pathetic yapping—after she’s already fucked the words out of Marcille so thoroughly—Falin’s taken it upon herself to murmur a stream of honeyed nonsense into her ear, her frail and gentle voice breaking with desperation—and fuck, it’s not fair.

“Yes, yes, oh—” Falin sobs into her neck. “I love it—I love it when you sound like this, I love you—you’re so good, so good for me, my Marcille—”

No, no, no, she can’t do that, she can’t do that—she can’t say that, in that voice, while her cock is so deep in Marcille there’s hardly room for anything else, battering all her nerve endings and rearranging her so that there’s nothing left but her, Falin, Falin—

“Ah!” Falin cries out, like she’s the one getting reamed against her stupid fucking desk so hard she can barely breathe— “Yes, please, please—please say my name again!”

Well. She can beg all she fucking wants, but it’s not going to be pretty and she has no one to blame but herself—it’s her fault Marcille can hardly speak, it’s her fault her name is only coming in rough wails with both syllables separated with heaving, crying breaths. Marcille gives it her all, scrapes whatever intelligence she has left to speak, and sounds like a dying animal in a way that can’t possibly be anything but hideous to listen to—

And still, Falin sobs, as if in utter ecstasy as she fucks Marcille so hard the desk starts scraping along the floor in harsh jumps.

“Yes, yes—ah—” Her voice, not so whispery gentle now but still so melodious and clear, sounding out from deep in her chest— “I—love—you—” she weeps, punctuated by the hard slams of the desk against the floor as she drops the rapid pace in favor of mercilessly hard thrusts— “Beautiful—perfect—mine!”

Then she finally, finally comes—not that it stops her, not with how she thrusts with every spurt. Like she’s not just satisfied with letting it spill out, like she needs to fuck it into Marcille with all her strength, once, twice, then one last time, stuffing her cunt absolutely full with searing heat—

And Marcille doesn’t even realize she’s coming until she’s unceremoniously ejected out the other side of the high, that telltale swoop of vertigo rushing through her veins. The orgasm doesn't even have the grace to let her go limp with afterglow, of course, and she’s left there convulsing and twitching like a drowning fish. With her jaw pressed to the desk, she can actually hear her teeth chatter from how hard she’s shaking, Falin’s warm weight on her be damned.

(One day. One day, she’ll stop embarrassing herself like this—one day she’ll finish like a normal person during sex, instead of going off like a cheap firework every half hour and wringing an orgasm out of herself as soon as she feels Falin finish inside her, whether or not she even had one left in her to begin with.)

“M-Marcille,” Falin stammers, her voice breathless but now shy and girlish again as she slowly untangles their hands. “Are you—are you okay?”

The gall. To ask her that, when she’s nothing but a sweaty carcass slung over her desk, still twitching erratically. To be so gentle as she straightens up and kisses the back of her neck, tenderly brushing her hair to the side as she pulls out ever so slowly—

And still. Not. Slowly. Enough—apparently! Not with the sparks that explode in Marcille’s eyes again, utterly unclear if this is another orgasm or just a particularly brutal aftershock! She just goes squeaking and shaking and sliding off the desk onto her knees, hands clapped over her cunt like they’re going to protect her from the lightning racing up and down her spine. She doesn’t even know where she landed, really, convulsing and closing her thighs around her hand as cum and slick drools into her palms, falling forward and— and smacking her head against the edge of her desk.

“Oh!” Feathered arms clasp around her before she can slide past the wood with her sweaty forehead and land on her face. “Careful—are you okay?”

The gall. The audacity. The—something, or whatever, fuck, Marcille doesn’t even care anymore. Her head throbs with an oncoming bruise, she can’t feel her legs, she can feel her pussy way too much, and it’s a wonder she hasn’t fallen apart on the spot—

“Okay… let’s…” There’s some maneuvering going on, but hell if Marcille can actually tell what Falin’s doing. “Here, let’s take a bath—I’ll go draw some water.”

Marcille whines, because no—she doesn’t know where she is, she just twists until her face finds feathers and buries herself there. She even manages to bring one cum-covered hand to grip at the quils, because this mess is Falin’s fault and if she doesn't like it then she can wash it off herself—but she’s not allowed to leave.

A little chuckle under her breath—and it’s so fucking cute and girlish like she hasn’t just demolished a full grown woman to the brink of unconsciousness, but Marcille can’t even find it in herself to be mad. Falin can ask her whatever the hell she wants, do whatever the hell she wants, so long as she doesn’t let go.

“I’m bringing you with me, I promise,” Falin whispers so tenderly, pressing a kiss to Marcille’s head. There’s arms tightening around her back and under her knees, and she feels herself being lifted. “I wouldn’t leave you like that…”

Better not, Marcille grumbles to herself. Not sure if it made it past her mouth, but it doesn’t matter. Falin’s going to take responsibility for turning her morning into—into this, even if it means having to draw some bathwater with an elf clinging to her the entire time. She’s going to be the one to wash her off, bring her their missed breakfast, and tell everyone why she wasn’t there at the morning meeting—

Maybe not that last part.

“I’m sorry,” she hears, in that soft and whispery tone she’s loved for so many years. That voice that didn’t change, even with everything that happened—everything that Marcille did to her, and it’s—

It would be so, incredibly stupid if she started crying out of nowhere.

“Liar,” she whines, digging the indignant annoyance back up to pout like a spoiled brat. “You liked… every second…”

Another giggle that so infuriatingly lovely. “I did.” The sound of a squeaky valve turning, then rushing water that slaps against stone. “Did you?”

Marcille just grumbles again and clings even tighter. Falin just laughs a little louder and strokes her hair, too kind to demand an answer in so many words—or, perhaps, impishly content to let Marcille incriminate herself with her silence, as she so often does.

#farcille #fic #nsft #dungeon meshi #dungeon meshi manga spoilers #so this was just supposed to be a characterization exercise #bc i could feel my falin slipping and needed to recalibrate around her having a hayami saori voice regardless of what she's doing #and partially bc i wanted to see what my marcille narration would sound like #results: i think i did okay on recalibrating falin and reaffirming her intrinsic gentleness so i dont go too hard on the dragoning cliches #marcille narration is a little too sardonic bc im definitely borrowing from my other twinky whitegirls but i can work on it #and im so so incredibly mean to marcille this is so funny #i don't even know if this is sexy or not im so sorry i was actually laughing while i was writing #the dragoness of melini #I GUESS?? THIS COULD BE CONSIDERED A FOLLOW UP??

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mr-asa-jones · 24 days ago

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The plight of a naughty girl at Saint Helena High School for Wayward Girls...

Schoolgirls are renowned for being 'clicky' and having exclusive little groups of friends. These are like the gangs that boys make, and just as, maybe even more, competitive.

Kate seen here has just been over the stool, her bottom as you can see is bright red. Her group have great sympathy for her, but the class has been told to be quiet.

She is in pain, the heat from the plimsol is growing and spreading, but she must keep her hands on her head and not rub. She is sniffing, wiggling, and whimpering...

Alas, her longed for comfort and sympathy cannot come for half an hour, when the class finishes.

Instead, the rival groups have pea shooters, and are making paper pellets to fire in rubber bands, some dipped in the ink in the inkwells on their desks.

Mummy will instantly know what has happened when she sees them on the back of her shirt, just above her bottom. Meaning a spanking at home, as some girl has just whispered loudly.

The teacher? She does nothing, a naughty girl is fair game. And if she reacts, even in the slightest, she will get another, but more severe, spanking. Which of course will delight her tormentors.

Mr.Jones (Headmaster)

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valkyyriia · 5 months ago

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A Study in Green

Words: 2915

CW: Fingering, Artistic Liberties with History | NSFW

Pairing: Arthur Conan Doyle / Female-Bodied Reader

Prompt: Abandoned Mansion (caution!)

