#lmfao hes one of my patrons

[encasedinobsidian]

smalltown shit

Charlie Swan x fem!reader [explicit, 18+]

Summary: "You’re a little young, aren’t you?” he asks, and it isn’t with a scowl but it’s something of the sort, a narrowing of his eyes and a dryness to his voice. It’s no better than a scowl anyway, his skepticism like a concrete wall between the two of you under the dim lights of the bar where Charlie is stuck with you, just where you want him. Warnings: 3.4k ish words. Porn with minimal plot, implied age gap, unprotected PIV, oral sex, truck sex, alcohol, pining, no use of y/n. This was written a bit fast lmfao A/N: This is my first ever Charlie Swan fic! It started as a joke (just like they all do), but I thought it might be fun to do something different. In case you enjoy my writing and want to see more, here are links to my ao3 and to a heavily Charlie inspired Narcos fanfic I wrote recently :)

Wearing a man down takes a while. It takes patience, a steady effort, bit by bit, like the thick clouds covering the sky above the evergreens only letting down a single drop of rain at a time. Charlie doesn’t notice them at first — the little droplets of water he’s too used to from living in Forks, rain that might let up for a little while in July but comes back every time, like something he can count on if nothing else in this world.

They land on his jacket, on his badges, on his nametag — C. Swan in yellow lettering — on the black strands of his hair. One by one, they seep in, quickly forgotten, followed by more until the windshield wipers on his police cruiser push away the onslaught of rain that’s inevitable at this time of year, on a foggy, hazy October evening when the headlights of the car light the way to his house, and he’s already drenched when he makes his way inside and changes out of his uniform.

They land on the thick flannel of a jacket that always hangs in his hallway, the house empty when he locks the door behind him and runs to his truck. The rain gets on his jeans, on his hair, it gets on the Mariners sweater underneath his jacket. The lettering across his chest reveals itself when he takes off the flannel and hangs it over the back of the chair he sits down on, nodding towards his friend at the bar. 

His eyes scan the room from corner to corner, lazily combing through the other patrons of the bar until he spots you and you lock eyes. And you’re frozen, your friends’ voices becoming a buzzing murmur next to you as you try not to move, try not to startle the man whose attention you’ve pathetically yearned for, for so long, longer than you’ll ever admit to the girls at your table, or even to yourself. 

You have it now, for a moment that stretches like a ring in your ear, long enough for your lips to part, for you to swallow tightly around the fizzy, sweet sip in your mouth, to lick the drop that slides down your bottom lip. His gaze is as intense as it is dark, piercing through the crowd of people in a small bar in a place that nobody can place on a map, where you think it must just be a hallucination or that he’s looking at someone behind you. 

But behind you is a window, and behind the window is nothing but a cover of trees, and his eyes flash open for a split second before they narrow, then trace down, only a quick glance at your torso before they slide back up. He clears his throat, swallows, and averts his eyes, attention caught by the beer set down in front of him. He nods and says something, then takes a sip, a little hastily, inhaling deeply before he leans back. 

And then, there is nothing to do but to look and to wait. 

Nothing to do but wait until he begins to feel those drops of attention, of glances and gazes from your end of the room. He’s not chief Swan under this roof — he’s Charlie, he’s a man in his early forties, he’s a single dad whose daughter came to stay with him recently. He’s a man with dark eyes and dark eyebrows, with a thick mustache and a gorgeous smile you know he hides. Maybe it’s rude to spy, but you’ve had no other real option — a chronically good girl from the start, never acknowledged by any of the Forks PD officers, scurrying away from house parties at the first flash of a blue light, out through the yard and home to your parents’ house. 

You haven’t gotten any attention from him since returning to your hometown either, coming back after nearly a decade away, still a goody two shoes through and through who doesn’t leave the house after darkness settles in the streets. So all you have is random encounters, one-sided as they’ve all been, random sightings in bars and across the street, at a restaurant next to his daughter. And he’s always quiet, always observing his environment without interaction. 

Until now, when it all seems to shatter in an instant, and his usual, calm demeanor is replaced by something flustered, maybe even nervous if you dare to think so. He takes to laughter a little too quickly, he smiles too much, nods along too enthusiastically when Billy speaks to him on his left.  

You can’t hear anything, regretfully — the rain drums on the window beside you and slides down to obscure the view of the forest that the bar is situated on the outskirts of. Your friends talk about something, something about nothing about guys or work or God knows what it is this time. Your elbows rest on the table and the top of a plastic straw sits between your lips as you slowly sip your drink. 

Sometimes he looks over, following the same routine every time as the hour passes; a lull in the conversation, a polite smile, his eyes sliding down to the table, a glance up, and then his head turning slightly, eyes shifting in your direction until they meet yours and he quickly dodges the attention, straightening his back and clearing his throat. 

Once, and only once, he lingers. 

He lets his eyes narrow, focusing on you while you pretend to look away. And he shouldn’t fall for little tricks like this, silly little girl tricks meant to dupe men much younger and dumber than himself, but he’s only a man, isn’t he? 

So it shouldn’t be surprising that, when his friends excuse themselves to go outside for a smoke or to the bar for another round, he leans back and remains seated. And there is no other time but the present, so without excusing yourself, you suck down the rest of your drink, let the bottom of the glass slam against the tabletop, stand up and walk over to him. 

You take a seat across from him and hold out your hand, your name the first thing out of your mouth and a firm handshake given when he reaches out. 

“Charlie,” he says, and the nervousness you saw earlier must be nothing but an illusion. 

“Charlie,” you repeat, a little softer and a little sweeter, “How’s your night going?” 

“It’s alright.” God, he’s dry. If you were drunk, you’d make a joke about how wet it makes you. “And yours?” he asks. 

“Pretty good. Better now.” 

He breathes a laugh and looks around, presumably trying to figure out where you came from, but there are no answers in a bar full of people looking the other way. 

“Haven’t seen you around,” he says, “Are you from out of town?” 

“Nope, from here. I was gone for, say, eight years getting my degrees, though.”

“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow, and you indulge him for a little while, answering questions you can’t tell if he’s asking as a father or a man, questions that come from the same place anyway, things he’d ask a young lady as you bet he’d say, to make small talk when he’s forced to. 

It’s not very interesting, but you can’t scare him off either, can’t plop down into his lap and touch his hair and beg for it. It’s a slow process with a man like him, one that takes patience, and little droplets of attention, a splash of flirting here and there, every question back and forth, about school and work and yada yada smalltown shit. It’s like the raindrops seeping into the fabric of his jacket, unnoticeable until it reaches his skin and he’s soaked, a humidity that clings to him, and fog he disappears in. 

You glance up at the door and see his friends at a different table. 

Time ticks by, and Charlie is dry as ever, regardless of how pathetically you try to squeeze your chest together and lean onto the table between you, regardless of how you try to nudge him with the glossy, heeled boot on your foot. He doesn’t budge, he might offer you a smile in response to a fun story but it’s not getting you anywhere. 

It’s time to be aggressive, and when there’s a lull between you, when the bar is still buzzing with chit chat and the lights are still low, you pounce. 

“Are you seeing anyone these days?” you ask. 

The man looks like he wants to laugh. “Uh—” he clears his throat, “No, not right now.”

“Interesting,” you purr, tilting your head to the side and flashing him a smile. “Best news I’ve gotten all day.”

He huffs. “You’re a little young, aren’t you?” he asks, and it isn’t with a scowl but it’s something of the sort, a narrowing of his eyes and a dryness to his voice. It’s no better than a scowl anyway, his skepticism like a concrete wall between the two of you under the dim lights of the bar, and Charlie is stuck with you, just where you want him. 

So you shrug one shoulder and smile, pushing your lips together before they separate, and his eyes are on them so fast that it’s not even funny. “I wouldn’t say so,” you say as you shake your head. 

He almost seems humored, huffing a laugh as he looks around the room and shakes his head. “What about your friends?” he asks, “They don’t miss ya?” 

“Probably not,” you whisper, scrunching your nose at him. “Does it look like they do?” 

You nod towards the table by the windows and his eyes follow, a quick look over at a group of girls all leaning in towards each other in conversation. 

“Guess not,” he says, in the same flat tone of voice. 

He clears his throat again, and his rejection is imminent, you think, so you try again, one last time. 

“You’re very handsome, Charlie.” Your chin rests on your knuckles, head tilted, eyes sweeping over his face like you have nothing to lose, and he might be able to hide his thoughts, but he can’t hide his fluster. 

“Thanks,” he mutters and averts his eyes, looking at nothing in the corner of the room. “You’re not, uh—” He looks up and spins his mostly-empty glass around, “Not too bad yourself.” 

It’s a little bit like pulling teeth. 

“Thank you,” you say, then chew on the inside of your cheek while you try to think up a way to get him out of where he’s stuck, unwilling to make a move. “Could you— could you give me a ride home?”

He rolls his eyes and nods, downing the last of his beer, and he absolutely thinks he has you figured out. His expression seems to default to a scowl, and it’s only then that you realize how cheerful he looked a moment ago. “Alright,” he groans, then mutters something under his breath while he grabs his jacket. “Let’s go.” 

“Thank you, officer,” you beam, jumping up and following him through the bar, heading towards the exit. 

He opens the door and lifts up his jacket to hold it above you, shielding you from the onslaught of rain pouring down when you step away from the awning outside the bar. Golden light shines out from the stained glass window in the door, bathing him in it as he waits for you to take the step you don’t take. 

“I don’t actually need a ride home,” you admit shyly, looking up at him, “I’m just messing with you.” 

He blinks a few times and his eyes shift around as he breathes. “Alright, why did you get me out here then?” 

A laugh breaks out of you as you ask, “It’s not obvious?”

His brows pull together and he begins to shake his head when you roll your eyes, grab the back of his neck and pull him into a kiss. And it could be a mistake, but it doesn’t quite feel like it when his hand finds your hip and he pulls you a little closer, reciprocating the kiss and carefully giving you his tongue. 

He pulls back quickly, looking side to side, “Let’s—” 

“Your truck?”

“Sure, yeah,” he mumbles, and you hurry towards the only red vehicle at the far end of the lot, with Charlie on your heels and the rain beating down on his jacket above you, on his hair and his shoulders, soaking him by the time he steps in front of you and pulls open the passenger door. 

He barely gets inside before you grab the collar of his sweater and pull him in, spit smearing and groans swallowed as you climb onto his lap. He’s hard already, you can feel the thick of his zipper pushing up between your legs, before he even gets his hands on the bunched up fabric of your skirt piled onto your hips, kissing you again. And he lets his palms slide down over it, onto your ass, giving you a tentative squeeze with firm hands, while he grows thicker, harder, little grunts slipping out of him when you roll your hips over that firm bulk, every pass over it smearing wetness into your panties.

