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aimfor-theheart · 1 year ago

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|| zhongli x afab!reader || E/18+ || smut/a touch of angst/comfort || wc: 7k || ao3 ||

minors and ageless blogs do not interact, 18+ only

You have never been patient enough for worship. Sometimes, he thinks you always expect to be scorned or feared or hated. As a god of hunger, you are not beloved or worshiped by many, if any at all.

You’ve never known the sort of worship that he gives you.

✧ meet fruit collab masterlist ✧

a/n: this is apart of @willowser 's house server summer collab, meet fruit!! i took plums as my prompt!! this really got away from me and i had a lot of fun with this dynamic and i WILL be writing more of godly wife!reader and zhongli. i have a whole backstory. a huge massive fic i shouldn't work on but will fjdkslfdk i also need to give a special thanks to @itoshisoup , @lorelune , and @petrichorium for helping me with brainstorming and riffing earlier! also finding some godly names for the reader! in particular, mao came up with the name Tanai Zhenjun, which i will leave a note at the end about!! i hope you enjoy this sweet taste!! thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts <333

tags: afab!reader referred to as wife, and has several godly titles that mortals have called her, etc., a complicated relationship between zhongli and reader, mentions of past fights/canon typical violence, erotic fruit eating and feeding, finger sucking, biting, oral sex (f!recieving), some over stimulation, praise, maybe a little sex pollen because the reader causes feelings of hunger/lust/etc. but its consensual and zhongli can withstand it if he wanted, scratching, unhealthy godly dynamics, let me know if i missed anything!

In the shadows of his home, he would know you anywhere.

(He would know you even if you didn’t appear to him like this, fully formed, and in the visage of mortals. He’d know you in the thunder and the wolves’ howl. He’d know you in autumn’s bitter wind and the fox’s cry. Across all of time, he’d know you.)

You slip, serpentine, slow and with the easy grace of a predator into the last falling light of the sun; bronzed, honeyed, and appearing before him like you did decades ago, perhaps a hundred of years ago.

Has it been so long already?

The sight of you–perhaps simply you, yourself, spark an ache in his chest. Fierce. Hunger pains.

And after all these years, he welcomes it, savors the pit in his stomach like a sweet fruit.

You, his god of hunger.

You, his divine wife.

He tips his head back, leaning further into the chair at his deep, mahogany desk, as if he could fix his eyes to better see you. As if he could take in more of you, somehow, greedily, hungirly.

“Hello, my Morax.” You hum and the sun catches in your eye as you step into his life again, after so long without.

“Hello, my love.” He responds, as if it could’ve just been yesterday.

As if you are his wife and you’ve come home to greet him. As if he is your husband and he’s been working all day without you.

“It’s been a long time,” he says then, “you’ve been away a long time.”

You meander closer, on the other side of his desk, peering at the scrolls and papers there. His hands are stained in ink. He catches the downturn of your lips, the small quirking of them in displeasure. Such mortal things, he can hear your voice, the little hiss you get when you dislike something.

But then your eyes roam to the bowl of fruit, now untouched, that had been brought to him in hopes of eating;

Slices of plum, gold and orange and tender on the inside, their moon-dark skins still curved to them. One still has the pit attached to it, carefully nestled within its flesh.

Plums always remind him of you.

(In truth, anything with pits, with bones, with something that can be picked clean and left behind reminds him of you.)

In an instant, your fingers, nimble–adorned with his jewels, the jewels of his earth, snag a slice.

He watches as you sink your teeth into it, juice bursting, caught on your lip.

You chew only a moment, swallow slowly as you watch him.

“I thought I wasn’t allowed around Liyue Harbor,” you begin, “I thought I wasn’t allowed around your precious mortals.”

His voice, low and soft, rumbles in affirmation. “Yes, that is true.”

“And yet you speak to me like I’m welcome.” You hold the last bite of your slice to your lips, speaking against it, “like I should’ve visited sooner.”

You bear down into the fruit again.

“You’ve come to pick a fight?” He asks, “I can feel you’re trying to stir trouble.”

And it's true; your ability as a god of hunger, to spark it in others. To sharpen and change it from starvation to bloodlust to desire to despair to greed–to any form of hunger.

You caused whole towns to be decimated, driven mad with just the residuals of you, the feeling of you too near, like a wraith haunting their doorway. You turned tides in the Archon war for him and against him. You have always been one of the biggest threats to Liyue’s peace—to the world. Perhaps even beyond.