Notes: This is I think the third time I've ever written smut, so please bear with me. I also thought the title was rather cliche, but I liked it, so... I also think I got a little carried away. Whoops. And Mo, if you read this - I remembered that comment I left you on your fic about the Paris Green and MC freaking out and it immediately came to mind when I rolled this prompt with my dice.

Crossposted on Ao3 here.

Banners/dividers by @natimiles.

For @xxsycamore's event, Sexy Ikemen Summer!

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” You asked, eyeing the abandoned building with suspicion. It appeared to have been an older, late-eighteenth century mansion. Ivy crept up the crumbling mortar like grasping tendrils, giving it a foreboding look.

“It’ll be fine, luv,” Arthur said, a cheeky grin on his face. “A little urban exploration never hurt anyone.”

“I would like to see the evidence to back up that stateme-” You were cut off by Arthur tugging you close and kissing you sweetly.

“Come now. I swore to protect you, didn’t I?” He tapped your nose with a gloved finger. “That includes the dangers of uninhabited, derelict places and all the things that go bump in the dark. You have absolutely nothing to fear as long as I am here with you, okay?”

You exhaled shakily and offered a weak smile. “Okay.”

“Besides,” Arthur added. “You do make a rather adorable damsel in distress.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, and he laughed, taking your hand and leading you inside.

One thing you had never quite gotten used to in this era was the sticky heat and lack of air conditioning. Even though the climate wasn’t too different from what you were used to, the fashion of the day was much more stifling. The summer sun was currently high in the air, beating oppressive rays down on the building. Fortunately, the mansion was still in reasonably good repair; the roof was intact everywhere except the far left wing, where the walls had collapsed in on themselves. It offered some protection from the heat, paltry though it was.

Arthur had, true to his word, faithfully stuck by your side. The vampire hardly even let go of your hand, giving you something to anchor yourself to. You were grateful for his considerate nature.

The sunlight shining through the cracked stained glass windows cast glittering constellations on the dusty wood of the parlor floor. Furniture draped in age-stained cream cloth was positioned in key places around the room. If it weren’t for the thick layer of dust and the obvious smell of decaying wood, you would almost think the owners were just out on vacation.

Arthur had done some amount of research on the building before bringing you here, aided by le Comte and his connections. As it turns out, the owners of this mansion had fled to America twenty or so odd years ago due to some sort of legal trouble. The Crown had seized the mansion to repay the family’s debts and it had remained uninhabited since. According to Comte, the left wing collapse happened a few months after the Crown took over the property, and they hadn’t tried to renovate or rebuild the structure. Ultimately, other than the left side, the mansion should have been perfectly safe - within reason for an abandoned building - for a first-time urban explorer.

He grinned. “Look at this,” Arthur said, using your joined hands to point at the desk in the corner of the room. It was neatly organized, a couple of books stacked on the side. A half-written letter lay on the workspace. A quill pen sat in a long-since-dried inkwell, the bottom of it stained black with India ink. “They really were in a hurry,” Arthur commented, pulling his tortoiseshell glasses from his pocket and setting them on his nose. “Let’s see…”

He blew gently on the surface, scattering the dust. Your eyes watered and you cough into your elbow. “Sorry,” Arthur murmured, rubbing your back lightly as he looked at the letter.

“To my love,

“I hope the day comes when I can see you again. Father says we must leave in order to stay out of prison, and I dread leaving you behind. I had desperately dreamed of the day I would make you my wife, but I fear we must place those plans on hold for now. Wait for me, my love. I will return for you.

“Forever yours,”

And then nothing. There was no signature. You frowned. “The poor dears.. I hope he was able to stay in contact. Or at least let her know what happened.”

Arthur studied the paper intensely for a moment, before looking at the books next to it. “I can’t imagine she wouldn’t know what happened. These kinds of things are rather big gossip in the upper echelons of society.” The hand on your back moved to your waist and pulled you closer to him. “Her family likely refused any further contact with him or his family after they left. Even if he continued to write to her, she probably never saw any of those letters.”

“That’s so sad,” you said, leaning into him. “It sounds like he really loved her.”

“If he loved her half as much as I love you, he must have loved her a lot,” Arthur replied, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “If you would like, luv, we can maybe try to deliver this letter to its intended recipient. There’s probably some other correspondence between the two stashed somewhere here, if we look for it.”

You looked up at him in surprise. He had a kind smile on his lips, but his eyes were serious. If it were something you wished to do, he would make it happen somehow. “I would, but,” you started to say. “What if it opens up old wounds? What if she’s moved on and this just brings it back up?” You sighed and laid your head against Arthur’s shoulder once more. He ran his thumb up and down your waist in soothing motions. “I don’t want to make things worse.”

“Even if she has moved on, it could give her closure,” Arthur pointed out. “But you are right; it could cause more trouble for them. Maybe we should leave it here?”

You mulled it over for a moment. “If I were in her shoes.. And you had moved away for some reason against your will, I don’t think I could really move on. Even if I was forced to marry someone else. I love you too much to ever forget you.”

Arthur was silent for a moment. “Then we should do everything we can to make sure it’s delivered. Even if it is twenty-something years late,” he said, voice quiet and somewhat choked. You went to move away and look up at him, but Arthur’s hand kept your head against his neck. His free arm wrapped around you and he held you firmly to his body. You gave up fighting him, and just locked your arms around his neck. “Thank you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

Arthur finally let go and stepped away from you, looking around the room once more. “Let’s see if we can find out who the lucky lady is, yeah? The game, my dear, is on!”

The two of you went looking around the parlor for any other correspondence between the pair. Coming up empty handed there, you moved to other rooms. Normally Arthur would have been able to make an educated deduction on which room likely belonged to the author, but with the state of disrepair the house was in it was much more difficult. Or at least, that’s what Arthur said - but you suspected he just wanted an excuse to lead you around the house by the hand for a little longer. Not that you’d complain about that.

The two of you looked inside a bedroom suite on the second floor. The door creaked open, revealing a lavish room, covered in linens matching those in the parlor. A thick layer of dust coated the room as it did everywhere else in the house. You carefully stepped over to another desk, this one facing the window that overlooked the long-overgrown lawn. Spread across it were several letters in varying states of completion. Some were well-worn, clearly having been read over multiple times. Those ones appeared to have a different author than the one found downstairs.

“Alyssa Bloodwell,” Arthur murmured. “That name doesn’t ring any bells for me, but Daddy Dearest knows just about everyone worth knowing among Europe’s elite. We can ask him when we get back. For now, though…” Arthur turned to you, a devilish smile on his lips.

“Arthur,” you warned him to no avail. He quickly stepped forward and grabbed you by the hips. Your arms snaked around his neck automatically.

He grinned. “What is it, oh darling love of mine?” He gave you an innocent peck on the lips.

“Oh, don’t even start, Arthur,” you protested, but made no motion to step out of his embrace. His lips moved to the side of your face and you reflexively tilted your head to give him access. “We can’t - not here.”

“Says who?” Arthur murmured seductively, nibbling at the shell of your ear. “It’s not like there’s anyone here to stop us.” He walked you backwards to a sturdy chest of draws against the far wall, and easily lifted you up onto it. “You’ve been looking positively delectable all day. I can’t help myself from wanting a taste.” He leaned in and kissed you more insistently, his fingers dancing around the ribbon at the collar of your blouse.

“You are incorrigible,” You responded weakly, already returning his kiss.

“But you like it, don’t you?” Arthur replied, grazing your earlobe with his fangs. “You dirty little thing.” He ghosted his lips down the side of your neck, pressing a kiss right over your pulse point, before mouthing the spot and sucking hard. You cried out at the sharp pain of it.