Until it’s too much, and the truck is too hot, too humid. You throw off your jacket, toss it into the passenger seat and pull away from him, climbing back into your seat, only on your knees, and begin to work at his belt.

You feel a hand at your shoulder, pushing gently. “You don’t—” he inhales deeply as he shakes his head, “You don’t have to do—” 

Your hands pause at the top of his pants and you peer up at him with a pout. “But I want to,” you say, “Can I?” 

His head hits the back of his seat with a sigh, his eyes closing as he breathes in again and nods. “Yeah,” he whispers, “Yeah.”

He helps you with his belt then, undoing it with unsteady hands and lifting his hips when you pull the bunch of his pants and boxers down to reveal his cock, to see the thick length of it, the hair at his base and below his navel. You take it into your hand before he has the chance to say much of anything, and you feel his hand at the back of your neck, brushing your hair away — nothing obstructing his view as you drag the flat of your tongue up his shaft, all the way up to the tip where a bead of precome spills onto your lips. 

He groans then, pushes down the top of his pants a little more and lets you take him into your mouth, his cockhead sliding into the back of your throat while he curses under his breath. Your spit smears over his crown and runs down his length, into the curve of your hand to let you stroke him, and every lick, every pull of your lips, makes him sigh and groan, makes more of his precome seep out onto your tongue for you to taste it, for you to swallow and let the soft wet of your mouth massage him. 

And you think it must have been a while, because you suck and stroke his cock slowly for only a little while before he begins to mumble. “I’m getting, uh— I’m pretty close,” he says, and you pull off of him, still slipping your hand up and down his wet cock while you raise up and kiss the side of his neck. 

He groans then too, grimacing a little. 

“You want to fuck me, Charlie?” you purr, “You want me to ride you?”

He huffs a laugh like he’s surprised. “I don’t have any condoms on me,” he says, his voice flat and dry as it ever was, but a little deeper, raspier, rougher-edged. 

“You could just pull out?” you suggest, licking a stripe up his neck just to feel the goosebumps chasing your tongue on his skin, “I could just swallow it instead.” 

“Jesus,” he breathes, “Yeah... Alright.” 

You pull off one boot and begin to yank at the waistband of your leggings, but he pats his thigh and pulls you back onto his lap. 

“Let me,” he says, pushing his thumb under the soft fabric and the strap of your panties, pulling them down over your leg, only bothering with one and not the other, while the rain hammers down on the windshield and it’s silent for a moment, his hands steady and his gaze focused. His cock is still hard too, heavy as it lays against his stomach. 

You stabilize above him, hovering over where he grabs the root of himself and glides his tip through your folds until he reaches your opening. 

“Down,” he says, and you do as he tells you to, sinking onto his cock with a deep breath, pressing your lips to his so that your sigh is shared, letting the whole thing split you open, taking more and more until your hips are flush with his and he grunts, his cock pulses, you lean back and carefully lift up, then roll back down, slowly riding him, half kissing, half panting into him. 

It’s all slow, deep, squeezing around him, letting him slide out until only his tip stays within, and then taking him back inside and he pushes into your cervix, sure to leave you sore tomorrow. Everything is wet between you, smeared warm and sticky over your inner thighs, his groin, dripping down his shaft and over his balls, soaking into the top of his jeans. 

His cock pushes into the most sensitive, soft part inside of you, over and over, rubbing over it while you reach down to massage your clit, still swapping spit like you’re teenagers and he doesn’t have a decade on you. He twitches inside when you moan for him, groans low and rough when you begin to come and you ride him a little harder, faster.

He grabs your ass, lifts you just enough to get leverage, and starts to fuck you, pushing his face into the side of your neck and grunting into your skin, hot and sweaty at the roots of his hair when your run your fingers through it, trying to find something to hold onto, to stabilize when he hits just the right spot and you feel seconds away from unraveling. And the truck must be shaking, the sounds of your moans are only stifled by the sound of the rain tapping on the roof and sliding down the windows, the dark surroundings of a wet parking lot, the two of you tucked away at the very back while you feel every inch of him filling you, rubbing you, making you come once more. 

Until he grunts a little louder, until he pants, “Fuck, I’m about to come—”

You let your orgasm wane with a few slow rolls, savoring them, so few drags of his length inside that you can count them on one hand, and you lift off, climb over on shaking legs, sticking your bare ass up towards the foggy window and slip his wet cock into your mouth. A firm hand around his base, your tongue licking over his head, you suck him until his breath stutters and he releases hot spurts of come that you swallow while you stroke and tease and take every drop he gives you. 

He’s quiet after that, a careful hand on your back while you lick up the last smears of his orgasm and lay your cheek on his thigh, looking up at him. 

“Did you like it?” you ask. 

“Of course I liked it. Did you like it?” 

“Yeah.” 

He looks out of the window, his cock softening against him while he runs a hand over your hair. “Let me take you to dinner or something,” he says after a minute, “Make me feel less… I don’t know, sleazy?” 

You bite your lip and smile. "Will you drive me home after?”

He rolls his eyes and takes in a deep breath, catching your gaze with a smirk on his lips and something a little softer in his expression. "I was gonna do that anyway."

[mrstellmeafuckingsecret]

not even joking fanon sirius doesnt even make me mad anymore (that's reserved for everyone else fanon <3) but he just makes me........... so sad.......... like bro is in a straight up abusive relationship with the man he idolizes more than anything. and he is IN this abusive relationship because of his HORRIFIC home life in which his parents use illegal torture methods on him weekly/daily and he severely lacks any healthy relationships around him, he also never gets any praise (because he's stupid&horrible&bad at everything) meaning he's just going around begging for validation and love? and it's just a joke? like he is literally willing to hurt himself like omg by bby??

(that one incorrect quote where remus kisses sirius' hand because he gets a papercut and sirius asks james to punch him in the face. how is that funny. i literally was so sad. wtf guys.)

and like he gets into this rsp after going through a TON of homophobia and hes like constantly made fun of because he happens to love his bf (who HATES him). everyone (namely his brother: well talk abt him dw) is like "you can do sm better than sirius lmao" and remus is like "yeah lol" like blatantly in front of sirius and sirius is sad and its a funny haha joke like GUYS ITS HORRIBLE

and like !!!! he has no support system!!! he has no friends !!!!! no one loves him !!!!!!! fuck love no one even likes him !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

hes constantly patronized and talked down to by everyone. his hobbies are taken over (pranks: remus remus remus, bikes: i dont actually know but ive seen a couple "remus on sirius' bike 💞" and sirius freaking out when like bfr guys) . his best friend. his BEST FRIEND. goes BEHIND HIS BACK. TO DATE. HIS NAZI YOUNGER BROTHER.

THE NAZI YOUNGER BROTHER !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHOM HE WAS CONSTANTLY COMPARED TO AND DEEMED LESS WORTHY HIS ENTIRE LIFE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHO HE WA SALWAS THE SECOND OPTION TO !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! hes their parents favored son AND his bfs favored brother and now his BEST FRIENDS favored too???????? go away. fuck you.

and like . his younger brother whom sirius CONSTANTLY TOOK BEATINGS FOR !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WITH NO REGARD FOR HIS OWN SAFETY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! nad everyones like lmfao why is he overreacting ths is why no one loves him lets ignore him 💀💀💀

and like his brother btw tf like he s always th emartyr nd sirius is indebted to him bc its only because of regulus apparentl y that siriu s was able to escape like gsgnlksfskl

and the PRNAK!!!!!!!!!! omg sirius is like gone in ths universe ok theres no way it wasnt n accident he told snape that and then remus HATES HIM for MONTHS?????? kys he tried so hard

dont even get me on post azkaban "im sorry remus ☹️" "my brothers a hero 🥺"

ugh i cant even word thngs anymore. but like have these these made me REALLY sad.

im in tears. i cant believe you fucks took everything away from sirius and then left him w his trauma. and the fact that this isn t evn a fraction of whats going on, like ffuck you all

[sunspearesque]

Forbidden Fervor

Summary: Douse the fervor raging within, bestow upon me the forbidden release, frigid and honed, dripping with crimson... Let it carve through my dread as relentlessly as time erodes the vigor from an aged soul.

A/N: yo, idk what happened here.. i saw the inspo and we dove headfirst. i’m so very sure old man nasty spirit possessed me or something cause idk how i wrote this.. but yeah enjoy the filth i guess? lmfao.. also, i did use some of the famous lines from the show/books—specifically the scene where he stabby stab the pink little man at the brothel just because :3 the rest tho are the whispers of my little brain hehehoho

Pairing: Oberyn Martell × OFC from WoV

Rating: E (18+ only)

Content: established relationship (marriage); canonical racism (against dornish people); threat of assault (nothing happens); we hate Lannisters in this house; protective!Oberyn; depiction of injury/attack; use of weapons (dagger); Wet and Wanting™️; primal urges, kinda sorta; a hint of possessive!Oberyn; inappropriate use of weapons; dagger riding (don’t look at me); unprotected p in v; creampie (the man has a breeding kink what can i say?); quoting mr. darcy

WC: 1.9K

Read on AO3 • moodboard

A grand retinue accompanied Prince Oberyn Martell and his wife Nala on their journey north to attend the wedding of Lord Stark's eldest son. The journey was replete with delightful surprises and, regrettably, some less pleasant ones. One of their travel days found them lodged in an inn nestled amidst the forested lands of the North. The weather was cold and crisp, the air dry and biting, causing Oberyn to grumble about the layers of clothing encasing his form. Nala found his discomfort amusing—this man is averse to decency.

As they were enjoying their meal in the inn, a trio of golden-haired men strode in, their disdainful expressions evident as they cast disparaging glances at the other patrons. Murmuring curses under their breath, they took a seat at a nearby table, much to the discomfort of those around them. Nala sensed the tension in the air, recognizing the unmistakable look of Lannisters. She knew all too well her husband's scorn for them. Desperate to diffuse the situation, she attempted to divert his attention away from them, whispering softly, “My love, look at me,” noticing his gaze fixed upon them with obvious contempt.

The Lannister men, oblivious to her attempt to diffuse the tension, noticed her caress on his thigh and exchanged mocking remarks amongst themselves. “Why does such beauty consort with that Dornish bastard?” one of them jeered, his laughter echoing loudly in the room. “This whore should try to get with a real cock... a Lannister one,” another added, patting his bulge and leering at her. “Just give him a shaved goat and an olive oil bottle and be done with it,” the third chimed in before all three joined in uproarious laughter.