You perch on the corner of his desk prettily.

“I can’t visit my husband?” You purr.

He quirks a brow, “you only ever call me husband when you’re trying to kill me.”

Your grin is a wild slip of excitement, a fissure of heat in the clash of your gazes.

“I am trying to kill you,” you agree, but perhaps you have always been trying to kill him. The battles between you two carved the very land of Liyue and at the end of them, no matter what had transpired, he was still your husband. And you, his wife. “But I don’t feel like fighting tonight.”

You pluck another slice of plum from the bowl and bring it to your mouth. He watches your lips part to take the fruit in again.

He thinks of replacing your hand with his own. He thinks of the sticky sweet taste he would find if he licked into your mouth, he thinks of being between your teeth again like the little piece of plum.

Something inside of him yawns open.

You’re toying with him.

“You’re in rare form, then.” he hums and does not deny your draw. He has long since stopped trying not to be swept up in you–he realized it was inevitable at some point. You would always pull at parts of him none of the world had, and like a puppeteer did you play with those strings. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You gaze down at him, almost lovingly, if he didn’t know better.

Then you shift slightly, adjust yourself.

And the first touch he has of you in decades, perhaps a century, is just a brushing of your calf against his forearm from where you sit atop his desk. Your bare skin beneath the pooling silks of your skirts.

Heat rips through him like a tearing wound.

His gaze flicks up to yours.

“Did you know I was in Liyue?” You ask.

“I always know the moment you enter my land again.”

I always know the moment you come home.

You shift your leg again, this time, a steadier press to his arm.

He can’t help himself–he shifts his arm, opens his palm up against the curve of your bare calf to fully feel you, to hold you, in any minute way you might let him. Rough calluses scrape up against the soft skin of your leg, the silk of your dress pooling around his arm, cool and like spun moonlight.

You let him hold you like this, curl against the contour of you. His hand moves, dips down almost to your ankle, and back up to the bend of your knee.

“You missed me,” you accuse, your voice a teasing lilt.

Perhaps it’s you and the heady rush you cast on a room, on him, “yes,” he agrees honestly, “I always do.”

“So sentimental in your old age. You’ve spent too long around these mortals.” You tell him, looking away so all you give him is the profile of your lovely face. The upward tilt of your chin, the haughty way you look down your nose.

“Did you miss me?” He asks and he isn’t looking for you to placate him, but his hand is broad and inching up the back of your thigh. He pulls at you, urges you to the edge of the desk, where his other hand fits around the curve of your waist.

“Don’t get greedy,” you chastise gently, but you still go with the pull of his hold.

You slip into his lap like you were always meant to be there, fitting to him the way the moon fits into the sky, or the land against the sea. It’s an ancient feeling, bone deep, soul-cut.

You let your arms fall around his neck loosely and to have you again in his embrace, after so long, does in fact, make him feel greedy.

“I can feel it,” he says instead, perhaps just to spite you a little–to move another piece in this eternal chess game with you. “I can feel how you ache. I can feel the way you missed me.”

“I always feel like that,” you snip, deft fingers slipping the band in his hair out so that it all falls free, loose and flowing over his shoulders in a wave of inky black. “I am always hungry like that.”

“No,” he says and his voice is low like a wolf’s growling, a tiger’s purr, “I know your hunger. And I know this hunger of yours. You missed me.”

“If you’re looking for a heartfelt confession, you won’t find it in me.” You tell him, proud little god that you’ve always been, “perhaps you’ll find it in your precious mortals.”

Your voice takes on an edge, just shy of a sneer.

He laughs, a low rumble from his chest, amused, and pleased.

“Oh, that jealousy of yours. I missed that, too.”

“Don’t get full of yourself,” you hiss like an asp and now, he worries you’ll bring your claws out. Your eyes glint in the last rays of light, like a bolt of lightning, like a spark of flame in a cold night.

He reaches up to touch your face, thumb sweeping over the arc of your jaw bone in a possessive hold. He forces you to look at him. “Come now, I thought you said you weren’t in the mood for a fight.”

“Then don’t test me.” You snap.

He fights back another fond smile in order to not test you further than he already has.

He leans closer, his nose almost nudging against yours, “if you’re not here to fight. What are you here for?”