Arthur ran his thumb over the red blooming there. “Beautiful,” he said. “I would bite you, but then I’d have to carry you back to grab a carriage.” He ran his tongue down the column of your throat, his fingers gently setting the ribbon to the side and dragging the top of your blouse down. His other hand slid up your skirt, the thumb running back and forth over the flesh of your inner thigh. “And I really don’t want to have to explain that one to the constable,” Arthur whispered, his breath coming out in puffs against your collarbone.

The drag of his sharp fangs against the skin of your chest combined with Arthur’s fingers moving higher underneath your skirt caused your breath to hitch. His gloved hand pressed gently against your clothed sex, applying a small bit of pressure through your underwear. You let out a soft whine at the contact. He rubbed his fingers back and forth between your thighs while leaving love bites all over your exposed chest.

His lips kissed back up your throat, and he pulled away to look at you. Smirking, he pulled his hand from between your thighs and took the glove in between his teeth. Arthur slowly, teasingly, pulled it off of his hand, the now bare appendage returning to its former place between your legs.

“Arthur,” you whimpered as he slid the material of your panties aside. He dragged his fingers back and forth through the wetness gathering there, circling the sensitive nub at the apex of your thighs.

You threw your head back, a low keening sound escaping your lips as he continued to swirl his fingers between your legs. Arthur shot out his other hand to catch the back of your head.

“Look at me,” he murmured. You bit your lip but did as he asked, and he smiled. “Good girl.”

Arthur’s thumb brushed against your lips and then he leaned in for a deep kiss. “You’re so cute when you come undone under my fingers like this,” he purred. “You’re normally so put together.” You probably were a sight to behold right now - skirt hiked up to your hips, blouse untied and loosely draped under your cleavage, chest heaving - you were the very image of debauchery.

Arthur leaned back in for another kiss, his tongue moving against yours in time with his fingers as they pushed inside of you.

Your gaze drifted up, suddenly settling on the walls of the room. Your eyes widened and you broke the kiss. “Arthur,” you breathed, voice scratchy. “Is it just me or is that wallpaper green?”

Arthur groaned and he pulled away with a discontent sigh, his lips forming a frown. “It is, and quite a lovely shade of it. But I don’t see how the color of the wallpaper is more important than my hand.” His fingers deftly continued their work, and you bit back a groan. “Unless you are unsatisfied, and want something more?”

“Because,” you breathed, trying to ignore Arthur’s actions and failing miserably. “Green pigments from around this time period are made of arsenic. It’s poison.” Your thighs trembled as he pleasured you. You were so close-

-and then Arthur suddenly stopped and looked at you, bewildered. You whined at the loss of stimulation. “Really?” He looked away from you, his gaze flitting all around the room that was blanketed in peeling green wallpaper. Arthur’s cobalt gaze met yours again, a light panic to his eyes. “And they didn’t know this?”

“No! The paint was invented sometime in the early nineteenth century and fell out of use during the mid nineteenth century because people were getting sick,” you sighed, the ache in your belly slowly subsiding, leaving you feeling uncomfortable and wanting for more. “It was later used as a pesticide, until they realized that was dangerous, too.” You were somewhat regretting your choice to stop Arthur at this moment. Curse your brain for being safety-conscious even with an incredibly attractive man between your legs, who wanted nothing more than to bring you pleasure.

Arthur sighed, pressing a kiss to your lips. “We should probably continue this elsewhere, then,” he conceded, removing his hands from your thighs. You shuddered at the loss of contact and watched as he lifted his slick-covered hand to his mouth, sucking on the fingers. The lewd sight sent another flare of smoldering heat right to your belly. “When we get back home, you’re going to have to make up for leaving me hanging like this. I hope you’re ready for the consequences of your actions.”

Bonus:

After speaking with Comte about what you discovered while exploring (trespassing), you and Arthur found yourselves standing outside of a beautiful, well-kept mansion in the Parisian countryside. As you approached the gate, a butler, who was trimming roses nearby, placed his garden shears down and stepped over.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle, Monsieur,” he greeted. “How can I help you?”

“Is there an Alyssa Bloodwell at this residence?” You asked.

The butler frowned. “Madame Bloodwell does live here, yes, but we were not advised of any visitors today. Was she expecting you?”

“Not exactly,” you replied. Arthur then pulled a time-worn letter out of his pocket and showed it to the butler, explaining, “I shan’t go into the specifics on how, but we came across this letter and believe its intended recipient is your mistress. We simply wish it to go where it belongs.”

The butler looked at the letter for a moment before nodding. “If you will, follow me,” he said and led you both into the mansion’s entryway, and from there to the parlor. “Please wait here, mademoiselle, monsieur. I will inform Madame Bloodwell of your visit and we shall proceed from there.”

After a few minutes of waiting, you looked up to see a woman in her late thirties descending the stairwell. “I am Madame Alyssa Bloodwell. I was informed you had correspondence intended for me?” she asked.

You curtsied and Arthur handed over the letter. She took it, eyeing it, and her hand dropped to her chest. “Where did you get this?” she said, breathless.

“We recently came into possession of it,” Arthur said, smoothly avoiding giving the details. “We did some detective work, and determined you were the recipient.”

Lady Bloodwell walked over to an armchair on uncertain legs and sunk down into it. “Louis,” she murmured. “I haven’t heard from him in twenty four years.” Her fingers caressed the fraying edges of the paper. “His family had been found to be embezzling money from one of the royal artisans and was disgraced. They fled Paris in the middle of the night and caught a ship to America. My parents forbade mention of him and the betrothal was called off. I ended up marrying a local lord, but.. I never did stop wondering what happened to him.”

You smiled sadly at her. “I’m sorry that we didn’t come bearing current news, but I’m glad we could at least bring you the letter. It’s obvious how much he loved you.”

“Thank you, cherie,” she said. “Please, is there anything I can do to repay you for doing me this kindness?”

You began to decline, but Arthur cut in. “If you don’t mind, could you answer a question for us as payment?“

She inclined her head.

“Did you ever move on?” Arthur asked, a serious look on his face.

Madame Bloodwell shook her head. “I love my husband,” she began. “But no. Louis was - is - special to me. I never stopped loving him, and I doubt I will stop until the last breath leaves my lungs.” She looked between you and Arthur, a content smile on her face. “I see such a resemblance between you two and myself and Louis. Monsieur, whatever you do, don’t ever lose her.”

Arthur looked straight at you and squeezed your hand. “I won’t.”

Taglist: @natimiles

#sexy ikemen summer #sexy ikemen summer cc #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikemen vampire arthur #ikevamp arthur #ikemen vampire fanfiction #ikevamp fanfiction #arthur conan doyle x reader #ikemen vampire x reader #ikevamp x reader #ikevamp fanfic #ikemen vampire fanfic #ikevamp mdni

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pinkiedev · 7 months ago

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G/T Fluffy Domestic Story Idea

Okay I highkey wanna write this but idfk when, so if anyone else wants to give it a shot (or already has) lmk so I can read it big plz and thank ;-;

G/t story where friendly giant builds whole house to be Tiny accessible while the tiny sits nearby swinging their legs and watches and chats them up, maybe helping where they can or giving pointers over things they struggle with and would need help for:

Walkways up to counters/higher surfaces

pulley systems?

little ladders and staircases everywhere

hehe some slides for the way down

Ways for tiny to turn on sinks for water/showers

giant makes it so all drains have grate bottoms so there's no risk of tiny falling through

maybe a shoelace attached to faucet so tiny can climb out

Safely carrying tiny

if on shoulder, could be interesting if giant has an earing that tiny can attach a harness to so they can't fall (or maybe tiny just holds onto earing like one of those handles for tall people in trains)

giant makes comfy chest pockets in all the shirts they wear at home

Private nook for tiny's bedroom/nest

with a somehow working toilet XD

a cute little wardrobe filled with clothes either the giant or tiny (or both) made

soft bed, maybe out of a commandeered pillow or some of the giant's old clothes

tiny-sized mirror made from smoothed out shard of a larger one

Little sitting areas all over the house

in front of/on windowsills that get direct sunlight

a mini dining table on top of giant's dining table

Mini greenhouse

for fresh fruits/plants/veggies for tiny to pick/care for themselves

flower garden full of those little flower types <3

maybe a mini water fountain

Food storage spot for tiny that's constantly restocked

teeny containers to keep crumbs and the like fresh

something to keep fresh produce cool??