Nala could feel the blood charring beneath her skin, her heart pounding in her ribcage as she dreaded her husband's reaction to the insults. She observed the vein running through his neck pulsating beneath his golden skin, indicating the rage boiling within him. Despite his efforts to conceal it, a smirk tinged with bitterness adorned his face, masking the fury that simmered beneath the surface.

With graceful poise, he rose from his seat, his hand drifting toward the dagger secured at his hip—a weapon fashioned in the likeness of two intertwined vipers; its smooth, golden surface gleaming in the dim light of the inn. Slowly and deliberately, he approached their table, his gaze locking onto the perpetrator who had called his wife a whore.

Oberyn's tongue clicked disapprovingly as he addressed the men, his tone dripping with mockery. “Do you know why the world despises a Lannister?” he quipped, his words laden with scorn. “You believe your wealth, your lions, and your gilded pride make you superior to all.” The Lannister men exchanged smug glances, sharing a condescending chuckle amongst themselves. One of the trio stealthily reached for his sword, attempting to draw it from its sheath without detection. Yet, unbeknownst to them, he noticed—he always does.

“May I tell you a secret?” Oberyn continued, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “You're not a golden lion. You're just a pink little man who is far too slow on the draw.” With a swift motion, he unsheathed his dagger and plunged it into the hand of the man who had insulted his wife, the same hand he had earlier used to pat his cock. Piercing between the carpals of that hand, it now lay on the table. The man let out a guttural wail, paralyzed in his place as the dagger twisted amidst flesh, bone, and veins.

“When I pull my blade, your friend starts bleeding,” Oberyn stated calmly, a smirk playing on his lips. “Quite a lot, I'm afraid. So many veins in the wrist.” He observed the man writhing in pain before turning his gaze back to the other Lannister. “He'll live if you get him help straight away,” he added mockingly, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Decisions,” Oberyn remarked, his head tilting slightly as his gaze shifted to the bleeding man again. “And when you speak of a dornish princess—my wife—you will address her as ‘your highness,’” he continued, his tone carrying a dangerous edge. “Lest you wish for me to sever your tongue at its root.”

He withdrew his dagger from the man’s hand, the Dornish soldiers surrounding him, swords and spears at the ready. One of them addressed him, “What shall we do with them, Your Highness?”

“Nothing,” Oberyn replied calmly, wiping the blood from his dagger with the end of his shawl. "I reckon they've learned a lesson or two about manners from the Dornish, and I expect they'll find their own way out.” With a dismissive wave, he turned to walk toward Nala, who stood frozen with fear, wide-eyed, and breathing shakily.

“Apologies, my love,” he said tenderly, encircling his arms around her waist and pressing a soft kiss to her lips. Nestling her gently in his embrace, as though she were the most delicate of blossoms.

Ever the viper; deadly, dangerous, unpredictable... and mine.

A familiar primal heat stirred within her, much to her chagrin as she cursed herself for succumbing to it.

Gods be good, this shouldn’t ignite a fire within me and make me crave him and the dagger he wielded in my defense.

She kissed him with fervor, her hands caressing his face, yearning to melt into him and merge with him completely. As they parted, both breathless, he chuckled softly. "I see you enjoyed that, princess?" he whispered, prompting a blush to bloom across her cheeks—was I too obvious?

He pulled out the chair for her to resume her place at the table, a gallant gesture amidst the chaos caused by the departing Lannisters, who left mutilated and humiliated.

Throughout the meal, Nala’s gaze remained fixed on Oberyn, her desire for him evident in her unwavering stare. Yet, her eyes also flickered occasionally to the dagger sheathed at his side, her longing palpable. Catching her subtle glances, Oberyn couldn't help but tease her with a smirk. “My love, you are eyeing that dagger as if it were your lover,” he quipped, his tone playful and suggestive.

She regarded him incredulously, her expression stern, before a laugh escaped her lips, unable to resist his irreverence. “What? People engage in all forms of pleasure,” he remarked casually, a hint of mischief in his tone. “I’d be curious to witness you attempting one of these forms, my love,” he added, raising an eyebrow, his smirk unyielding—the infamous smirk that both infuriated and delighted her.

“How in the Seven Hells would I engage in such forms, Oberyn?" she retorted, her tone a blend of amusement and exasperation, unsure whether to marvel at his wit or roll her eyes at his audacity.

He chuckled, unfazed, and resumed his meal, prompting her to shake her head in bemusement before following suit, both indulging in their food as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

—

As they retired to their chambers, the earlier unpleasant encounter and their playful banter lingered in her mind, unable to shake off the eagerness she felt for him.

Not surprisingly, he seemed equally consumed by their earlier conversation. Upon entering their room and securing the door behind them, he immediately closed the distance between them, kissing her hungrily. His hands roamed over her body, gripping her ass firmly, igniting a fire within her and causing desire to pool between her thighs.

Breaking away from their passionate embrace, he strode to the bed and plunged his dagger into the mattress, securing it firmly in place. Only the gleaming, serpent-shaped handle remained visible.

"What... what are you doing?" Nala inquired, perplexed by his actions.

“I long to see you mount it," he declared simply, taking a seat on the wooden chair facing the bed.

"Mount it how?" she questioned, furrowing her brow in confusion.

"Like you mount my cock every night," he replied with a crooked smile.

She stood in stunned silence, her thoughts swirling with a mixture of surprise and anticipation. The unexpected request from her husband both startled her and ignited a flicker of excitement deep within her. It was not uncommon for him to embrace unconventional pleasures, to seek out new experiences in their intimate moments together.

She offered a gentle smile before beginning to shed her dress, letting the fabric cascade down her form like water, revealing the delicate curve of her clavicle, the supple swell of her breasts and their hardened peaks, her glistening cunt between her thighs, before finally pooling at her feet.

His gaze lingered upon her with a hunger that seemed to devour her, as if he yearned to possess this beauty solely for himself, to adore… to pleasure and treasure... wholly and entirely his.

She moved with grace toward the bed, settling and facing him, her eyes fixed on the dagger embedded in the mattress before her. It was the very same dagger he wielded to protect her, a silent warning to any who dared to show her disrespect.

She lifted herself slightly before sinking into it, feeling the cold metal filling her searing flesh. Her eyes closed, lips parting as she relished the peculiar sensation, the ridges of the handle gliding against her inner walls, deliciously. It was unfamiliar yet pleasing, strangely fitting. She quickened her pace, with each rise and fall, soft moans escaping her lips and filling the room. Her breasts bounced with each movement, a testament to the pleasure coursing through her.

Oberyn watched her with an insatiable hunger, enchanted by her allure. She accepted his offerings eagerly, with devotion, her yearning unwavering as she sought to be filled with everything that was his. Whether his fingers, his cock, or even his dagger, she embraced it all, an extension of him in every way.

He felt the bulge in his breeches grow bigger, his cock throbbing painfully with desire, yearning to pierce that sweet cunt of hers, to fill her with his seed over and over again til it takes. He longed to hear her soft moans as he pushed her to the brink of bliss, feeling her warm, wet, and wanting in his embrace.

He freed his hardened cock, his hand beginning to caress it with slow, deliberate strokes, as she mounted his dagger with unyielding ardor, deriving her pleasure from it. Her gaze met his, lethal and luring, eyes that could have felled him had she not been his.

Her movements became erratic, her moans blending into strained whimpers. She slipped her hand down frantically to circle her soaked clit, driving her closer to her release. Collapsing onto the mattress, she murmured his name, her thighs trembling with pleasure.

Rising from his seat, he approached her, cradled her languid form, and moved her to the center of the bed, laying her on her back. He spread her thighs apart, watching her clenching sex seep her release, delicately. He nudged the head of his cock to her entrance. Her cunt sucked him in effortlessly, eliciting a soft whine from her lips as he filled her. He laid atop her, his weight offering a comforting warmth she had always longed for, drawing her closer to him before thrusting into her fervently.

Mine, my love, mine… all fucking mine, the Others take them all.

He nipped at the tender flesh of her breasts and shoulder, his warmth flooding her as he spilled his cum deep within her, his breath ragged.

After their heaving chests stilled, she gently raised her hand to brush the damp curls from his forehead, meeting his gaze. “I love you most ardently, my fierce viper,” she whispered.

[zepskies]

Soldier Boy telling Mexican reader he loves tacos with a wink bahahahaha

Please write something. I can already imagine him being diabolically yet hilariously unbearable

Lmfao that's a prime example of how a Latina POC would slap his ass if it wouldn't hurt her own hand in the process. 😮‍💨

Oh yes, don't worry. I'm already plotting.

I can't promise when this Soldier Boy x POC!Reader idea will be written because I have other WIPs I'm working on, like a request from one of my patrons on Patreon, (not to mention I'm still posting on ongoing Soldier Boy series) but the ideas are circling in my head. 💚

[miguelswifey04]

we must discuss miguel shamelessly eyefucking you in the gym. you guys go to the same gym but on separate days so the regulars don’t know you’re together. but one day, your schedule happens to overlap and he comes in after you.

you’re on the stairmaster and he’s by the weights just…staring at you via the mirror and then he decides to turn around just to directly eyefuck you. it’s so bad and the other gym goers are like “hey…uhm…don’t stare at other patrons like that. you’re acting like a creep.” and Miguel’s just “wtf? That’s my spouse.”

LMFAO 😭😭😭😭 man why are you guys so funny, but that’s so MIGUEL 🫨

-lin 🧚🏽‍♀️

[voxtechemployee]

helloo!!

i saw your buff reader drabble and got VERY excited.

what about short 5'1-5'4 chubbier fem reader who looks soft but when she goes to lift something relatively heavy her arms flex and get buff lookin and it surprises a hazbin/helluva boy who's been mildly crushing?

maybe lucifer, vox or if you do mammon from helluva?