“To eat through all your land until it is barren again.” You murmur and he knows it is just to pester him. Your fingers are winding in his long, silky hair and your eyes have gone half-lidded, so he knows you are not nearly as waspish as you’re pretending to be.

“If I could satiate your hunger, I would.” He murmurs darkly, lips brushing against yours as you carefully hold yourself back, a dog on a strained leash. At your best, you have always been a caged beast, pacing and desperate for escape. At your worst, you have been nothing short of desolation, teeth upon the earth in a vicious grasp, shaking hard, tearing it to shreds. Your bite never compared to your bark. You’d threaten destruction and deliver devastation; even you, surprised with your own vitriol, your own capability for demolition.

He threatened to muzzle you once, long ago.

You rear back slightly to look at him, “no, you wouldn’t. What would you have me be? Content?”

He laughs softly again, low and warm, terribly fond of you despite it all, “yes,” he says very frankly, and then, “soothed, for once in your life.”

“I won’t ever be soothed while you walk this earth.” You tell him and he cannot tell if you mean it with vengeance or with love. Are you being romantic? Or threatening him? Sometimes, he felt that your violence was supposed to be more like a kiss, and your kiss the type of violence that leaves him ruined for decades after.

“And you would be after?” He asks, “I don’t think you’d know what to do if you finally managed to kill me in a meaningful capacity. You’d be bored.”

You move to pull away from him with a snarl but he fastens his hold onto you tighter to get you to stay, he touches your face again, coaxing. “I only tease you.”

“I said don’t test me.” You respond, but again, there is nothing nearly so vicious in you tonight.

No, he knows the hunger in you tonight is a soft creature, a warbling, tender one. He’ll be kind to it, he will feed it and tend to it, even if he knows it will only grow larger still. Like caring for a tiger cub, only for it to grow into all those teeth and muscles, to bite the hand that fed it.

“Forgive me,” he rumbles, and this time, he angles your head so that he can skim the strong line of his nose against your jaw, “let me make it up to you.”

“You will not be able to,” you say indignantly and his own smile now feels sharper with the challenge, with your throat so near. He settles himself into a burning kiss against your pulse. Inside of him, something catches and sparks. Your hands curl around the muscles of his shoulders.

“I know,” he coos, low and soft, almost sympathetic. “Then at least indulge the hunger you’ve caused in me.”

This, in the least, you settle into.

He pulls away barely to sit back, to look at you fully in all of your glory a moment.

You look back at him, perhaps taking him in as well.

The smoldering turns into a flame.

The decades of years unspool inside of him and give way to a racing mind, images of what he wants, how he wants you.

It is always like this, he thinks, eternally, desiring you, and never getting enough.

He thinks he must know how you feel.

And then he gives into one of several of his desires that are rearing their large, horned heads inside of him. The beasts of his desire are all chained to you, he thinks. He reaches for the bowl of fruit.

Perhaps it's your turn to be amused as he brings a slice of plum to your lips. You must know how he was looking at you earlier, you must know his desires if you are the one to stoke them.

Still, you accept the fruit easily, minding your teeth as his finger slips against your lips. Sticky and soft and warm. You draw his finger into your mouth briefly, closing around it. He can feel the edges of your teeth as he pulls it out.

The moment you swallow around the piece, he surges up to kiss you.

To finally kiss you.

He wishes he could call it something of a greeting or reunion, but it is too desperate and too vicious for that. Your teeth click together, coming up against one another, like an old key coming up against a lock.

He tastes the plum in your mouth, sweet and a little tart, and can’t help the groan that rumbles out of him.

Your hands disappear into his hair, tangle in the strands so that he can feel the press of your nails against his scalp. He feels the way you arch into the slide of his hands along your torso, bending to them, as if he is a sculptor. It pulls you closer, opens your hips wider in his lap in a way that makes heat rip through him.

When he pulls away, you’re already hazy-eyed, heady with the quick-burn of this sort of hunger, this lust.

It pulls at him like the tide on the shore to drag him under.

This time, when he places his lips to your throat, he sinks into a bite at the tender flesh there.

Sometimes, he wishes he’d treat you more tenderly. As if that might be all you ever needed; more gentleness, and less teeth at your throat.

But you arch and from your mouth spills your own moan finally, fingers tightening in his hair as if to hold him there. He feels your hips twitch forward, into him, an aborted rock of them, perhaps unknowingly or subconscious.

He wishes you inspired patience in him.