Appliances

tiny cups/plates/utensils (bought or made by giant?)

whittled down graphite for pencils

maybe a teeny inkwell to dip a pin in for a quill/pen

sheafs of paper meticulously cut into the perfect size for tiny

maybe an old iPhone is bought as a TV for the tiny XD

Ways to make sure tiny stays safe while living with a giant

Giant doesn't wear headphones at home and keeps music low

Tiny is properly accounted for before any cleaning gets done (especially vacuuming HA)

Little bells all over the house so tiny can call for help if they need it

Helium balloons periodically exchanged for fresh ones that tiny can tie around their waist when crossing over the floor so they're easy to spot ;3

----

imma prolly keep adding to this as thoughts come to me, but ye this was stuck in my brain like friggin' glue so I had to spill it out, no two ways about it

#g/t #gt community #gt writing #borrower #giant tiny #giant/tiny #borrowers #story ideas #story prompt

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thesentientmango · 3 months ago

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[Click for better quality]

[Image description below the cut]

If you enjoy it, please reblog!

This mini season 9 comic is a over a year in the making and has gone through several iterations, including one where I forgot Zeds hair was blonde so I gave him quite dark brown hair! You'd hardly be able to tell now if I didn't tell you!

ID:

A watercolor comic with six panels.

Panel one: ImpulseSV from hermitcraft season nine is sitting at a desk in a rock inlet facing away from the viewer. To his right, an inkwell with a feather and a netherite axe and pixaxe. To his left there is a torch on the wall. At the bottom of the panel in a pink bubble it reads: "IMPULSE?"

Panel two: Impulse turns over his left shoulder, he has a curly brown beard and looks happy. A yellow text box pointing at Impulse reads: "ZED!" A pink text box at the bottom the the page reads: "HELP!"

Panel three: A shot of the desk, Impulse is not at it anymore, the ink has bee knocked over and the axe and torch are gone. The light from the torch is leading off to the left.

Panel four: Impulse is running down a stone hallway, the viewer is seeing him from the back. The axe is raised up.

Panel five: a similar shot of Impulse further down the hallway, now at an archway. He has stopped, and is lowering the axe.

Panel six: At the bottom of the frame, Impulse holds up the torch, axe fully lowered, as it illuminates his nether portal, which has a circlet of gold around it. like they have just come out of the nether portal, Zedaph is kneeling in front of it holding TangoTek who is lying down. Tango is in his decked out dungeon masters attire and his blue fire hair is sending up black smoke. Above the portal sunlight is coming down into the cave and vines are handing down. A pink text bubble next to Zedaph reads: "He won't wake up."

End ID

#hermitcraft #mangomakesart #hermitblr #hermitcraft 9 #hermitcraft fanart #impulsesv #zedaph #zedaphplays #tango tek #tangotek #team zit #impulse #impulse fanart #hermitcraft season 9 #hc s9

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cheeriecherrymain · 2 years ago

Text

The Bottom Of The Inkwell [Chapter 9]

Pairing: Viktor x fem!Reader Chapter Rating: T Chapter Warnings: medical scenes and mentions of surgery (nothing graphic), anxiety about potential familial loss, moments of self doubt and guilt Proofread: no beta we die like men Taglist: @envyspinebender Chapter Summary: Your life feels like it’s being uprooted, and you’re not coping well. Thankfully, Viktor is there for you, with his kind words and comforting presence.

The moment you arrive at the hospital with your uncle, your thoughts disappear. You’re overwhelmed with the sudden hushed whispers and sterile smells around you, and you slowly slip into a state of panic.

But you can’t run. Your father needs you to be there for him, even if he isn’t awake.

Your uncle drops you off at his room, where you unsurprisingly find your mother; hunkered over so she can lean on the edge of the medical bed, looking more frail than the rickety little chair in which she sits.

You take a moment to try and collect yourself, though it does very little to ease your anxiety.

Your father is silent where he lays on the gurney, with numerous thin tubes and wires shifting out from beneath the thin sheet that covers him. He’s not conscious, as you’d suspected he’d be - he’s still, and his eyes are sunken and dark, and his skin almost looks waxy.

Another wave of nausea washes over you.

Thankfully, you don’t have any more breakfast to exile from your stomach, which the nurses and cleaning staff probably appreciate.

“Hi mama…” you murmur, drawing her attention away from your father.

She looks even worse once she turns to you, her eyes puffy and tear tracks staining her cheeks. She looks as exhausted as you feel, and you’re immediately filled with a profound sense of guilt - though you’re unable to fathom why.

You find a seat beside her, taking her hand and knitting your fingers tightly together. You stay like that for a while, pressed up against each other, talking softly and trying to console each other while you wait for the doctor to return.

He eventually does, and he fully lays out everything that has occurred - everything that needs to be done to correct the issues. The surgery that needs to happen, the risks that come with it, the healing process, the lifelong effects.

Your mother nods along, resolutely taking in as much of the information as she can.

You, on the other hand, can barely comprehend what’s being said. You don’t recognize the shapes and sounds of the words being spoken, though you know you should. All you know is a looming sense of dread, a sickening pit in your gut, and the pounding of your heart in your chest.

Your mother eventually makes the decision to go ahead with the procedure, knowing that your father would want the chance to have more time with the both of you - even if it meant the risk of dying on the table.

Both of you lean over him to whisper a couple words of encouragement and love.

You give him a kiss on the forehead.

He smells wrong.

He feels wrong.

You watch in silence as he’s wheeled out of the room, possibly for the last time.

Your mother breaks down into tears again.

You wonder if you remembered to lock your dorm when you left that morning.

—

The next few days are a tumultuous whirlwind of emotions. At least…they are for everyone else.

Your father returns from surgery with great success, earning the praise of numerous hospital staff. Your mother is beyond relieved that he’s alright, even though the trouble is not yet over - he still needs to heal from the physical traumas he’s experienced, and he’ll need to adjust his lifestyle accordingly.

He’ll have to take it easy for months.

He’ll have to take medication for the rest of his life.

He won’t be able to do as much physical activity as he’s used to, which you know he’s going to hate.

He’s always been the one to take care of everything - the house, the bills, the cooking and cleaning, the yard, the laundry. He always prided himself on being able to maintain his life as independently as possible.

He’ll despise having people come in to do all the things he used to be able to. You know he will.

Or maybe, you think, dread pooling in the lowest depths of your stomach, All his duties will fall to you. How will you live up to those expectations - take care of both your parents, and a home, and a garden, and still have time for school?

You stare at a speck on the wall.

You wouldn’t be able to juggle all that stress - hell, you were barely able to keep up with everything as it currently was! You’d either have to drop out and move back home, or you’d have to hire several people to help your parents cope in their day to day life.

You wonder where the speck came from. It doesn’t line up with the door handle.

Your father would need an in-home nurse anyways. At least for the first couple of months, while he adjusted. He’d probably be picky in who he’d let help him, and he’d likely be crabby and unsociable. You suppose you understand, but…still.