^_^

oh my gosh!! absolutely - as a plus sized person myself, we need more rep (': and a muscle-y plus sized person?? yes PLEASE i did them all, but be warned, i've never actually written for mammon, so... tw for potential ooc mammon, i guess LMFAO

༊*·˚ LUCIFER ༊ as a fellow short person, lucifer kind of appreciates not having to deal with short jokes and being potentially used as an arm rest ༊ one day, while working on something in his room at the hotel, he asks you to grab something for him off the table ༊ and when you do, he sees your arms ripple as you carry it over to you, his whole face flushes a brilliant shade of gold ༊ you ask him if he's okay, of course, and he responds with "what? oh, haha, yes of course! i was just a bit distracted there!" ༊ after that, you notice an uptick in the things he asks you to do being more of a physical nature, and you don't have a clue why. but it's no problem, really. anything to help! : ̗̀➛ VOX ➛ you're so small that it's adorable to vox; all squished into one tiny package that overflows in the cutest of ways ➛ and you're without a doubt his personal secretary - he works you hard as hell and he knows everything about you because he's always watching ➛ or so he thought ➛ because when you come into the office, carrying a delivery box, and he sees your arm muscles flex while you approach, he damn near bluescreens ➛ you ask him if he's okay when you set the box down, and he swears to you that he's fine (and somehow, you miss the glint in his eye that would have told you you're never getting away from him now) ⋇⊶⊰ MAMMON ⊰ as the patron sin of greed, this motherfucker LOVES chubby women; the more he can grab and hold, the better ⊰ so obviously he's crushing on you and has been for a while ⊰ but the moment you pick up a box of fizzarolli bot parts, he's immediately half hard at least ⊰ now he HAS to have you

[thedarkmongoose]

i'm probably going to make several posts about c2e2 bc there was SO much going on. but overall, it was an incredible experience meeting all the fannibals! i was overwhelmed (in a good way) by the kindness and generosity of the fannibal fandom. i've never been part of a fandom and esp not one so amazing.

but to recap: i got mr. dancy to sign my tempo dvd LOL. the idea was all thanks to the brilliant @bodysnatcherrrr (tysm❤️)! by the time my autos rolled around, hugh looked too exhausted to really look at the patrons bc it was RIGHT after the chaotic panel. but we did catch eye contact a couple of times.

he was SO NICE and friendly from the start. when i gave him the tempo insert to sign, he literally shouted, "TEMPO! WHOA! A BLAST FROM THE PAST!" i joked that "it was a classic and i liked the twists and turns" and he laughed his sarcastic hugh laugh and said sth like, "it sure does have those." lmfao. afterwards, he sweetly asked, "where would you like me to sign it?" and i said sth like, "wherever your sharpie compels you" and he smirked and signed it right above his portrait.

you can see the tail end of the "y" in his name run off the page as he marked the table so i decided to land one more joke, "leaving your mark on c2e2 as an extra gift" and he laughed and said sth like, "that's exactly right." we made some other jokes in between but it all happened so fast there's much i can't recall. i was also v careful to keep things lighthearted/comedic bc he looked pressed after the panel. but as soon as he saw the tempo dvd he came to life and looked so refreshed after that - so sometimes "doing it for the lulz" can be a good thing lol. he was much more lively for the duo photo ops with mads that were after the autos as well.

hilariously, hugh's tempo co-star was also doing autos/photos at c2e2. perhaps i should have gotten hers to complete the circle.

gossip girl signing off, xoxo

[1hot-mess-express1]

Edward 40hands

A/N: Ayyyoooo, I've had this one in my drafts for a while, but I'm not sure if I like it or not (I definitely gave up a little there at the end). I want to practice writing some longer fics. So let if you like it! Likes, reblogs, and comments are super appreciated :) WC: 5.2K

Suguru X Reader (College, non-curse AU) High key based on "Edward 40 hands" by mom jeans

CW: Suggestive, Angst, drinking (of age), smoking cigarettes (both reader and Suguru), mentions of body shots, break up, Suguru's a lit major with my awful taste in books lmfao, tortured artist trope

PC: Yuannaoi on twt

The room is dark; smoke fills the air and invades your senses while you trudge through a seemingly endless sea of sweaty bodies. You’re not sure what the moisture clinging to your exposed skin is, but it’s probably better not to dwell on that thought. The music blaring through the speakers was nothing in comparison to the drunken screaming emanating from the patrons of today’s party. Your senses were overwhelmed in this cramped space as you slowly pushed your way into the kitchen. 

There were still partygoers perched on counters and crouched on the floor, donning plastic cups and drunken, lopsided smiles as they spoke in slurred phrases and empty promises, damp, sour breath clinging to the skin of one another. You push past a couple whispering sweet nothings to each other as you reach into the back of the freezer, behind the hot pockets and frozen pizzas, where you find a crisp, frost-covered bottle of high-west, just where you left it. You smirk to yourself before you feel a large hand with slender fingers clap down on your shoulder in a way that is all too familiar. 

“What’re ya doing here?” You turn to see Satoru with a drunken flush and a pretty blonde on his arm. His eyes are friendly, but his tone is laced with concern. 

You sigh, waving the frosty bottle in front of his face before uncorking it and throwing back a swig, “left this here n’wanted it back; this is Prisoner’s share, ya’know? Expensive stuff,” you state, grimacing slightly at the way the frost burns your fingers before swapping the bottle into the other hand. 

Satoru gives you a questioning look before glancing around the room; you know who he’s looking for. “Don’t worry, I’ll be out of here before he can throw a fit about me being here,” you offer Satoru a smile before pushing back into the swarm of people, trying to make your way to the back door. His gaze lingers on you for a moment, face crestfallen, watching the way you weave through the sea of strangers, arms tucked close to your chest. This wasn’t gonna go well. The blonde next to him startles him out of his trance. 

“Wanna do body shots?” Her finger reaches for his jaw, and he can’t help but perk up at the insinuation. All concern and foreboding feelings rush out of him before he gives her a cheeky grin, pulling her impossibly closer to him.

“Fuck yeah,” he turns on his heel, effectively forgetting about your presence and all of the tension you brought with you. 

You push your way to the sliding glass door, tucking the cold bottle under your arm before pushing your feet into the carpet and tugging with both hands, wiggling slightly to coax the door open. With a huff, it pops open, nearly causing you to topple over before you step onto the back patio. You should have known; there are people out here, too. You glance around, taking note of the people perched on the porch railing, half-consumed beers in hand, laughter floating out into the too-warm August air. 

You shuffle through your pockets in search of a lighter; instead, your fingers are met with loose change, a stray hair tie, and an empty straw wrapper, shit. You’d keep better track of your things one day, but until then, you let out a huff, eyes scanning the creaky wooden porch boards. Your eyes are greeted with empty cans and cups, leaking small amounts of sticky liquid onto the tarnished wood, and random pieces of clothing left to ruminate in this late August humidity, gross. Wandering over to the round table hanging on by a prayer, you see half-empty drinks, an overflowing ashtray, and chewed gum, but alas, no light. The condensation collecting along the glass bottle begins to dribble between your fingers as the humid air quickly warms the both of you. With a flick of the wrist, the whiskey slides its way down, setting a fire in your throat, your breath burning your nostrils on its way out. You set the bottle down and reach for the pack of smokes in your pocket, tenderly retrieving a cigarette and setting it between your lips before returning it to your pocket and the bottle to your hand as you wander further into the yard, searching for someone who might have a lighter. 

You notice the mud sticking to your shoes and make a note to throw them into the wash when you get home. In protest of your current predicament, you gingerly take the cigarette from between your lips and place it behind your ear before taking another swig of the amber liquid. You continue your trek through the yard, letting the cicada's song dance through your ears, nearly drowning out the sound of debauchery wafting from the house. The orange of the sun is dipping below the horizon, exploding with colors before retreating to make way for a vast sea of stars. If Suguru were here, he’d probably have something poetic to say about it, you chuckle a bit to yourself at the thought. 

There is a fire somewhere. The acrid smell of burning cedar wafts around your nose, bringing crinkles to the space between your brows as you look up silently at Suguru, wondering if he will move to acknowledge the smell--he never does. You pick lazily at the Gibson in your lap, only half paying attention as your gaze travels to Suguru’s face, lit up by the amber sun as it makes its descent under the horizon. Your feet are firmly planted on the shingles of this roof, your mind paying no attention to the way your body reacts to the danger of being up this high. Suguru’s body, on the other hand, is a picturesque view of serenity; his face is relaxed, jaw moving slightly as he unknowingly mouths the words to his book, forearms resting on his knees as his hair gently wafts around his face with the late summer breeze. His tongue poked out every so often, wetting the plush of his lips with a single slow stroke. You watch as his eyes lazily skim the pages of a book he’s read too many times to count. 

He must have felt your stare because he glances over at you and offers a lopsided grin, “Are you even paying attention anymore?” his eyes flit to where your fingers are plucking at the strings out of rhythm. 

“I’ll have you know that this raw talent doesn’t have to pay attention; my body acts on pure musical instinct,” you state through a cheeky smile, arching a single brow at him as he places the book down by his side. You glance fleetingly at the cover, ‘The Setting Sun,’ your brows furrow a little in thought before speaking, “Suguru, why do you always reread books? I know you could read something that small in a single sitting, smart enough to understand it the first time too,” your hand slips, plucking at the wrong chord, giving way to an eerie out of tune note. 

“That’s not how these kinds of books work,” he chuckles mostly to himself before continuing, a small fire dancing around those lavender eyes that signal the forthcoming explanation and the excitement it brings him to speak about it, “Dazai’s books are extremely pessimistic examinations of human nature poorly disguised as fiction; yes this story is about a war-torn family, but really this was his way of projecting his own hopelessness on the world, when you read something this emotionally charged it’s important to examine it from multiple viewpoints,” he glances down to see that your hand has stopped moving altogether as you suck your bottom lip in between your teeth, his gaze returns to your eyes and he speaks through a friendly smile, “for instance, my first read was blank, no real expectations, just getting to know the characters and setting and taking note of my reactions, the second time I’m trying to understand what the overall message of the book is, or examining the points made a little more closely,” you hum in understanding, setting your guitar to the side, before plucking the novel from its resting place, flipping through the pages until you find where he’s dog eared the book. 

“I must go on living. And, though it may be childish of me, I can't go on in simple compliance. From now on, I must struggle with the world. I thought that Mother might well be the last of those who can end their lives beautifully and sadly, struggling with no one, neither hating nor betraying anyone. In the world to come, there will be no room for such people. The dying are beautiful, but to live, to survive – those things somehow seem hideous and contaminated with blood.” you look up at him over the edge of the book, “thoughts?” you offer him a cheeky smile, waiting patiently for his reply. 

“A few, mostly I think it’s depressing, but you’re not really interested in what I have to say.” He lets out a sweet, breathy laugh before pulling you closer to him, tucked in perfectly to his side. His hand wraps around your shoulder as he places a chaste kiss on the top of your head. 

You reach into your pants pocket, retrieve a pack of cigarettes, wiggle one free, and place it between your lips. Staring off at the last sliver of daylight giving way to a navy sky, you pat down your pockets in search of a lighter. Your search is cut short when Suguru dangles the black piece of plastic in front of your eyes. 

“You should really keep better track of your things, yaknow?” he mutters his words into the juncture of your neck, brushing his lips against the warm skin; your hairs stand on end at the light tickling. 