(Usually, he claims to have a great deal. Unfortunately, he cannot claim the same with you in his arms again. Forgive me, he thinks again, but I haven’t seen you in nearly a century.)

He stands suddenly with you still wrapped around his waist, hands fit beneath your thighs to lift you and place you on the broad expanse of his desk. Papers get pushed aside, some topple onto the floor in a fluttering mess. You laugh when the bowl of plums rattle precariously, but his mouth covers yours again, and he swallows the sound eagerly.

He kisses you hard again, hitching your hips up to fit snugly to his, fitting his broad hands over the curves of your waist. You respond in kind, though, and twine your leg around his waist to pull him closer, arch your back to press your chest up to his.

When he pulls away this time, he takes you in, splayed out beneath him.

“I did miss you,” he gets out roughly.

“Then show me,” you respond, stretching out beneath him, as if to tempt him.

His hands move over the silk of your dress, bunching parts of it, tangling it. He decides in an instant that he doesn’t actually wish to deal with it, so he sets his hands on the bust and simply pulls. It tears like paper beneath him. And again, you laugh, amused with him now, with what you do to him.

“So impatient.”

“It’s been a long time, my love.”

And this time when he kisses you, perhaps you give into him more, feed what he wants. You mewl into his mouth, arch against him, drag your nails down his covered back.

“Touch me,” you get out, demanding, a little fussy.

“So impatient.” He mocks dryly.

For his trouble, you pull harshly on the hair at the nape of his neck, baring his throat to you.

His broad palm roams up the expanse of your side, your bare stomach, and to your chest. He cups your breast, thumb brushing against the peak in a way that makes you hum and squirm beneath him eagerly.

You bury your face in his now exposed neck, nudge your nose there, which turns into your warm, open mouth.

For a moment, surprisingly gentle, until he feels the quick flash of pain from your teeth. He rolls your nipple between thumb and forefinger with a little more pressure than necessary, just to hear the little noise of pain you make.

He drops his face to the crux of your chest, lips dragging along the skin there, above your beating heart. And for all your bite and bark, you still offer yourself up to him for the taking. You still draw your hands over his shoulders, pushing at the clothes still on him. He doesn’t indulge you, but draws lower, hair spilling over your chest as his mouth opens against your breast.

He nips and marks, sets his teeth against the tender flesh and sucks a bruise into you.

“I miss your sharp teeth,” you admit.

He huffs, breath fanning against your skin. He raises his eyes, molten gold, to meet your own, “there’s no pleasing you.”

And then he captures the bud of your breast in his mouth and at least manages to pull another sound from you, meandering, growing in your own desire. You squirm beneath him again but something inside of him (old and draconic) blinks its eyes open and he seizes your waist to still you the way a predator subdues their prey, sharply, and with a slow rolling of muscle, a flex of their strength. A serpent squeezing down around a mouse. A tiger bearing down on the deer.

You don’t go easily, though.

And the moment you feel his resistance, you squirm and push harder, straining. Arching and impatient.

He nips, he fights back the more base urge to growl, and readjusts his hold on you.

“Stop squirming,” he commands.

“Stop teasing,” you reply, stubborn, and disobedient.

“Let me enjoy you.” Zhongli responds, watching his own hand sweep over your breast, cover it, and toy with you.

“Enjoy me later.” You snip, fastening your legs tighter to his waist, hitching him closer.

And he feels a head rush of your ability pour through him, the tightening of your desire and lust, of your hunger spilling from you. It’s purposeful. He feels the dull thud of his heart kick upwards, the warmth that simmers beneath his skin. He blinks hard with it, but does not succumb.

“You’re so insolent.” He finally gets out, just shy of a growl, “now hold still for me.”

His lips skim the top of your stomach as he lowers himself to his knees in front of you.

You sit up onto your elbows, eyeing him, inching your hips to the edge of the desk eagerly.

“I’ve always liked you best on your knees, Morax.”

He sinks his teeth into your inner thigh in a more ruthless bite, forcing your legs open even as they threaten to close with the sudden jolt of pain. Hard enough that you hiss through your teeth, twitching towards or away from him, he can’t tell.

(Images of days long past flash hotly in his mind, in another form, with those sharper teeth you’d said you missed.)

He feels your hunger burst open like a ripe fruit, like the plum between your teeth.

He soothes the bite with a slow, lingering pass of his tongue.

His eyes flick upwards towards you.