Maybe the speck was always there, and you’d just never noticed it.

You’d never really looked at the walls of your dorm room that closely, after all.

You know you should probably be at home with your mother, to help her out when she needs you, and offer her some emotional support, but…you can’t. Not right now.

You can’t.

You haven’t been able to go back to the hospital since the first day, when you’d watched your father get taken away.

Your mother has said every day that he’s asked for you, and she’s had to tell him that you’re at school.

You know she’s upset with you.

You know he’s upset, too.

You don’t know why you’re so fucking terrified.

You’re a horrible daughter.

“I don’t want to fall behind in class,” you’d said. “I don’t want to sit around at home, twiddling my thumbs. I’ll be over soon.” Not telling your mother that you actually weren’t in class during the day.

You were hiding; from some violently frightening, unknowable thing.

You’re a horrible daughter.

You haven’t spoken to V since everything happened, either, so you’re a horrible friend, too. You could write to him right now, if you wanted to. You could pull out your notebook and your enchanted pen, and you could tell him about why you were so scarce. You know you should, and you know it wouldn’t take much effort.

So you do.

You rise from your bed with great effort, grabbing the half-empty glass bottle from your lamp table to bring it with you when you sway over to your desk.

You open your journal.

I heard something happened today, but all the professors are being tight-lipped about it. I hope you’re doing alright - it’s okay if you don’t reply to this. I know you probably didn’t have any time to stop by your dorm before you went home.

You sigh.

I know my last message sounds kind of presumptuous, like I know who you are and what’s happened to you. I…will admit, I do know who you are. You don’t need to worry about that, though. I’ve known for a little while now. Gossip is spreading around like wildfire, and I don’t know what stories to believe, if any. Whatever is going on, make sure to take care of yourself - rest, drink water, eat. I’ll be here whenever you have the energy to come back.

You blink back the tears beginning to collect in your eyes, willing them away.

Sorry for taking so long to reply. You were right - I didn’t have any time to grab my stuff before I took off. I don’t know what rumours you’ve been hearing, but I’ll set them straight: my dad had a heart attack. He needed to go into surgery in order to fix the problem, which is why my mother and I were called over. It was risky, so we…kind of had to say goodbye. Just in case.

You take a deep, trembling breath.

He’s doing alright. He’s tired, and he sleeps a lot. I guess that’s expected, after what he’s been through.

And then, your thoughts come tumbling out.

V, I’m a terrible person. I haven’t been to see him since that first day, and I don’t know why. I told my mom that I needed to keep up with school, and that I would be able to function better if I had some sort of normalcy in my life, but I! I haven’t been to class even once. I’ve been sitting in my room drinking for three days, staring at the ceiling, stewing in anxiety and guilt, and I don’t know how to fix it.

Cinnamon vodka isn’t as bad as it sounds, at least. Might need to grab another bottle. I’m probably going to try and sleep some more.

Sorry.

You slam the notebook shut, and set your head down on the soft leather cover to cry. Silent, harsh sobs wracking your body, making your ribs ache and your throat squeeze. You weren’t lying - you don’t know what to do. You don’t know how to face the fear you’re feeling, and you don’t know how to ask for help.

All your life, you’ve felt as though you’ve had to do everything alone, and always do your best, and be the best, and now…

Now, you just need a hug.

—

Your room is dark when you open your eyes. Lights from the city cast strange shapes across your ceiling, but aside from the dim flickering, you can’t see.

You sit up slowly, not wanting to aggravate the dull ache in the back of your skull, but your honeyed movements do nothing. Your world turns on its end, and you’re certain that if you could see anything, your vision would be swimming.

But despite your dizziness, you don’t feel the familiar burn of bile trying to come up your throat, nor the involuntary heaving that made your ribs cramp. Why had you woken up?

You sit there for a couple seconds, puzzling.

Until the soft rap of knuckles on wood comes from somewhere off to the right.

Oh.

That’s probably why.

You paw around blindly until your fingertips collide with your bedside lamp, wincing and pinching your eyes shut when the room suddenly floods with light.

Another knock.

“Gods above,” you grumble, grumpily stumbling to your feet. “Hold on a second, I’m-”

You pause, after you briskly swing the door open.

Oh.

“Viktor?”

You don’t mean to sound as cranky as you do, but you know he hears it. He winces ever so slightly at your tone, his hand tightening around his cane as he gives you a somewhat awkward smile.

“Ah…I apologize for coming around so late,” he says, looking you up and down. “I…have been busy the past few days, and I was not sure if you’d be back so soon after…”

He trails off for a second, as if he realizes he’s just stuck his foot in his mouth.

Still, you’re less perturbed now that you know it’s just him, instead of some stranger here to bother you about something useless.

“You wanna come in?” you wonder, stepping aside enough to let him in.

He takes the invitation, and swiftly makes his way into your room, leaving you to shut the door behind him. He stops in the middle of your tiny dorm to observe the things you have set up - little decorations you’ve filled your shelves with, books you have lined up on your desk, your purple polkadotted sheets.

The mostly empty liter of alcohol you have sitting beside your bed.

“Are you drunk?” he asks curiously, watching as you wobble back over to your bed to find a seat.

“Probably,” you sigh. “I was supposed to help me sleep.”

He plucks the glass container from beside your lamp, and observes it carefully. “Cinnamon vodka?”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

He unscrews the cap, and brings it to his lips.

You watch in complete shock as he takes a heaping mouthful of the stuff, swishing it around for a couple seconds before swallowing. He doesn’t even make a face.

“I don’t understand how you’re not throwing up,” he comments, setting it back down on your nightstand. “That’s a lot of alcohol to have in three days, especially on an empty stomach.”

You frown up at him with prickly annoyance, balling your fists at your sides. “I’ve had a really shitty week,” you hiss, “I think I’m entitled to a little bit of relaxation.”

All at once, his expression softens, and his shoulders fall. As if he’s realized how harsh he’s coming down on you - regardless of how unhealthy your coping mechanisms are.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, stepping carefully over the little piles of clothes on your floor. “I…didn’t come here to judge you for whatever it is you’re doing. Grieving, or stressing,” he takes a seat beside you, “People have been whispering, but the story changes every time I hear it. I don’t know what’s actually happened.”

You watch him for a moment from the corner of your eye, brows drawn together and lips pressed into a tight line. He sounds curious, despite his roundabout way of questioning you.

“You’re allowed to just ask me, you know?” you tell him.

“Your tone and your posture say otherwise.”

With a groan, you flop backwards onto your bed, covering your face with your hands.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Viktor!” you gripe, dragging your palms upwards until you can knit your fingers into your hair. “My mood is shit right now, my life is shit right now, and I feel like shit right now. I’m sorry if I can’t have a polite conversation-”

“I’m not asking you to be polite,” he interrupts, staring down at you with intense concern. “I’m just asking you to be honest. Tell me what’s going on. I can’t help, if you won’t tell me.”

You manage a whopping two seconds of eye contact before you find yourself having to break away. You try to blink back the familiar burning tears, but unlike earlier, the action only seems to make them flow faster. Gathering behind your lashes, bubbling over and trailing down the sides of your face.

Shakily, you begin to tell him the events of the past couple days.

Almost losing your father.

Your anxiety, knowing he’ll be stubborn about changing.

Your inability to set foot in the hospital without having a panic attack.

The guilt that weighs on you, not being able to provide for your family.

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit, wiping at your eyes for the nth time. “I feel like I’ve been tossed into the ocean during a storm. It’s not even my life that’s really going to change, but I…gods, I sound so self centered.”

