#deleting this in a minute just. posting for a giggle for a sec

[tpup]

God not another trans person being flung out by the roommate /partner/family. Won't be long before you start a go fund me. Reason why y'all get tossed out is because you are unbearable to deal/live with. Real world is so hard and you come home to someone who refuses to get help for their mental illness, who makes being mentally ill/a furry/trans etc their whole fucking identity and who changes pronouns or makes them up at the drop of a hat and then has a meltdown when you don't remember.

I lived with my trans parter who identified as a cat and they exploited my support for them by making everything ridiculous. I am working twelve hour shifts I come home and I am expected to communicate through meowing. When I don't I am disrespecting them. They change pronouns daily. They then make up pronouns until it's a new language. We go to a restaurant and someone doesn't use they/them because they didn't know and my ex flips out and causes a scene and we get flung out.

Everything is about you all the time. We have to cater to you all the time. We have to walk on eggshells on case we trigger you. It's like living with a knife being held to your throat every day all day. You bark like a dog and go on about being trans like that's all you are and you held your girlfriend hostage to it. Now she's acting crazy and throwing you out because doggo, she's having a nervous breakdown. You have driven her to it. She just wants a quiet normal life not someone who thinks flipping genders every two minutes or pretending to be a dog is gonna solve your problems. She wants quiet and stability not you acting fucking crazy 24/7 and making out it's normal. I see it all the time, trans or furries driving their partner/roommates/family to the edge of madness or having nervous breakdowns because they can't cope with your insanity and way of life.

Matt is it you

[obeymeluv]

Diavolo as a Dad

I just want to take a sec and thank everyone for the attention this blog gets. I’m always surprised at how many notes and reblogs there are. Seriously! I have, like, 16 posts and somehow I have 400 followers?! It’s really nice (つ´∀｀)つ

I like it best when there’s comments. It makes me happy ＼(^o^)／

I saw a comment on “The Bros as Dads” post asking for Diavolo as a dad, so here you go. I tried to tag you, but your handle didn’t come up :/

Hopefully you guys like this. I feel like Diavolo’s character is very vague.

This kind of turned into general Diavolo headcanons + Diavolo as a Dad. My b.

 General Diavolo Headcanons:

I headcanon that demons have a natural attraction to humans not only because of whatever energy they could provide, but because there’s something innate that makes them want humans. Maybe like an ancient call to their corruptibility or something. Or simply a predator coaxing prey into the den.

Diavolo is especially susceptible to this because he’s the prince. The higher up in the demon hierarchy you are, the more you want humans for their spirit, purity, the soul contract, and just some kind of satisfaction only they can give

There’s probably a forbidden fruit element to it, too. Demons were harassed by humans and angels alike to leave them be, and that just made them more attractive 

He genuinely wanted to befriend humans and knock down some old walls and superstitions, so he made the exchange program. A lot of times the sheer excitement of making it happen is enough to take the edge off his demon side. Ignore the whispers saying the little human would be such a treat, like a little lamb in the palm of his hand...

Diavolo’s a pretty outgoing and friendly guy who’s been trapped in a castle of propriety and demands. This human is also his chance at escape, to learn more than books could ever teach him.

At first he’s worried about seducing them (like the old call demands) but when he realizes the human has a crush on him without that influence, he’s stoked.

Pure and perfect, right? THE example of what his program was trying to achieve!

The dates start off innocent and cute--studying and tea in the castle, a small brunch here and there. Diavolo has skipped out on several duties because he simply must treat you to Devildom cuisine! If he didn’t, they wouldn’t get the full experience now, would they?

Barbatos has had to hunt down Lord Diavolo more than he cared for. If you end up convincing Diavolo back to the castle, he respects you. He appreciates the extra babysitter.

You bring a joy to Diavolo’s lavish monotony and he wants the Devildom and human world to know he’s serious about forging better bonds, so he asks if you want to make a pact.

That’s what he says, but it’s so much more than that. Diavolo couldn’t put it all into words and you probably don’t have the lifespan it would take for him to explain (if he could).

At most, there’s something warm and giddy and pulsing in him at the thought of being so close with you. Two souls sharing a bond. Being looked at with such love and adoration...

His pact mark is large and elaborate, and he takes great joy in hiding it from the Devildom, relishing the rare mornings where he helps you dress. He doesn’t regret bonding with you, but he doesn’t want to draw unsavory attention. 

Diavolo as a Dad (when you’re pregnant) :

You realize you’re pregnant before Barbatos and Diavolo do, neither one of them very familiar with how humans carry the pregnancy or change throughout.

There’s subtle signs about how your skin is changing, the way your hair looks, and how you smell different. It’s firing off in Diavolo’s brain, tickling at the edge of it, but he can’t figure out what it is.