“One day, but not today,” you take it from him, flicking the lighter and taking a deep breath, letting the cigarette flicker to life as the smell of a distant fire gives way to the rich smell of tobacco. Suguru shuffles himself to the side a little, trying his best to hide the way the smell makes his stomach turn. 

“M’sorry,” you mutter before putting some distance between you and turning to face him fully. You know what he’s about to say well before the words leave his mouth. 

“Those things’ll kill you, you know?” he says, trying to wear a teasing smile, knowing full well that his words will do little to deter you from your nasty habit. 

You roll your eyes playfully before changing the subject: “Do you think you’re going to take that internship?” You do your best to keep your voice neutral. Looking where the sun last hung in the sky, it was long gone, but you feared your eyes might betray you. 

He folds in on himself a bit at the statement, “I think so…” His voice trails off a bit before he glances in your direction, searching for a reaction. Your features are fairly neutral in spite of the way your stomach drops at his words. “Are you gonna take that deal?”

“Might as well; if you’re not here, I’ve got no reason to stay. I still need to talk it over with Shoko, though; I’m not sure she’s so keen on the idea of going with me…she’s a hell of a bass player, but she wants to be a doctor, yaknow? She doesn’t have the time to waste in the studio like I do.” You let out a small smile at your situation. 

“They’ll sign just you, and you know it,” Suguru says, pulling you a bit closer to himself. He ignores the way the smoke makes his eyes water and places a chaste kiss on the top of your head. 

The smell of second-hand smoke wafts your way, dragging your attention to the side of the house where someone is leaning against the side panels, book in hand. You take another drink before squinting at the figure, eyes bleary and head beginning to dizzy; stepping closer to them, you realize it’s the last person you wanted to see today. Of course, he’d be outside hiding from his own party, pretentious ass. As you inch closer, he looks up from his book, giving you the same inquisitive stare before dog-earring his page and tucking the book in the crook of his arm. Once you’re within arm’s reach, he places the cigarette between his lips, taking a long drag and letting the ash fall to the grass below him, eyes narrowing in on the bottle in your hand before he looks back up to your face, exhaling the smoke from his nose before speaking. 

“Really?” he tilts his head slightly, a small grin gracing his lips as he brings the cigarette back to his lips and turns to face you more directly. 

You do your best not to stare, but his hair is framing his face so perfectly, the veins in his hands are highlighted perfectly by the gentle hold he has on the cigarette perched between his lips, and god, his eyes, those stupidly perfect purple eyes, framed by long, dark lashes shine beautifully under the late August moon and draw you in like a moth to a porch light--blissfully unaware of that something so beautiful could be so dangerous. 

You steady your resolve before looking at him like he’s an idiot, “obviously, shit was expensive,” you mark your point by taking a much larger drink from the bottle before extending it to him. He gives you a pensive look before taking the bottle from your hand and bringing it to his own lips. You note the way his tongue pokes out to wet his lips before he takes a large drink, his Adams apples bobbing as the fluid makes its way down his throat. To your surprise, he keeps going, effectively chugging the whiskey as if it were water. “Hey, stop that!” you exclaim, reaching up with ardor to take the bottle from his grasp. When your small hand grasps the glass and pulls it away from him, the drink falls from the corner of his lips as he laughs through a cough, bringing his sleeve up to wipe the excess from his lips. “That was easily like fifty bucks right there,” you grumble mostly to yourself, wiping the outside of the bottle across your jeans. 

He looks up at you from his hunched-over position and grabs the cigarette from your ear, brushing his knuckles across your cheek as he does, waving it in your face, a goofy grin plastered on his face, a single eyebrow quirked up in question, “Need a light?”. Such an innocent question, but the lopsided grin he’s sporting and the intensity of his eyes leave you flustered in place for a moment longer than you’d like, listening to thrumming in your ears telling you to leave. Instead, you grab the cigarette from his hand indignantly, staring at the ground to cover the flush that threatens to creep across your face at his proximity, tapping the toe of your shoe into the grass, half in an attempt to free some of the mud accumulating and partially to have a reason not to look at him. 

“Yeah,” you mutter out before glancing up at him. When you do, he places the cigarette between your lips, he stands to his full height, making you feel incredibly small beneath him before he rummages through his pocket. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, Marb red, 100s to be exact, and you smile a little to yourself. “copy cat,” you giggle out, looking up at him as he places a cigarette between his lips, cupping the flame and taking a large inhale. He chuckles to himself a little at your statement before stepping impossibly closer to you with his lit cigarette. His hair falls around his face as he leans down, smirking around the cigarette perched between his pouty lips, waiting patiently for you to close the distance. He couldn’t be serious right now.

“Well? Ya gonna light that cig or what?” he speaks through the cigarette, his hair cascading down in front of him, the very tips of it tickling your collarbone. You roll your eyes before placing your hand around your cigarette, cradling it in place, letting your eyes flutter closed, touching the tip of your cigarette to his, breathing in deeply and relishing in the bitter-sweet taste of it as it makes its way to the bottom of your lungs. When you open your eyes, he’s staring at you with an unreadable expression, no hint of the smile that was present moments ago. His gaze pierces you in place as the low thrumming of life on the other side of the wall drifts into your consciousness. 

You shift nervously under his gaze, looking at the mud crusted to the tip of your shoe, “Since when do you smoke? Ya know those things will kill ya,” you mutter with all the playfulness you can muster before returning your gaze to him. You don’t miss the small smile that creeps over his hand as he takes another drag. 

“Got dumped by a beautiful girl, in case you didn’t know; I think it’s only natural to pick up a bad habit. Speaking of which, does Satoru know you’re here? I think you traumatized him last time he saw you,” Suguru says with some genuine concern etched into his brows. 

You chuckle a little at the statement feeling your brows knit together in guilt, “Yeah, he knows, definitely didn’t look too happy to see me, but he had pussy to chase, so you know how that goes,” Suguru chuckles at your response before bringing the cigarette back to his lips. “Besides, I wasn’t that bad. Promise, I could have been a lot worse,” you chuckle a little to yourself before bringing the bottle back to your lips and taking a healthy swig. This was the last thing you wanted to talk about tonight, but the world turns to spite you, it would seem. 

“I don’t doubt that, but he’s a pampered guy, yaknow? I highly doubt he’s ever seen a woman raise her voice before then, much less cause that much destruction,” he pulls the cigarette to his lips again, and you take notice of how close the ember is reaching to the butt and the way the mellow flame illuminates his features as he takes a shallow inhale.  

He was right; you may have gone a bit overboard. You don’t remember much of that night, to be completely honest; when you think back, most of it flies away in a haze of screaming and crying. You do remember throwing a dresser drawer in the general direction of Satoru though. Being the sweetheart pacifist that he is, he came up to try and quell the storming rage, but unfortunately, words evaded him, and he opened up with “chill out,” not a great thing to say to an angry woman. 

You straighten your stance as you pinch the ember out of your cigarette, stomping it into the grass, and toss the butt into your jacket pocket, a sweet habit that doesn’t go unnoticed by Suguru. “Well, yaknow what they say? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” you scoff, staring as you swirl the liquid in your bottle, groaning internally at the realization that it is nearly empty before taking another swig, feeling your mind begin to slip away as your jaw unclenches and your vision blurs slightly. 

Suguru reaches for the bottle in your hands, bringing it to his lips and taking a large drink before he crouches down, leaning his head back on the worn wood of the house, looking up at you as if asking you to take a seat next to him. On slightly wobbly legs, you comply, leaving a healthy distance between you. You sit in silence for a moment, taking in the heavy thrum of bass emanating from the house, reminiscing on nights when you would sit out here with Suguru, a bottle between you and the comfortable quiet of the night save for the low hum of life seeping into the night air from the crowded house. You would sit beside him, relishing in the bitterness of a cigarette as he scolded you playfully for the nasty habit, making notes about the staining on your fingers and comparing them to the yellowed pages of a novel. He was always overly poetic like that, sickeningly good at making you feel like the main character of some period romance novel. That’s probably why it stung so bad when you found out he was leaving. Had he told you himself, lacing beautiful words about finding each other again or running away together like lovesick teenagers, maybe you would have been okay with it; maybe you would have chuckled even at his poet’s tongue before cradling his too-large face in your hand, peppering it with sweet kisses, hopeful for the future. 

Instead, you stared at a plane ticket, cold and alone, entirely too drunk to be in your right mind, with no sweet words to chase away the tears creeping to the corners of your eyes, no elaborate yearning confessions to replace the overwhelming weight in your chest. He was leaving, and he wasn’t even going to tell you; what’s worse, he lied to you. He laid you down in his bed, body pressed comfortably close to yours as he kissed the space between your ear and jaw as he whispered to you about how he belonged here with you, that he could never pass you up for anything because his heart was sure to reject anyone but you. That he couldn’t imagine a life for himself where he didn’t come home to you stretched out on the sofa in his worn out crewneck, his sweet cat wrapped comfortably on your chest as your little snores drift to his ears. He couldn’t wake without the sight of your hazy smile peering down at him, your sweet voice coaxing him back to the reality of his dreams. 

At least that’s what he had said; instead, you sit there on the worn carpet of his bedroom, studying the creases in the corner of the plane ticket. He had decided to leave and never intended to tell you. No possibility of running behind him and living in a shitty studio while he interned at the college, and you worked part-time at the cafe down the street, saving your change in a pickle jar to afford a better home. You would never hear him shuffle through the front door, kicking his black loafers off before unbuttoning the top of his shirt, striding over to your place at the kitchen sink, placing a single kiss on the crown of your head before telling you all about the students he worked with today, and way they groaned at the Dostoevsky reading today. Suguru would go on to describe the intricacies of his love for the droning author as you wiped the water off your hands with a tea towel, smiling at him with that same lovesick look your heart always held for him. 

You’re pulled from your thoughts by the flicking of a lighter, and you look over to see Suguru cupping the flame once again as his cigarette flickers to life. “When did you really pick up smoking, Suguru?” you spare a glance at whatever book he’s reading right now, Letters to Milena, typical. 

“When you left them at my place, they just kept staring at me from the nightstand. It wasn’t supposed to become a habit, but I think it pairs nicely with the whole tortured artist vibe, yaknow?” he chuckles to himself at his own lame joke. He takes a sharp inhale and stares off into the night sky for a moment before reaching for the bottle between you, taking a large drink, and offering the last of it to you. “I never meant to hurt you, yaknow?” he mutters out before taking another drag off of his smoke as if avoiding speaking, even if only for a moment. 

You don’t hesitate to finish the last of the bottle, relishing the fire that trails through your throat. “What is that supposed to mean?” you ask, leaning your head back against the wall, trying to straighten out your dizzy mind. 