Slowly, the bed dips beside you, as Viktor comes to rest. His arm is warm where he’s pressed up against you, offering you a comfort you didn’t even realize you were lacking - someone to lean on.

“You’re not a bad person for being afraid,” he says, after a couple of moments pass. “Emotions are finicky. They’re illogical and strange. It makes sense that your mind would take a stressful situation and make you fear it.”

It’s obvious in the way that you continue to sniffle that you don’t believe him.

So he tries again.

“Did you know I lost my mother when I was twelve?” he asks, knowing full well that he’s never told you in depth about his past. “She was sick for a long time, like a lot of people in the undercity are. She tried to push through it but…in the end it took her. I got to watch her waste away for two years before she finally passed.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, squirming around for a few seconds to lay on your side, facing him.

“It was a blessing, after all she’d been through,” he promises, turning over to mirror your position. “My father…didn’t see it that way, though. He sank lower and lower into his moods, made worse and worse decisions, got into fights with the wrong crowd of people.”

He sighs sadly.

“One morning, he left for work and just…never came back. No one ever reported seeing his body somewhere - I don’t even know if there would be a body. For all I know, he’s still alive somewhere, skulking around in the deepest crevices of the city.”

Slowly, carefully, you bring your hand up to where his lays loosely between your bodies. “Did you have anyone else?” you ask, entwining your fingers.

“No,” he replies sullenly. “I was alone, for the most part. A couple people took pity on me and offered me food, but no one…no one ever took me in. It was difficult to keep moving forward when I was just struggling to survive. There were a few places that would offer me work - machine and repair shops, the like - but only if I had the skills. And I wouldn’t be able to get the skills without the job. You see where this is going.”

You nod.

“You needed someone to teach you, instead of everyone expecting you to already know things.”

“Exactly,” he agrees, “But no one would take a chance on a quiet child who could barely stand on his own. If I had been stronger, then perhaps they would have - at least if I turned out to not have the mind for such work, they could stick me in a labor position. I felt hopeless, and lost. Angry, depressed, and like I’d been cheated out of the life I’d wanted.”

He reaches up with his free hand, then, to tenderly stroke the pads of his fingers over the curve of your cheek.

“But then, like some kind of miracle, I met someone. Sort of.”

He huffs a laugh when the confusion wrinkles across your face.

“How do you sort of meet someone?” you ask, perplexed.

“You talk without ever seeing each other’s faces,” he replies, as if it’s the most sensible thing he’s ever said. “You might need the help of a magic pen, though - rather, a set of magic pens.”

You freeze.

One by one, the pieces fall into place - the boy from the undercity, the way you’d spoken to each other, how similar both your friends had been, and how you’d cared deeply for both of them.

“V,” you utter. “V for Viktor.”

He smiles at you, warm and affectionate.

“You’ve changed my life in ways you cannot fathom,” he explains, cupping your jaw. “You have supported me in my most dire moments, purely out of the kindness of your heart. You went above and beyond for someone who was essentially a total stranger, and I…”

He pauses for the briefest moment, before his gaze meets yours. “I fell in love with you - before we came to the academy, I was convinced that we were meant to be.” And then, a cheeky grin, “Of course, then I got paired with the strangest partner for one of my classes - impossible to work with, as if she was trying to be frustrating on purpose!”

You’re barely able to bite back a giggle.

“Except she turned out to be an incredible friend,” he finishes, “and more. I fell in love with her, too. She looked at me like I was a person, not just…some boy from the lanes. She’s brilliant - blinding in creativity and ingenuity, cleverness and spirit. You really are incredible, you know?”

Heat rises to your face, and you have to break away from the intensity of his gaze, lest you combust.

“In my defense,” you murmur, “you didn’t make it easy, either.”

He wraps his arm around your waist, and pulls you close with a soft laugh. “No,” he sighs, “I suppose I didn’t. But I think it turned out alright.”

You stay there for a few moments, pressed tightly against him while you listen to the steady thrum on his heart. It’s comforting to have such warmth radiating through your body, to have the pressure of another person on your skin, holding you safe where you lay.

Then, “All of this is, of course, to say that whatever you need from me - I’ll do it. I’ll go with you to see your father. If you need help with school, I’ll do whatever is necessary. If you just need a friend, and can’t deal with anything more right now, I understand - I’ll be your friend. I’ll support you. Whatever you need from me, it’s yours.”

This time, when the tears well up, you don’t try to will them away. You let them slide past your lashes, sideways over your face until they’re absorbed by the soft material of Viktor’s sweater.

“I just need you,” you sniffle, squishing your face harder into his chest. “As you are - that’s what I need.”

He presses a tender kiss to the crown of your head.

“You have me.”

#viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #arcane x reader #The Bottom Of The Inkwell #this is not the end no worries

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good-wizard · 1 year ago

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OKAY OKAY GUYS I TRIED TO GET A PHOTO OF US ALL, I KNOW I MISSED A FEW OF YOU BUT ITS THE BEST I COULD DO PLUMMETING FROM 100,000 FEET WITH TEA, CAKE, PIE, AND WEED BROWNIES ALL FLYING AROUND ME

Thankyou all for showing up now let's get our tea on!!

[I drew everyone's profile pictures, if they didn't have something I could draw I looked at their headers and if those didn't have anything I looked for ocs, I hope you all like it!!!]

[and if you didn't make it just draw yourself in somewhere! I don't mind! We are all invited!!]

Here's a list of everyone I got in the picture:

@the-gnomish-bastard (3rd picture in the center)

@slutty-wizard-council (second picture in the center)

@the-gnomish-bastards-dad (3rd picture upper left)

@combustion-wizard (first picture, upper middle, your teas exploding)

@yourlocalbreadenthusiast (3rd picture behind large beige creature, top right)

@the-better-goblin-union (2nd picture middle right)

@siley-the-wizard (1st picture just off from the center to the left)

@dalob (3rd picture bottom left, next to me)

@circuslemon (your lime is bottom middle, you are off middle top right)

@well-dressed-sewer-rat (3rd picture between the gnomes)

@username-not-registered (3rd picture top middle)

@saul-moleman (3rd picture, middle, to the left, over my arm)

@the-kobold-bastard (next to mole, 3rd picture)

@funny-short-man (3rd picture, right of center Gnomie)

@sluttyambiguouswizard (3rd picture falling right of Gnomie)

@ashen-the-tiefling (2nd picture middle far right, your cat is with you)

@randomfaeriedragon (3rd picture middle right)

@mug-of-shark (3rd picture bottom right corner)

@chaos-familiar (3rd picture top left)

@monsterfucker-research-wizard (top left with clip board that says MFR {Monsterfucker research})

@wizardcrow (1st image middle, I drew you in human form, ig?)

@boxell (2nd image, Misha Collins, middle far left)

@evil-apprentice-wizard (2nd image, very top right corner)

@just-a-cool-wizard (big one eyed apple, 2nd image you can't miss it)

@ayoungfather (2nd image, bottom right, your shirt says something about fatherhood)

@terrencetheshark14 (2nd image bottom right, next to a clown)

@succufaerie (1st image, middle right, next to mirror, I did my best to draw you)

@bowl-of-moss (1st image, bottom middle, slightly to the right)

@barely-living-wizard-apprentice (first image, bottom left, towards middle!)

@wayworm (1st image bottom left, with Snoopy and a corn snake)

@jhomikle (1st image, middle left, with succubus, look closely in the mirror, you're holding tea!)

@aileaxthevoidien (1st image bottom left, you're drinking coffee)

@ima-snekk (1st image, with wayworm, bottom left)

@8ball-wizard (you are falling from the sky in the first image, your tea is spilling but you've just received an amazing prophecy)

@fearlessjones (1st image, center bottom)

@bugwizard4lyfe (1st image, bottom left, I think I accidentally combined your persona with someone else, whoops!)