Barbatos consulted Solomon and got extra suspicious. When you realize he’s starting to put it together, you do the reveal.

You write a note and draw a picture of the pregnancy test, mixing it up in the papers he has to review. Then, just to be extra cute, you busy yourself about the castle to “give him private time”.

Diavolo is handling his paperwork, per usual (it’s almost automatic). The unofficial form catches his eyes since it’s more a note than anything. He reads it and suddenly the WHOLE CASTLE is up in arms with joy.

Doesn’t matter what room you’re in, you heard him. That big, joyful laugh that works his whole chest.

The Little D’s of the castle are skittering around and whooshing through walls to help him find you. You can hear him flying around and calling for you, and it’s like the times you’ve played hide and seek.

The second Diavolo finds you, he crushes you to him and smothers you with kisses. His eyes sparkle as he snuggles you, big purr rolling through his chest. He’s asking a million questions about human children

The two of you take classes together. He studies up on humans and you learn about how to care for demon babies.

Barbatos cries inside at the thought of baby-proofing the castle. He gets the bright idea to hire a bunch of moms and they do sweeps of the castle, tidying up and making lists of what needs to be put away or added to make it safe

You’re given a special brew (exclusive to the royal family) and drink it daily. It fortifies your body to deliver the child and gives the baby its royal heritage (basically makes sure Diavolo’s genes and the demon side comes out a bit stronger).

Even though it tastes good and something in it makes you want to drink it, you’re sick of it by the second month. Barbatos and Diavolo continue to insist that you do. The child should be at least half-demon and will need to be recognized as next-of-kin for ruling.

Diavolo would love to take you out to socialize and attend public classes, but he’s busy and you’re in a delicate state. The royal physicians say the brew does a lot internally so it’s best not to stress you too much (If he’d done The King’s Brew ritual before you were pregnant, the baby would’ve been 3/4th demon and you wouldn’t have so many restrictions. Who knew?)

There’s a lot of private dates around the royal gardens and any beautiful sight he can give you. If you want company, he invites people to you. You want exquisite food? Barbatos can cook, but if you don’t want his cooking then Diavolo can have it delivered. The castle is spacious enough for you to get your daily exercise with simple walks. 

He adores seeing you in the royal colors and is constantly sharing visions of diaphanous gowns and anything that can make you comfortable to the designers. Always gushes when he sees you in something new.

Being an old-fashioned demon prince, he does a series of small oil paintings instead of maternity photos. When you explain that maternity photos are more of a human thing, he books a session so the child can see both (the oil paintings are tasteful and appropriate for the castle but they all end up in his study).

Is totally on board with helping you dress (or laying in bed with your huge baby bump when clothes seem a bit hard for the next 5-10 minutes), and taking long, relaxing baths.

Takes his paperwork to bed so he can watch you sleep. You might snore, and the bed is almost comically huge, but you look so relaxed that Diavolo swears you lied to him about being purely human

His favorite thing to do is rub ointments and tinctures on your belly to help your skin. Loves to give you shoulder kisses while he does.

When he finds out you’re having a boy, he commissions tiny matching outfits. He doesn’t know if he wants to gush over the details or cry (”Barbatos, how inconceivably tiny! Isn’t it amusing?”)

Diavolo as a Dad (for real) :

Has to be given very explicit instructions about age-appropriate play because the minute the kid is crawling Diavolo’s going to want to play with him like a toddler.

Lets him teethe on old antique gold stuff that gives Mammon an aneurysm when he realizes what the kid’s doing (and how expensive the thing is in his hands).

Had a treasure chest-style bassinet comissioned because his kid is his treasure. One of the two--two and a half, with Barbatos--greatest treasures in his castle.

100% uses the kids to shirk his royal duties, but you and Barbatos keep him on a tight leash. Literally. He has a coupon allotment for the week (if you didn’t do the coupon thing he’d NEVER get any work done).

He LIVES for the skin-to-skin contact and is very disappointed when he has to put clothes back on for guests or meetings. He’s just doing what’s best for his son, okay?

That child is going to be spoiled AF. Always wanting to be held or next to his papa.

Diavolo isn’t allowed to do the chest carrier because he gets so excited about stuff he might sling the kid around on accident (Barbatos banned it after he held the baby through some paperwork and spent half the time playing with his feet).

Can never get over how tiny his son is, or how he can hold him in one hand. Somehow works it into every conversation.

Will work his kid into every conversation. Has pictures to go along with it.

His official Devilgram is 80% his kid or you (or both), 5% Barbatos, 5% other people, and 10% bad shots he doesn’t know how to delete.

Almost all of his Devilgram videos were taken by Barbatos because Diavolo absolutely loses it when the baby speaks gibberish. He dies laughing and just can’t hold it together. The video is just shaky and blurry otherwise. 