You look a little shaken finally, eyes glassy, teeth stuck in your bottom lip.

He drags you closer, pulls you flush so that your hips are almost off the edge. You fall back with the movement and he doesn’t give you a moment. He isn’t feeling generous or very kind anymore.

His mouth opens against you in a crush of heat, eager, perhaps impatient himself.

A groan, low, from the back of his throat, works out of him at the first taste of you.

Again, you try to squirm, and something ancient and vicious in him squeezes hard enough on your waist that if you were a mortal, he might sincerely hurt you. He doesn’t care if you’re trying to squirm closer or away, he realizes, he doesn’t care if it hurts a little, as long as he can have you like this. Open. His.

Ah, he realizes, perhaps he isn’t ignoring your sway as well as he thought he was.

He delves between soft folds, already slick, but he’ll make it worse still.��

(Perhaps, at one point, he had ideas of being a gentleman of some kind with you. Perhaps, at some point, he thought he would carefully work you open with mouth and soft tongue. He’d be loving and gentle with you. But you’ve always done something horrible to him, something he can’t tame, something he wishes he feared more.)

You whine a little and the sound pools straight into his own desire for you.

He fits himself closer, keeps your legs wider apart with his shoulders.

“Morax,” you gasp and it’s with more heat and desperation than he is anticipating.

His eyes, heavy and gold, flick up towards your face, looking up at you beneath the dark fan of his lashes.

Oh, you’re closer than he thought, he realizes.

He doesn’t slow or stop or lessen himself, groans a little, and fits himself tighter to you. He digs his fingers into your skin and keeps you close.

To his surprise, that is all it takes.

Your gasp is strangled, perhaps a little surprised, as you arch off the desk in a bow-curve, poised to snap.

You fall to pieces as a cry loosens from your throat.

He feels you pulse against his tongue and without thinking, he growls a little, a pleased rumble, and doesn’t stop.

He tastes you, savors it, and doesn’t let you hide or pull away from him.

Your hips twist and he follows the movement, wrestling you still, so that he can still enjoy you.

You’re out of breath, hiccuping a little, trying to squirm away from him but there’s nowhere to go.

He won’t let you go.

He pulls away to rest his head on your inner thigh a moment, “so quick.” He teases, “you must’ve been pent up for it to be that easy.”

He thinks, I wasn’t even doing that for you yet—I was still enjoying myself. I was being greedy. Hungry in my own way, in the way that you inspire.

“I should leave you now.” You huff, picking yourself up on your elbows to gaze down at him, but your eyes are simmering.

He squeezes at your thighs, “you’re not going anywhere tonight.”

And before he can hear your protests, he dips forward again and flattens his tongue against your folds. Slow, broad licks that make you twist and twitch.

“Morax—“

“I’m not finished with you yet, my love.” He says lowly, somewhere against where you’re most tender and sensitive.

He takes his time teasing now.

Enjoy me later, you’d said, and he doesn’t think this is what you meant.

You have never been patient enough for teasing–for worship. Sometimes he thinks you always expect to be scorned or feared. You were always Deus Inanis, Tanai Zhenjun, and later, Rapax Regina to the people. You have many names from them, none particularly kind or cherished. You were always the ghoulish god, the bad omen, the drooling maw of a starved predator. Your myth is not a beloved one by most.

And some dare not even speak your name at all, for fear of inviting you.

You are not a welcome god in the home and hearth, you are not for protection or courage. You are feared and warded off. You are, at best, used as a condemnation.

(To him you were always softened with affection, even at your worst; little god, my curse, my love, keeper of my heart.)

You’ve never known the sort of worship he gives you.

You struggle with it, keen sharp and broken when he gives it to you.

Sometimes you have all-out tried to refuse him or hasten him, poured your lust and impatience into him to get your way, to sway him to your own will. He can feel it again now but it never manifests in him the way you’d like it to. You assume his desire is one of his own pleasure. But it has always been this;

You, belly-up and vulnerable, only for him, delicate in a way the rest of the world will never know. Pleasure-drunk and hazy. Lost to what he can give you–he wants to gorge you. He wishes he could fill the empty place inside of you.

He’s spent an eternity trying. He’ll spend an eternity more.

He focuses his intentions, strengthens the pass of his tongue with what he wants. He wants your pleasure. He wants it again and again.

You curse a little, an ancient word, from when the land was Archon-less and free.