@kobold-sanctuary-buss-island (1st image, center to the left, drinking tea with verylegalwizard)

@profoundmiscasting (2nd image, middle, sitting in chair, next to sluttywizardcouncil representative)

@reiki-tsubetai (second image, far right, top middle on side, you are falling)

@broccoli-bitching (2nd image, middle far left, under my arm)

@evil-wild-lesbian-wizard (1st image, far left, almost very top)

@gavamont (2nd image very center, behind slutty wizard council representative)

@bladlauf (2nd image, top right, beneath the evil apprentice wizard)

@fyriefairy (1st image, super bottom left!!)

@ablasphemyofpoets (2nd image bottom middle, slightly to the left, I didn't do a very good job)

@inkwell-god (2nd image, top middle)

@chaoticz8 (2nd image center, behind purple hooded lady

@slymewizard (2nd image, upper left, behind slutty wizard

@verdan-the-druid (2nd image, middle, In front of slutty wizard)

@vsgroundnet (2nd image top right, your super small but you're there!)

Okay guys my hand is dead, there are so many more of you and I don't have the time to @ you all. So I've devised an idea, @ whoever you reblogged from so they can see the picture,

Don't see yourself in the picture? I give you permission to draw yourself in anywhere you like!

Go crazy go wild, I love you guys this is a great sky tea party!!

Good wizard out! I think it's time for me to enjoy some weed brownies from just-a-cool-wizard

#wizard posting #wizard tea party #this went out of control fast #wizart #wizard spell #all my friends!!!!#love you guys

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maladaptivewriting · 1 year ago

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✺ Masterlist ✺

instagram link: here

general ao3 link: here

bluesky link: here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧

the golden king (WIP 138/?): jegulus, wolfstar, & drarry (playlist) [next update: november 23rd]

regulus black goes to school with the golden trio.

solar flare (WIP 20/?): jegulus, wolfstar, rosekiller, dorlene, & pandalily [next update: november 23rd]

a jegulus twilight au.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧

Completed

salus excorio (M. 31k words): jegulus, wolfstar, & marylily

regulus is dying, all he wants is to spend his last few months alive with his brother

a memory stolen, a memory gained (E. 30k words): wolfstar

sirius loses his memories, his friends are confused.

one last party (before we meet our end) (M. 51k words): peter/barty

peter pettigrew and barty crouch jr. have to take care of a rapidly de-aging tom riddle after a ritual goes wrong.

scarlet oak (E. 10k words): jegulus

a centaur creature fic

a torment of themselves (E. 16k words): wolfstar

a veela sirius fic

white snakeroot (E. 42k words): wolfstar, jegulus

cowboy remus and vampire sirius

one shots

the moon dog (M. 3k words): wolfstar

remus decides to break sirius out of azkaban, despite his guilt

constant vigilance (E. 4k words): jegulus

CNC one-shot with auror/death eater roleplay

bottom of the inkwell (E. 4k words): wolfstar

slytherin remus + academic rivals to lovers fic

an omen of death (G. 6k words): regulus & sirius

canon compliant regulus black character study

sloppy seconds (E. 13k words): wolfstar

remus watches several men have sex with sirius

honey, don’t feed me (E. 8k words): jegulus

stalker james au

cosmic entanglement (E. 10k words): wolfstar

multiverse wolfstar

secrets, timelines, and missing boys (T. 5k words): marylily

let the right one in au

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enderwoah · 1 year ago

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what's stronger than a diamond?

take this antarctic empire inspired fusion design of phil and techno! he was real fun to design (my favourite bit is his cape, it turns into mist at the very bottom like a waterfall (or into snow, your choice)) :D

also fun fact, this was lined with a feather pen that i had to dip into an inkwell :D my lining pen was broken by my siblings but this had the perfect nib !

red king design by @cherrifire + the gemcyt au by @chrisrin!

stupid doodle under the cut:

#he gets to swear a bit #because phil swears like a sailor and techno doesn't so it evens out #he gets to say what the hell #the hexagon around his eye is a reference to how lonsdaleite is stronger than diamond due to its hexagonal molecular structure!#(versus the cube structure diamond has)#philza #technoblade #rendog #renthedog #???#martyn inthelittlewood #inthelittlewood #gemcyt #also the idea of ren and techno being rivals has been funny to me since 3rd life #they have never interacted but the comparisons drawn between them were SO FUNNY #enderinks

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littlest-w01f · 4 months ago

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Chapter Ten

Series Masterlist

Cw: Necromancy, torture, slight mention of sa

The dinner had a rather abrupt ending to it after Rhysand mentioned visiting the Bone Carver with Feyre, the Death God was nothing new to Rheana, having read all his tales, but she'd never met him, visited The Prison all but twice to lock up traitors.

She had seen him in passing though, when the curiosity got better of her and she made her way down the prison, in the form of a young female with bright firey hair, light bronze skin, violet eyes, and large Illyrian wings, sitting in the cell, playing with bones. The female looked eerily similar to her, at the same time, she carried a stranger's face.

Rheana took a step closer to the cell, her heart pounding in her chest as she calmed herself down. She could feel the energy radiating off the girl, making her feel both uneasy and strangely drawn towards her at the same time.

But she knew better than to converse with the Carver, so she had left, even still, the thoughts of why he had shown up as that female haunted her, all because it was a question she didn't know the answer to.

The new morning she saw outside on her balcony in the townhouse, a piece of parchment in front of her, an ink pot and the fancy quill she preferred beside her, with some chamomile tea in her hands.

As Rheana sipped her chamomile tea, her mind wandered back to the Bone Carver, and the peculiar sight of him appearing as a young female, it had been years since then, centuries even. She picked up her quill and dipped it into the inkwell, changing her thoughts from the Bone Carver to Tarquin, the High Lord of Summer her brother had asked her to write to.

Rheana, despite the view people had for her Court, was very nicely received among the royal families of other Courts, she spoke in the language people wanted to hear, and read people so well that she knew what they expected without breaking into their minds.

So, the words flew freely, asking Tarquin for a visit to Summer, for herself, Rhysand, Feyre and Amren, spinning a tale of wanting to mend Court relations, after Amarantha had destroyed Prythian, she did feel a visit to other Courts would be important, especially after she had killed Tarquin's mother, an old friend of hers, along with his father for the Summer Court trying to rebel against her.

Rheana knowing full well how persuasive she could be when writing letters, hoped that this one would have the desired effect. Kallos took the chance to jump in her lap in the form of a little kitten she kept them as, purring like one too, but their skin was as scale-like as it had been when she met them. She finished writing her letter, dipping the quill again to sign her name elegantly before placing everything neatly aside, she hovered her hand over the parchment, using her magic to dry the ink.

She held the paper, and folded it thrice before summoning an envelope, setting the letter inside, and sealing it with hot wax and her court's emblem, using the quill she made three stars on the bottom of the envelope with Night Blooms under the stars, her own personal mark for Tarquin to know who it came from.

With the letter sealed and marked, Rheana stood up and walked over to the balcony, gazing out at the city below. She felt a sense of anticipation building within her, wondering what response she might receive from Tarquin. She closed her eyes, letting the warm breeze caress her face, and whispered a silent prayer to the stars, hoping that her efforts would not be in vain.

Kallos appeared on the windowsill and with a wave of Rheana's hand, they turned into a raven, a deep black coat that still had its scaley texture, bigger than most birds, Take this for me. She said in their mind.

Kallos mindlessly picked the letter with their beak and nodded, for you, They then took flight, and Rheana cast a glamour on them to keep them invisible to anyone who looked to the sky.