You’d think every time he sees him is the first time because Diavolo is so smitten and amazed

The Little D’s of the castle are always giggling to themselves and racing to tell you that they caught Diavolo peppering kisses on his little baby forehead or fists.

He’s a really involved and happy dad. Childlike and joyful by nature, he’s super invested in his kid. Sometimes it’s like you have two, but Diavolo means well.

Decent at all reverse psychology ploys. Kid doesn’t want mommy’s affection? More for him! Kid’s not hungry? He’ll eat it, then (and the dessert that they totally can’t have now)!

Can’t really discipline. Feels too guilty. Threatens the child with Barbatos or you.

Is really surprised when the kid has a ‘mom day’ where it seems like he doesn’t exist but totally understands (”Your mom has that affect on me, too.”)

Hope you liked it :)

[edierone]

Found a whole goddamn notebook in the dumpster this time

no idea whose handwriting this is or why they’d write it or who it’s supposed to be about but it’s fun isn’t it? happy ficlet fantasy friday!

Drifting up from a warm, dozy sleep, she feels the bed shifting under her, and the weight of an arm draped across her. She smiles, keeping her eyes closed, snuggling against him. He keeps moving, though, instead of settling in, and she mumbles, “What’re you doin?”

He’s propped himself up on one elbow behind her, the arm over her doing something complicated.

“Taking a bed selfie.”

“Huh?” She still hasn’t opened her eyes. What the fuck time is it, anyway?

“A bed selfie.” 

Like that explains it.

One eye, then the other, slides reluctantly open, and she can make out his iPhone a few inches away in the dimness. They’re both in the frame, grainy and low-res; her hair is spilled out over the pillow, her bare shoulder exposed, his muscled arm disappearing into the corner where his hand is holding the phone. His thumb touches the button.

“It’s gonna be a week till we see each other again — I need a souvenir for when I get lonely,” he says.

Aww, he’s gonna miss me!, she thinks, charmed. Better give him something good to keep him warm up here.

“Hi, sexy!” she purrs, rubbing her backside against him.

He laughs, low in his throat, then kisses her temple, caressing her face with his own. He leans over her, resting his phone hand on the bed next to them.

“Mmm … love you,” he murmurs against her ear.

“Love you too,” she sighs. She turns her head to get his lips properly on hers, but something catches her eye.

“Babe — you’ve got it in video mode,” she giggles.

“What? No I don’t — oh yeah — ha! Nearly made a bed selfie sex tape. Hold on a sec —”

He squints at the phone, holding it back out a bit, then touches the button again, stopping the recording.

She kisses him lightly, eyes slipping shut again, and says “Send that to me tomorrow, will you? I might get lonely too.”

She knows he’s smiling in the dark, she can hear it when he says, “I’ll send it to you right now.”

“Mkay,” she sighs, feeling the heaviness of sleep creeping up again. She’s not sure how many minutes have gone by when she hears him again, all the cozy flirtiness gone from his voice.

“Uhhh … hm. That’s not — how did I  — shit.”

“What is it?” she manages, vaguely alarmed by the flat worry she hears. Before he can answer, there’s a distinctive ping from her own phone on the bedside table.

She’s awake now. “Did you schedule a tweet for this time of night?”

He looks at her, confused. He has no idea what she’s talking about. She sits up, turns on the lamp and reaches for her phone, and sees a notification illuminating the screen.

And there it is, the reason for that sound, the custom tone she’s had put on her phone solely for his posts that tag her on social media sites: He’s somehow managed to tweet something, minutes ago, from his public account, and mention her.

“Bed selfie - miss you already,” it says, and then the video.

“Oh no …”

Her heart is triphammering, she feels a little sick. He looks at her, face full of dread.

Wordlessly, she holds it up for him to see. He presses the “play” icon, and they watch, heads together.

The camera is unsteady, and the lighting is isn’t great — but the sound is clear, and it’s absolutely, definitely her, and him. Together, in bed, obviously intimate and comfortable … and sexual as all hell. Twenty-four seconds. Time stamp, 3:23 a.m. today.

“Ffffffffuuuuuuuuck,” he groans.

“Oh shit,” she breathes.

“How do I get it back? Can I delete that? Oh goddammit —“

“Christ — how did you even DO that? Why do you even have the app on your own fucking phone?”

“I was — I don’t know! I sent it and then I went to check my email and then I looked back — you know I don’t know how this shit works! I thought I was messaging it to you — it’s fucking three thirty in the morning, I can’t —”

“Give me that!” She takes his phone, deletes the tweet, but knows that’s not all there is to it. She shoves it back into his hand. “Call whatsherface, Kylie or whatever her name is, the girl that does your social shit — call her right now. Or text her — both! Get hold of her right now!”

He’s frantically trying to do just that, while she opens her own Twitter app and deletes the tweet from her feed. It’s only been sixteen minutes since it was posted, and it’s the middle of the night, maybe nobody saw it?  