He sucks in a deep breath, using his foot to toy with the grass. “I just didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know how to tell you; I tried to believe me, but every time…I just…choked, I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t say it out loud… made it all feel too real,” his voice cracks a little at the end like the memory of it all could break him. 

You look over at him, your confident facade crumbling as your voice betrays you, conveying much more than you ever wanted to say: “I didn’t expect you to stay, yaknow? A part of me was so excited for you. I know what this means to you…I just didn’t expect you of all people to lie to me,” you take in a deep breath. “I was also incredibly drunk,” you let out a half-hearted chuckle, hoping to lighten the mood. 

He doesn’t smile; if anything, his frown only deepens before he moves to speak, “I didn’t lie to you, I’m not going…I’ve had too much time to think about it, and I don’t think I can leave you behind, even if it’s just the little things, like the hoodie hanging over my desk chair with cigarette hole burnt through the pocket or the pack of reds staring at me while I’m far too drunk to make any good decisions,” he looks over at you, moving his hand into the space between you, looking up at you through his heavy lashes, “or the chance that I’ll find you sneaking out the back door of my house, looking for a lighter” he laughs solemnly to himself at that last statement. Reaching into his pocket for yet another cigarette, placing it between his teeth and lighting it before handing the lit cigarette to you. 

You shuffle in place, lifting the cigarette to your lips, praying it will do anything to settle your uneasy heart, or maybe keep your head from spinning, laying your head back against the wall and letting your eyes flutter closed, “Those things’ll kill ya yaknow?” you mutter out, groaning lightly at the way the world turns behind your eyelids, before passing the cigarette back to him. 

“You’ll still kill me faster,” he chuckles a little at the thought, leaning on his outstretched hand, taking a drag off the cigarette and letting the smoke dissipate into the night. “I uh…I miss you a lot, and I’m sorry for all of it,” he states, turning to look at the space between you, studying the way your hand twitches lightly. The silence between you grows on him like a fungus threatening to stop his breathing altogether as he closes his eyes and lets the weight of what he said hang in the air. He was sure you didn't care that he missed you; an apology wasn’t going to erase what had happened between you; it wasn’t enough, but a small part of him wished it was. 

“So, what are you doing now? You didn’t leave; better be a damn good alternative here,” your voice is coated with a teasing tone, trying desperately to hide all of the emotions threatening to overtake your now hazy mind. You look over to see him staring holes into your hand, and as if on instinct, you place it haphazardly over his much larger one, enjoying the warmth radiating from his knuckles. Your gaze returns to the stars draping across the sky, taking mental note of how small you feel when gazing up at the vast, consuming black of the night sky. It was a morbidly comforting thought that none of this would matter one day. 

“Promise not to kill me?” he leans in a little closer to you, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips as his thumb absentmindedly strokes the side of your hand, the pad of his finger calloused and warm. 

“Cross my heart,” you state, looking over at him again, realizing how close he’s gotten and studying the features of his face, the way his brows sag comfortably low, his eyelashes framing his warm eyes perfectly, his lips are pulled in a small grin, his collarbone peaking out of the black T-shirt, exposing the smallest bit of a tattoo creeping over his shoulder from his back, that you know all too well. 

His eyes linger on your lips as he begins to speak; he’s close enough now that when he does, you can see the hint of silver resting against his tongue, “I’ve started working on a book,” his eyes flash up to meet yours. 

“Mr. Responsible is writing a book and hoping it works out? That’s definitely not what I expected to hear.” You try your best to muster up a teasing tone, but the way he’s so close to you right now, looking at you like a man starved, twists your guts, and for a moment, you think your heart might stop beating then and there. 

He chuckles a bit, his gaze returning to your eyes, “It’s going well, thanks for asking,” he rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss the grin stretching across his features as his hand returns to absentmindedly stroking yours, “besides it was a way to stay here, I already have an offer and they made a generous upfront payment after some back and forth nonsense that you don’t really care about,” his voice trails off a little at the end as he notices the way your eyes are scanning his lips, a cute drunken flush washed over your face as your tongue darts out to lick your lips.

Would it make him a bad person if he kissed you right now? He’s not sure and must not care because he’s quick to close the distance between you, placing a gentle kiss on the juncture of your mouth, letting himself linger there for a moment as he relishes the feeling. When he pulls back, he knows he’s a terrible person cause the sight of you with your wide eyes looking up at him through a soft pout, chest heaving slightly, tongue darting out to wet your lips--a very innocent reaction to a very innocent act-- makes him ache to devour you. 

“Wh-why would you do that?” your brows knit together in confusion for a moment before his lips are on you again, first at your lips, then just below your ear as he whispers to you.

“Let me tell you I’m sorry…please?”

Oh fuck, the ‘please’ he lets out is so pathetic you feel a whine creeping from the back of your throat as your hands find purchase in his and tug slightly. “Are you ready to beg for my forgiveness?” With that, it’s his turn to let out a groan at how breathy and unsure you sound. 

“Sweetheart, I’m prepared to get on my knees and beg for hours if you’d let me…” he makes his point by licking a stripe up the side of your neck. 

[laurelnose]

i saw an essay when Book of Hours came out that said the Librarian was different from the Cultist because the Cultist has no friends and is just holed up somewhere pursuing higher mysteries while using people as ritual parts, while the Librarian is a member of the community at Brancrug. (It was hilarious how fast BoH swung the fandom consensus on the Cultist from “they’re pretty competent” to “oh the Cultist is a fucking idiot,” lmfao.) anyways uhh they’re right but since House of Light came out I have realized that I like playing BoH exactly the same way I play CS, which is to say I hole up in my big weird house for days on end shuffling my card decks and forgetting other people exist, only to be unpleasantly surprised when the season changes and someone shows up at my door. community what community. The Deep Mysteries need to be shelved.

[very mild, largely mechanical House of Light spoilers to follow]

salons are pretty fun once you’ve got enough resources to not feel squeezed about them though. They take a lot of prep and you have to time your invitations correctly so that your visitors arrive while you’re still flush with soul, but I do enjoy the conversation with the guests. and it does feel nice to be able to write to visitors, even if I’m not doing it very often. like the Librarian really is connected to the outside world and not just hopelessly unmoored from other people at Hush House, at the mercy of whoever randomly bothers to make the trek out to Brancrug. I’m still spending most of my money on Unusual Help and haven’t been able to budget much for dishes but I’m almost done unlocking the House and will soon be able to buy much more food. I like that lessons are now functionally infinite and I don’t have to worry about trying to get the timing right for Numa lessons anymore. I’ve not done a lot of incident follow-up (Spencer is coming next Numa and he will be my first) but I think I shall have to prioritize doing more of them. And I shall have to find out if my Numa incident can be followed up on too, once it concludes.

[“how have you been playing for a week and still haven’t concluded any incidents” I am BEING ANTISOCIAL, as previously established.]

i am so sad that Numa visitors don’t leave calling cards. I understand why but the only thing I really wanted from the visitors update was the ability to make Julian Coseley show up whenever I want. 😭 Can you host a salon during Numa if you are careful with your invitation timing?? I will have to check if the Numa guests have food preference aspects.

two final things. 1) please let me buy eggs oh my god. eggs require three soul cards (collect vegetable sack. feed chicken. collect egg from chicken) which considering that the going rate for a soul card at the Sweet Bones is 12p and that you can’t multitask with beasts e.g. feeding Tuppence while collecting from Terrence, makes eggs one of THEE most complicated and expensive ingredients to obtain. It’s more straightforward to collect from the gulls but considering the pull rate is 33% eggs, that’s still basically three soul cards per egg, this time with aspect constraints! I will pay fucking spintriae for eggs, just let me use currencyyyyy. 2) the fucking shelving system is still giving me fits, I think it’s been improved somewhat for the books (I didn’t play the Daymare update so IDK if it was that or HoL) but where the hell am I supposed to put ANYTHING else. When I order all the ingredients I need for cooking, where do they go, the fucking bridge? Gross! Immersion-breaking! I need more pantry space.

(I unfortunately have limited patience for the shelf thing. The most concrete manifestation of my COVID trauma is I can’t STAND irregularly shaped shelves anymore. Circulation dropped by >70% during lockdown and took years to recover. Public library collections are sized with the expectation that a certain percentage of the collection will live with patrons; we were not and still aren’t equipped to house our entire collection in-house. I spent a year of my life jury-rigging shelves to get things to fit. The bane of my existence became shelves so specifically designed for a certain type of media that they couldn’t be extended or repurposed for other things. Having to constantly shuffle books around between ~aesthetic~ little nooks isn’t cute or cozy, it’s just bad fucking library design. When the shelving mechanic on BoH works it’s a thing of beauty but there are simply NOT ENOUGH SHELVES. I just want to fit my reasonably-sized collection on one screen. Also the scrolls should stack on top of each other. Catch my Librarian spending their stipend on ripping out the entire Westcott Room and redoing it for space efficiency)

[sencrose]

mdni this is not my usual kinda writing.

gojo satoru x gn!reader. wc ~700. sfw, first time meetings, the start of a one-sided rivals to lovers vibe, reader is a disco pang operator lmfao. divider by @/adornedwithlight

Days and nights tend to blend together when you spend most of your waking hours indoors. You're sure your circadian rhythm was ruined months ago. No sun, just erratic strobe lights shining through all the colors of the rainbow which don’t actually do anything to light up the dim room. 

If you had control over the lights you would’ve done something about them a while ago. But for now, you hold a decent amount of power at your fingertips. Speed, power, and movement. 

It’s a normal day, and you have a normal routine. Let the patrons spill into the ride, mentally choose your victims for the next five minutes. Take in any notable appearances or insecurities you can use as a punchline. It’s all in good fun.

“Alright let’s get started everyone!” you announce into the mic, abruptly starting the machine. A few screams pierce through the air from the riders.

And your first victim of your five minute tirade is a white-haired man wearing sunglasses, sitting casually along the seat, his arms splayed over the railing. Through the controls, you spin the ride until he’s sitting at the top, spotlight shined right on to his form. 

“What the hell is with that hair?” you ask.

The man looks around, as if there’s anyone else you’d be talking to before pointing at his face. “Me?” he asks back.

“Yeah, you,” you respond, adjusting the controls to get him bouncing off his seat. He simply holds on, barely moving.

“Nothing! It’s all natural!” he yells back, grinning.

“Natural, my ass. It looks tacky,” you say, a hint of annoyance in your tone. The ride jerks and catches a couple of people by surprise, but not him. 

“Aw, you’re really hurting my feelings, sweetheart,” he says casually.