Rheana watched intently as Kallos took flight, carrying her letter towards its destination. A pang of worry briefly crossed her heart but she quickly banished it, trusting in the strength of her words and her bond with Kallos, they would get the message to Tarquin. She returned to her seat, pouring herself another cup of chamomile tea, she pulled a book from her shelf, settling back comfortably with the intention to pass the time by losing herself in someone else's fantastical world until news arrived.

Rhysand and Feyre returned earlier than Rheana had expected, sensing how upset Feyre was, and told her enough of the fact that they hadn't visited The Prison.

Feyre had said nothing but locked herself in her room, and Rhysand had simply asked Rheana not to try to make her come out, giving her space.

Rheana nodded understandingly, sympathizing with Feyre’s pain. "Of course," she murmured softly, casting a glance towards the door of Feyre’s room. "Give her time." She advised gently, reaching out to place a comforting hand on Rhysand’s arm. "And you should give yourself some time too. It must be difficult to see your mate hurt."

Rheana could tell from the set of Rhysand's shoulders and the distant look in his eyes that he was indeed struggling too. His emotions were so closely tied to Feyre's, that it was hard for him to remain unaffected when she suffered. Rheana moved away from him slightly, stepping over to the fireplace to stir the embers and add more wood, the crackling flames providing a comforting sound.

Rheana left Rhysand with himself and some of the calming tea she had been drinking, and made her way up the House of Winds, if she had been in a hurry, she would've flown, but for now, she had the time to walk up the spiral staircase to the top.

10,000 stairs may seem daunting to many, but for Rheana, it was a familiar trek, one she often undertook when seeking solitude or clarity. As she climbed, the air grew cooler, the scent of saltwater and seafoam wafting in through the open windows that lined the staircase. By the time she reached the top, her legs were pleasantly tired, and her mind felt refreshed.

She had the House of Winds to herself, Cassian had gone to Illyria to see how the training for the males was going, she herself would be leaving soon to train her females, as she did every morning and afternoon, but she also had business to care for before that with Azriel, who waited for her.

Her thoughts went to the library in the House of Winds, on the new Priestess that had joined them almost a few days ago, when her temple was infiltrated by Hybern soldiers, the soldiers that Azriel had ripped apart with his Siphons and the general that he had beaten till his death.

After a few moments of peace, she took flight into the caves of the mountain the House of Winds was built on, as she stepped past a spell of glamour, the dungeons formed in front of her, muffled cries coming from deep inside, the place was dark, Rheana was sure many bats lived in the cracks and crevices in the caves, which might also be why Azriel always came with a new batch of captured insets every time he visited.

"Azriel?" Rheana called out when she felt a few shadows shifting around her, she knew every knock and cranny of this place, having worked alongside Azriel to contain her power and rage before she found much more suitable ways to manage herself.

She felt the shadows move behind her and she sensed Azriel, who simply moved past her when he knew she felt him, "How nice of you to join me, Rhea, this will be like old times."

Azriel led her to a cell, where a dead body lay, the body of the Hybern general, the only physical thing left of the people who attacked Sangravah, Rhysand had been quite pissed that Azriel had left no one standing to interrogate but after what he had told the siblings, Rhysand hadn't been that mad, and besides, Rheana could make it work.

"Ah, so this is him?" Rheana tutted, her clothes transforming, leather replacing cotton, armour, and Siphons on display, the look of death in her eyes, the male's face was bruised and battered, frozen in a look of terror from when Azriel had unleashed himself upon him, "Doesn't seem too intimidating."

"He looks like someone who picks fights with people who can't fight back." Azriel growled and Rheana rested a hand on his shoulder in comfort.

"Hey, why don't I do this alone? You take care of anything else..." Rheana sighed softly, "Perhaps see over the Illyrian females, while I'm busy."

Azriel left with a huff, he'd clearly wanted to see the male suffer, but they needed information more than sadistic pleasure. The second Azriel winnowed away, Rheana exhaled, the room filled with darkness, she looked at the male, tied up to a chair with chains, body slagging in it, covered in cuts and bruises, some received way after he was dead.

Rheana weaved her hand through the dead general's hair, with a sharp inhale, her eyes turned completely black, her skin going paler than the moon as she let go of her darkness and daemati powers, weaving them both together to take control of the dead mind of the general, bringing his body back to life with a gasp of harsh breath the body took, it's eyes dark just like Rheana's were.

The general blinked open his eyes, groaning in pain, staring blankly ahead as though trying to focus on something just beyond reach. Rheana stood before him, her form barely visible amidst the darkness, that swirled around her. She wasn't the dainty princess her father had wanted his daughters to be, clad in warrior leathers, muscles tense from power, biceps flexing from her grip in his hair, nails digging right into his skull, wings flared wide, dark purple Siphons gleaming in the darkness, in front of the general stood The Lady of Darkness, the witch of the dark the Illyrians feared, and the dead general had the right mind to look frightened. She leaned down closer to the male, her voice a low whisper against the silence of the dungeon.

"Speak," She commanded firmly, her eyes burning with an otherworldly intensity. "What were you doing in the Sangravah temple? What did you take?"

The general's lips parted, but no words came out at first. He tried to struggle against the restraints holding him in place, but they held firm. Fear shone brightly in his eyes, a stark contrast to the darkness of Rheana's own gaze. But still, he remained silent. Rheana frowned, her grip tightening even more. A curl of her hand sent another surge of energy coursing through the general, forcing him to obey.

"I… I was following orders!" He finally managed to stammer out, voice almost hypnotized, fear making his voice tremble. "We were tasked with finding and retrieving something specific."

"The feet of the Cauldron, that's what missing, there would be no need for it if you didn't have the Cauldron hidden with you." Rheana's eyes shone dark like a starless cold night sky, "Does your king have it?"

The general nodded, his mind in her hands, quite literally, fear etched across his face as he struggled to keep his composure. "Yes… Yes, he does! It's hidden somewhere safe. No one knows its location except for the king and those closest to him!"

"Like you," Rheana smirked like darkness and death herself, her hold on his mind tightening, "So, where?"

The general grimaced, pain shooting through his head as he fought against the compulsion Rheana exerted upon him. His eyes darted around wildly, searching for some kind of escape, but there was none, because he was dead, nothing about him quite alive. "I… I don't know exactly! Only that it is far from here, somewhere secluded and well-guarded," He confessed, desperation creeping into his tone.

"Fine, guard it in your mind, you only can for so long." Rheana hummed, her voice dangerously sweet, "And the young female you assaulted? Was that an order too? Or do you just liked having power over a defenseless female?"

The general paled further, his mind recoiling at the mention of the assault. "It wasn't an order! We… I acted on my own, without permission. I just couldn't resist her, she was so beautiful and helpless… And that bitch hid the children! It was an easy way to punish her..." He trailed off. "Please, forgive me, I swear it won't happen again!"

"Oh no it won't. Because you suffered and died, and I brought your mind back to torture you again," Rheana smiled, "But her? She suffered, and she will heal."

The general shuddered, his entire being trembling under the weight of Rheana's command. His eyes closed tight as tears began to stream down his cheeks, Rheana was sure the male had wet himself too, there was always that downside of bringing a mind back with magic, it jolted up some other functions too. "Please… Please don't hurt me anymore," he begged, voice cracking.

"Well, if you're lying to be general, you'll wish your body was obliterated like the rest of your soldiers," Rheana cooed as if talking to an infant, "Because I will be back, and that would hurt so much more."

Rheana withdrew her hand from his head, her fingers and palm soiled in blood as the male went limp again, looking more dead than he was before.

{General Taglist- @nox-ceur @lilah-asteria @paleidiot}

{Flames and Darkness Taglist- @anuttellaa @tuggboatfishin @inloveallthetime}

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