Yeah, no.

It’s 3:45 a.m. in Vancouver, but it’s midday in Europe, and early risers are already up in New York. Fuck.

She watches, fascinated, as the number of notifications on her page begins to climb. Against her better judgment, she takes a look at what’s coming in — not sixty seconds after the time stamp, there’s a lot of “holy shit” and “OMFG” and “this is real! I live!” and so on.  She opens her stealth tumblr account — same fucking story. There are screen caps already! What the fuck is wrong with people? It reminds her of one of those virus-outbreak movies, where one sick person infects ten more and they infect twenty more each and yada yada the breakdown of civilization. This won’t end civilization, but it sure as hell might fuck shit up for the two of them (including, probably, the final nail in the coffin of that other thing she’s had going on the last few months).

And then, shortly after they’d deleted the goddamn tweet, now five minutes in the past, a flood of “wait, what happened?” “WTFF what is going on” and “THE LINK WON’T WORK THE TWEET IS GOOOONE!”

Meanwhile, he’s located Katey or Kimmy or whomever, who’s now yelling at him from someplace with loud voices and music. She’s only half-listening to their conversation, but the gist of it seems to be that there’s nothing they can do now but damage control — they deleted it from their accounts, sure, but any number of people have seen it, re-tweeted it, screen-capped it — and downloaded and saved the video for re-posting.

Annnnnd here’s one on her tumblr dash: “i am the goddess of true love! I bring you deleted video, resurrected! Look upon my works and rejoice!”

The video is in it. Fuck. She touches the play icon, hears “It’s gonna be a week till we see each other again” — double fuck.  It’s the real thing. It works. “Mmmm, love you …”

He finally hangs up on Kristie/Kelly/Kyra.

“ …You’ve got it in video mode” [giggle]

She hits pause, afraid to look at him right now. They’ve been so, SO careful, and protected themselves so well — everything ambiguous, smokescreens deployed, deniability maintained … well, mostly. Nothing they can’t handle. But this here — this is the smoking gun. She wants to shout at him, to ask him what the fuck he was thinking, how could he be so careless, how could he expose them like this, why didn’t he just wait till tomorrow to send it to her like she asked? Put on his goddamn reading glasses, for fuck’s sake?

But she knows he already feels awful, so she just squeezes her eyes shut and tries to breathe calm into her body. She doesn’t want to have a screaming fight right before she flies to another continent. This isn’t the old days — she’s fucking calm and fucking mature and they will deal with this like fucking grownups.

He sits on the bed, folded up with his head on his knees. An inarticulate groan comes from his general direction. “They’re gonna dissect this like the fucking Zapruder film,” he laments, and she barks startled laughter.

He looks up at last, surprised that she’s not trying to strangle him.

“How bad is it?” He gestures toward her phone.

Cringing slightly, she selects a representative post from tumblr: It’s the video, reblogged from the alleged “goddess of true love,” and right underneath it, a gif of Elmo in front of flames. The post has 290 notes already. The tags are a jubilant, nonsensical volcano of words and phrases she only partly understands — fucc me uppp, slay my entire ass, asdfjkl;lskj, platonic adult friends, i love dying and death and being dead, MURDER ME, why are they like this NEVER STOP, fight me, they’re gonna kill me, im spiraling, it’s a dumpster fire and i’m in it.

“Whyyyyy …” he moans, dropping his head into his hands.

“Most of America is still asleep, too. Just wait. It’s going to be so much worse.”

More inarticulate sounds of misery from him, then: “You know, if somebody assassinated the fucking President, the news wouldn’t spread this fast,” he mumbles. It’s only a slight exaggeration.

She flops dramatically onto her back, addresses the ceiling: “So. What do we do now? Deny and obfuscate?”

He laughs, loud and happy, for the first time since the phrase “bed selfie” came into their lives. “Fuck yeah!”

He stretches out and rolls over onto her prone body, covering her like a blanket, starts kissing his way down her neck. She shoves at him — not very convincingly — and grumbles “What’re you doing? Shouldn’t we start doing damage control?”

“Now??? Nahhh … it’s already out there.” He kisses her deeply, then murmurs into her ear, “We’re gonna do the time — might as well do the crime.” Reasonable, he’s always so reasonable …

“Hard to argue with that,” she says, shivering a little, running her hands over his broad back. Her heart speeds up and heat pools at her center, her physical responses to his touch as reliable as ever, yet still somehow surprising even after all these years. “Guess we’re pretty well fucked —”

“Oh, yeah,” he says against the hollow of her throat, then raises his head to look her in the eye — his expression the same one that’s gotten them into this kind of trouble a thousand times in the last 25 years, and will a thousand times more. “We’re definitely gonna be that.”

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