The pet name pierces through your ear drums, even with the loud pop music playing through the speakers. You don’t remember the last time anyone’s called you that, and it has you flustered. Has blood rushing to your cheeks. Of all things to get worked up over.

It takes you a moment to shake yourself out of it before redirecting your attention back to him. Study him again to find something else to poke at.

“Wearing sunglasses indoors? Got something to hide?” you ask, hoping you’ve found something worth honing in on.

“Not at all, just a force of habit!” he responds back, gleefully.

“Take ‘em off then!”

“Alright, alright, but don’t fall in love with me.” He takes one of his arms off the rail and takes his glasses off, folding them before hanging them off the collar of his shirt.

You have to slide the mic to the side to groan to yourself. Even from a distance you can see his eyes are an awe-striking blue.

“I have to say dear announcer, I was expecting something a bit more exciting!” he exclaims, slouching back into his seat.

Has anyone ever had an aneurysm from pure frustration? Because you’re sure you’re about to join the club.

“I’ll get you bouncing off your seat.”

“Promise?” he teases.

But no matter how hard you attempt to jerk him around, even though everyone else on the ride jumps and tumbles around, he doesn’t move. That pisses you off. 

You slow the ride down, aiming to give the signs of an end. With a flick of a switch, the ride jolts multiple times in succession, and you get the man off his seat. 

“Ah, looks like you finally got me!” he laughs.

Before he has the chance to get back to his seat, you make the ride move erratically. Whatever random combination of spins, stops and pulses comes to mind, you do your best to execute it.

Yet no matter what you do, he takes it with grace. He simply jumps to match the rhythm of the ride. Walks around as if he’s on flat pavement, catching the occasional body that flies out of their seat.

And before you know it, time’s up. It’s unsatisfactory, seeing him still standing by the end of it, smug grin painted on his face pointed right towards you as he exits the ride.

“Wow, that was a lot of fun! I’ll have to come more often. 'Til next time!” He waves with a goodbye.

You hope he’s lying.

tagging: @pixelcafe-network

[arainaizevran]

(anon about Wyll getting hells-tormented and transformed in front of everyone) I'm just going insane about him and think I misremembered his first dialogue after the scene a little dkjsk (got mixed up with another backstory line perhaps? about how he doesn't regret the pact and would do it again? or another one maybe it's been a minute since I played :((( ) BUT STILL

just!!! Mizora keeps dishing out torments and he keeps taking it and keeping up his brave heroic face!! and he keeps trying to be as good as possible no matter the sacrifice and augh my heart HE WAS WILLING TO GET KILLED!!!!

and everyone in camp just watching that happen like.. that's Quite A Moment for him to go through right in front of a bunch of people he's only known for (usually) a handful of days at most? and Karlach is right there realizing he was 100% willing to get killed by his patron for her to live! and everyone else in camp is also witnessing all of this!

it's kind of an insane thing to meet a guy and go "oh he's cool and hot and has the tadpole he can come with :)" and then find out the "devil" he's hunting is actually another tadpole buddy and then shortly after that you watch his patron torture and transform him in the middle of your camp and he gets back up and keeps going!! and you're standing there like,,,,, your man just got marinated in all the hells at once,,

and you can talk to him afterwards and reassure him and all but listen. listen.. I just think people who talk about Karlach or a tiefling Tav (or the grove tieflings? do they talk about the grove tieflings?) helping him out with horn care are onto something I think he could use a little more... is the word 'aftercare'? just wouldn't his skin and muscles hurt after all that... what if he needs a little massage :( a gentle head rub :( he needs to go to a spa in Baldur's Gate (and it goes without saying that he (and every one of the tadfools yes but this ain't about them) could use a good therapist)

(technically Mizora was "within her rights" to give him whatever punishment wherever she felt like it but she should also consider dying a thousand deaths and letting him have nice things and leaving him alone forever) (I'm taking him away from her and holding his hands tenderly and– ahem)

...hmm that was more words than I meant to,, I was trying to be hinged and levelheaded in the first ask but then I thought about him more and that just... it happens when you've known him for a couple of DAYS... idk thinking about it made me go feral a little. hope you have a good one I love seeing you on the dash btw <3

no i get it LMFAO wyll's rotating around in my head 24/7 like a perpetual microwave

it really is kinda crazy to think about all that happening, esp if you also recruit karlach on the same day you meet him 😭 you've known him for less than 24 hours at that point and he just up and makes a huge sacrifice in the name of doing the right thing. just another tuesday for the blade methinks! (also, obsessed with the wording on that - "marinated in the hells" 😭)

honestly, no wonder wyll sulks at the beach during the tiefling party. he has had no time to process everything that's happened - from hunting karlach in avernus, to getting tadpoled, the nautiloid crashing, saving the druid grove from goblins, helping the tiefling refugees, sparing the person you swore to kill, getting transformed into a devil, infiltrating the goblin camp, killing the three goblin leaders, rescuing halsin only to find out they have to go to moonrise towers anyway. all in - what? a week or two? not to mention he has a mindflayer parasite, the threat of mindflayer transformation looming over everyone in camp.

so the one time the party finally has time for rest and relaxation and celebration - that's the time it all hits wyll. he's permanently changed. because he did the right thing. he can't bring himself to celebrate despite all the good he's done. will the people still trust him to protect them? or will they only see a devil?

and AAGGHHH there really should've been more [tiefling] dialogue for wyll... comforting him... giving him advice on horn care... or even as a flirt option to just offer to take care of it for him. yknow. he deserves it and more!!

[shai-manahan]

Hi! It's been a while since I've talked about the upcoming updates, but I finally had a chance to actually sit down and make plans! (the life of a corporate slave, am I right? 🙃)

It has something to do with the changes I will be implementing on my patreon, though. I've thought for a while how to give content that's worthwhile of subscriptions while also making sure I can be comfortable with them, and in all honesty, I had a tricky time doing it. HM is too personal for me, as I used to talk about before, and some of the patreon benefits I promised before eventually felt too revealing - of my own thoughts and people whose lives were a huge inspiration for this story.

I will be talking about these changes and the update schedules as well below the cut.

UPDATES

I aim to finish at least half of HM's Book 1 this year. It seems to be a more realistic goal than forcing myself to finish everything right away (which tbh may have been a huge pressure I put on myself the past few years), though admittedly, things are unpredictable in the field I'm in; my job is full of overtime hours, and I spend most of my weekends trying to recover (or sick).

Still, I gotta finish it one way or another, and it's not going to write itself (though I wish it would!), so yeah, set realistic deadlines, pull out a few all-nighters, and maybe I'll actually get through it, who knows?

I do hope I'll have steadier finances by the time Book 2 starts so I can put more focus on writing and have sufficient energy for it, but that's a conversation for another day.

Changes in Prologue - Chapter 2

Okay. I know I promised not to make revisions until I write more chapters, but changing how some game mechanics work and reworking the stats made it a necessity, and I underestimated how much rewriting I'd have to do. A few scenes ended up not working well anymore, and I couldn't resist from revising a few clunky sections while I was at it.

Dialogue options were one of those that were significantly affected by the stat changes, but no worries, nothing is changed in the story -- meaning Wesley still fucks with the Ripper's life (oops), Richard still goes off doing whatever non-sus thing he's doing, you can still punch Bale (it's even a lot funnier this time), Bertrand remains a bitchy cop, and you'll still have your sad flashback with your former best friend/lover/crush or whatever they are to your MC.

The plan is to release the updated version of Prologue and Chapter 1 to patrons by the end of March (I will have a few days off work that week) and release it to the public once the new content is also ready, which I presume will be available next month (I will keep you all posted but I really hope I can get it done by then because it's been forever 🥲).

I might tweak Chapter 2 a little so the available portion can stand on its own rather than be divided into two parts, because it's just too long lmfao and is harming the pacing as I keep worrying about the length. I'm also incorporating a few suggestions a few folks gave me these past few months.

Succeeding chapters

I've probably said this before but things are bound to get more insane in HM once we're past the first three to four chapters. But also quicker to write in a way. They're the kind of scenes I thrive in, and while they have bigger variations, they're a lot more fast-paced, characters start being manipulative little shits, and the threats are more prevalent than ever. Your Ripper will not have a good time, but I certainly will (I say as I look at my outline and get sad doing it). There will be a few "breaks" in between, but this is not and will never be a light-hearted story. Anyway, I'm inclined to believe I'll be more consistent with updates when that time comes, so bear with me for now :')

PATREON CHANGES

This is getting long, so I'll just list the updated tier benefits and end the day with it. I'll be posting a schedule that I will be committing to (here and on patreon tomorrow morning), with the below details as well (so if you wanna stop here that's totally valid) but for now, here's the tentative list:

Tier 1

Early access - 4 days before a public update (this month will be an exception and you'll get the update as soon as the other tiers get it, too).

Sneak peeks and deleted scenes - I included the latter because apparently I delete a lot of great scenes

Hints for future revelations in the story - the categories will depend on results of polls; the hints may be about Bale's death, about Ripper's family, Pharos, Cyro, the ROs themselves, or the nightmares that the MC is getting, etc. Might be in form of vague conversations/dialogues between unknown characters, might be me dropping subtle info about those involved. Either way, it will be fun :). The polls and these hints will be given monthly.

Tier 2

Early access - 1 week before a public update

all the other benefits for Tier 1

monthly RO snippets - I'm still experimenting with this, but I might simply write MC x RO snippets (with different kinds of MCs for different scenarios because I deeply hate writing blank slate MCs, sorry)

a choice to see the POV of a character, decided through polls, for every chapter/update.

Tier 3

Early access - as early as it's available and goes through testing stages

all other benefits for previous tiers

Non-RO short stories

Previews on unintroduced characters :)

That's all for tonight! I am so tired lmfao but I hope you all are having a great weekend so far! See you tomorrow :)

[ccuniculusmolestus]

What about Bunny being a boyfriend scenario? How do you think he'd be as a boyfriend if his girlfriend wasn't a copy of his mother?

First of all I'm so sorry I'm answering after like 10 years. The ones at the top of my inbox usually get answered first and i forget to scroll down im so so so sorry

I think he would be silly lol. Like very good at making his gf laugh, of course. We know he's scary good at getting a nice read of people, so he'd know what makes her tick, what makes her laugh, what topic to avoid (unless he's feeling angry i guess) so on. Clown bf #1.

I think he might struggle with sad partners like, if his gf has depression you bet he doesn't get it, but he might TRY

also controversial take I think he would be loyal asf. Like if he's happy with someone, he doesn't bother entertaining could-bes (and i know what youre thinking like. He's a m*n. And not a very good one at that. He would 100% be a cheater) but I think not. He just doesnt give those vibes

ALSO ANNOYINGLY he'd be the type to think his gf is fragile and needs to be shielded from the 'harsher' things so he might almost treat her patronizingly. Like if he's got problems going on in his own life or with his friends he most likely wouldn't share those things with her. Or if she's doing something difficult (like pursuing a demanding degree or maybe wanting to do those daredevil things) he'd be like "You dont need to do that 💗 let's go ice skating instead 💗" (like sir, shut the HELL UP). Dont get mad at him, he means well.

Though i think even if his gf wasnt a carbon copy of his mom he'd be a little...erm...you know, emotionally submissive. Like if she gets mad at him you bet your ass hes wheedling and cajoling and trying to make her un-mad. Bro is a loser (in love).

Lowkey he starts family planning randomly with her.

"We'll have eight kids!"

"No."

"Seven?"

"No."

He'd be very touchy feely in private, but in public he'd maintains a distance. Hand holding is his thing.

Calling his gf stupid pet names he comes up with on the spot, they're half french and half gibberish LMFAO. Bunny hates the french but he thinks they've got romance DOWN so...i guess his gf better expect a lot of butchered french sentences (he asked his friends for help with some of them, too)

He'd take inspo from cheesy romantic films man....

He'd still never have money like ever. But he'd sometimes keep aside the money (taken from Henry, of course) to save up for dates.

Big boaster. He'd want to impress his gf with things he may or may not be responsible for :P (him narrating stories and leaving out parts that might give her the ick fr. boys a liar.) Its good for his ego when his woman looks at him with starry eyes okay! Lay off the man 🙄

If she ever gets jealous, he would be very amused (and lowkey flattered like...damn, my girl WANTS me fr 😏 ignore the fact that she may want to squeeze him till his eyes pop out like a toy-- he's just basking in the feeling of being so wanted hehe). He'd brush her concerns off, again, in a flattered, patronizing way. If she's SERIOUS serious then he'd cajole her as per usual.

IF he gets jealous he starts crying.

Joking lmfao.

If he's jealous he might not bring it up for a while until his suspicions get too strong.

All in all I think he'd be very affectionate, very silly, but a bit too unserious. Like he might not take a lot of things seriously because "aw you girls are so dramatic", but he would take an interest in her problems (since he likes reading people, and people's problems help you know a lot abt them. also. he cares.) and he would try to help in whatever way he can. He'd still be a mess financially speaking, and he probably secretly would want to be coddled in private because he's still got mommy issues, whether or not his gf is a carbon copy of his mom. He would be kind of a tough nut to crack because he keeps everything so walled up, his real emotions and so on (again, the 'shielding' factor i guess), he talks a lot but without substance so his partner might not really know whats going on with him ever). I think earning his trust enough for him to become vulnerable would be a feat LOL. Because he's so "masculine" and men dont get vulnerable, especially with the "delicate sex" .

SOOOO thats bunny boyfriend for ya :D I hope you liked it! If you were thinking of smthn more specific lmk!

[shadandrews]

fellow DND player!! can i ask what your character (or favorite NPC if you’re a DM) is?

YESS!!! Ofc always

My CURRENT boy is Jewels(he/they)! He is a tiefling rogue sort of con-man (think reigen [mob100] and madame tracy [good omens] type cons). He's a party rock kind of guy and would much rather be out partying in the club but is forced to help save the world. He used to help manage a small rock band that consisted of his bffs, but they had a big friend fight fallout bc hes irresponsible and was kind of a bad PR look on the band oopsie. He's a mess but a fun time, and you can always trust him to make a situation worse. He's my Pete Wentz character

My FAVORITE meowmeow is Bogdan(he/him). Tiefling warlock (tech we started this game trying out 4e, so he was a swordmage, and the transfer to 5e and to warlock made him worse LMFAO) He was in a campaign and had an awful time. I married the big-bad of this campaign(+3 previous games in the same world.....) who was a demon who lost his heart and could not feel positive emotions(re: love).... he's a good boy who had a hard life and is a mild villian in the world sort of. He's living w his husband (who, thru some bs DID grow back his heart (true love is the strongest magic), but bogdan doesn't know this bc his husband IS awful (but loves him) ) and his husbands...boyfriend??? its fine they're all awful and i love them soooooo much hes a sad little worm.

oh also his husband was his warlock patron. its a mess dont worry about it

As for NPCs, i dont know if they were my FAV NPC, but they were probably the most fun to play!! Alberic(they/them) is a bunny sort of druid warlock bloodmage. We never got super far in this campaign for various reasons, but they were a sweet little country bunny who lived alone in the woods, but was actually working w the main villain of the campaign (semi-willingly but they hated it and him). The party never got to find that out but they were sooooo sweet and small and trusting. They covered up all of the areas where their body was being worn away by bad magic with clothes or bandages (old art included)

Less so now, but I've played a toonnn of DND and have...a lot of characters LOL. Ive been in several major campaigns (a lot of which in the same world by the same dm!! https://deckitout.tumblr.com has dm'd most of my big games!!) but i also get attached to one shot or small campaign characters too oopsie

[youremyheaven]

https://www.tumblr.com/youremyheaven/753050746623262720/the-13-feminine-seduction-archetypes-quiz-women

150 questions is insane 😭😭 but i did it all anyway and im a kibbe r i think and honestly… something about this quiz healed me because there was one qns that asked if older women instinctively mother me nad i always felt not feminine again (oh oops hi im the anon that shares the same placements as your mother again 💗💗) and as a child i guess i was seen as very young and small and sweet and a nerd so it was easy for them to take care of me

but when i grew older i felt more out out of place and not as feminine or liked because older women wouldn’t instinctively take care of me the way they did with my other friends and such and i was always seen as more mature and capable of taking care of myself (internally im 8 years old though) and even when they kinda did it was awkward and i felt too much and out of place and it didnt always feel natural with most

when i was got the mother archetype i was kinda 🥹🥹 because ok maybe other older women might make me feel a little bad at times but maybe because im busy mothering others more

🥺🥺bestie

u over here having realisations upon realisations

Wait you're the Mother archetype, so are you a Sensualist?

Omg you being Venusian and a Kibbe Romantic IS SO PERFECT,, Venusians have the kind of fleshy boneless body that Kibbe Romantics are said to have (obviously not every Venusian will look like this tho)

In this video, Claire mentioned how Purvashadhas have a very soft curvy body but i think it broadly applies to all Venusians

I do think we switch roles throughout our lives and through different friend groups 🧐 I feel like I'm the more mature, big sister type friend among certain ppl but if you ask others, they'd say that im babie and I naturally switch to a more relaxed and annoying younger sibling vibe among them.

I think you just haven't met the kind of people who'd baby you tbh but I promise they're out there for sure!!! It's not some innate unworthiness, I just think it's a relationship dynamic thing tbh

Like there are people who believe I'm a highly serious, uptight, goody two shoes bc they've only ever seen me like that and our dynamic is such that I can never let loose around them??? But there are others who are genuinely surprised that I have brain cells at all. One time I called a friend of mine for help with something and he started describing everything in such micro detail like he was talking to a 5yr old (not patronizing or anything, just genuinely breaking things down in the simplest way) and I'm like damn wow he really gets me bc i genuinely wouldn't understand any of this otherwise lmfao 😭😭😭 some people overestimate my abilities when even if I look put together, I still could use their help lmao

I hope you mother others but also get to relax and be babied bc u deserve it 🥰✨

I'll call you Mother anon now bc you share placements with my mom AND it's your archetype hehe 🤭😂

[teiasviago]

i have to laugh bc i saw someone say mystra "was done so dirty in bg3" like LMFAO the last mystra literally had wizards duking it out with each other to become her chosen or whatever and then it got so bad that eventually one of the mystra's was like "alright this sucks ass now nevermind". and then there was the time mystra possessed a mortal woman and had seven daughters as her with the woman's husband and that fucking killed the woman and the husband abandoned them bc he'd had no idea and then mystra saddled elminster with the youngest three. the wizard fights was how azuth became mystra's chosen and then mystra's daughters (who aren't aasimar like aylin, just very powerful wizards/sorcerers) are also her chosen, though i think two of them are dead now. and she ALSO put elminster through a bunch of bullshit tests and started like right after his whole family was murdered or whatever so like that man can have his cheese from my camp, i'll chew him out later. and like yeah all that was from the first mystra but one of the first things this new mystra has done is wreck gale so i don't think that speaks highly to her character nor is out of line with previous incarnations. she may be "neutral good" but only as it pertains to her portfolio, in my view - she is "good" for protecting magic and the chaos of some actions cancel out with the lawfulness of her stringent rules for the use of magic. AND even if she was basically dead for most of gale's life and they only met "face to face" thirteen years before the events of the game and started dating then, when gale was already an adult, i would still consider it grooming. he was raised in a society - especially in waterdeep bc it's a center of magic - that venerates "good" aligned gods because they're literally irrefutably real. gale was obviously taught to value the weave and hold great respect for mystra, he attended one of the most prestigious academies of magic, and he was mentored by elminster himself. he was in a unique position to be used by mystra as wizards before him had been used - notably elminster himself, but also literally azuth, the patron lesser deity of wizards. (and the letters elminster sends to gale in his origin and if he becomes a god speak to the guy holding so much guilt for being party to the abuse gale faced - that he should have done more to prevent gale's downfall, especially bc he is one of mystra's survivors.) and then azuth's last line in the series of books in bg3 about the gods is literally about forever yearning for mystra. so then gale wasn't even pulling the idea of getting more power out of his ass or anything, someone else was given power/allowed to obtain it to the point of becoming a god in service to mystra. he disobeyed mystra's boundaries for using magic/gaining power, yes, but in his origin when you talk to mystra and say "i just wanted to be worthy of you" or w/e she says that gale was already worthy and just lacked patience. so again he wasn't even told a solid no it may have been more of a "no right now" no. (i say maybe bc atp mystra might just be gaslighting gale, trying to pretend that she hadn't been 100% forever and ever denying him, i wouldn't put it past her.) of course what's taken into account for deciding godly alignment is going to be a bit different than for beings without a godly portfolio. like!!!!! mystra can be dead in my eyes and still have neutral good alignment as a goddess bc for her most of all it's fucking complicated, seeing as she is like... the lifeblood of the realms or whatever. anyways. to end this... long-winded rant. part of what make's gale's story and romance so compelling is that he's completely correct when he says that the gods don't truly care about mortals, that they just cower behind ao. they can't really care bc they forget what it's like to be mortal, they depend on having mortal souls. they are just dressed up devils, dealing in souls. no good is wholly "good." they all have the power to save lives, to change lives for the better, yet squalor remains. it's an imperfect universe. compelling!