He lifts his mouth from you briefly, “you are already cursing like that? This will be a long night for you then.”

He opens his mouth again to taste you, to suck gently, your legs twitching over his shoulders as your breath hitches.

This time you curse him, hissing through clenched teeth.

He laughs against you in amusement, low and dark, and smooths a broad hand over the soft plain of your tensing stomach. As if he might soothe you, or perhaps because he wants to feel all of you, have you in his palms, in his arms. Against his mouth.

The next time you fall apart, he doesn’t let up once. His eyes have gone half-lidded and burning, a flint-strike of amber. You try to fight him again, wrestle out of his hold, but he strengthens himself. He steels himself, even, to your pulling of his hair, to your fussing and snapping–all of that melts to whining, to near-crying, as he continues.

You’re too stubborn to cry for him now–there have been only a handful of times he’s broken you down that much.

Perhaps if he were feeling crueler, he would try.

(These instances have always come in the wake of something worse; your largest fights, or worst transgressions where he felt the need to punish. To strip you bare. These are saved, not for his desires, but for your catharsis after all your grief.)

But your voice has gone higher with desperation, more broken, and he is pleased with that.

Pleased enough that when you burst on his tongue again, your nails digging into the back of his hand as he holds you, he finally rises.

Instantly, you twine yourself around him, legs around his waist, arms pulling at the front of his clothes to drag him down into your arms. You are always more desperate for affection like this, softened by pleasure, hungry for more.

He goes down easily for you.

Kisses you hard and open, so that you’ll taste yourself from his mouth, the way he tasted the plum from yours.

You groan weakly and manage to gasp when he pulls away, “please–more. I need more. Need–”

Always need, you say, when you get like this. Never want.

“Need you.”

He hums, the noise lumbering from his chest in a pleased, dark sound.

“You have me,” he soothes, even as he feels dizzy with your own desire, a headrush of desperation–of need that rushes from you to him.

Feed me, need me, fill me, possess me, take, take, take me. Fill. Aching–so empty, I’m so empty. Please, please, it hurts– please, I need more, need, need, need–

He lets out a harsh breath. It aches, almost sharply, almost on the wrong side of pain and pleasure.

He does not torment you any longer. He does not torment himself, either.

With fingers far more nimble than he feels, he loosens his slacks, he pushes his clothes out of the way just enough, enough to take himself in hand and hiss through his teeth as the head of his cock touches your slick folds.

Molten. Fluttering still with sensitivity, with desperation.

Your hips roll, eager, trying to urge him closer, inside–

“Morax–” you cry and the sound twists something in his chest, blooms like a bruise being pressed on.

He presses inside you and fills you in one, deep thrust.

You gasp sharply, you pull at him, force him to collapse over you nearly, cover you completely. You cling to him, you wrap yourself around him like a serpent, now constricting him–

(He’s never been able to tell who is the serpent and who is the mouse, anyways. Who is the tiger or the deer? Was he capturing you? Or were you always capturing him?)

You hold him so tightly, calves flexing around his back, that he can hardly pull out from you to thrust.

He groans, almost in frustration, or maybe some form of defeat.

“Darling,” he gets out roughly, “my love. My little god.”

The old, affectionate nickname burns through you and he can feel the desire like a knife’s blade in his own stomach. You moan– a soft, warbling sound.

He manages to move his hips, barely leaving the hot clutch of you, to push back in deeper, harder.

“Please–” you gasp, “more–kiss me. Touch me.”

“So demanding,” he scolds, but he kisses you hard, with too much teeth and roughness, and fits his palms over the sides of your body. He takes handfuls of curves, of your waist and your breasts, rough hands bending over the lines of you the way the light of the moon bends over the hills and valleys of his land.

His next thrust is harder, a little rougher. You turn your face into his throat after you break the kiss and your teeth sink down into him hard.

You always draw blood. You always have to leave your mark on him, on all that you’ve touched.

But then you draw your tongue over the wound, licking softly, perhaps in apology. Perhaps to satiate another need that winds around inside you.

Your hand tangles in his hair again and he bites back another raw groan as he thrusts, in and out, on a slow, rough drag. You’re clinging to him, tight and so wet that it’s making his thoughts bleary and clouded. Your lust shadows any rationality; your hunger possesses him.

“Harder,” you gasp, you beg, you plead.

And he thinks who am I to deny you? Who am I to deny the god of my hunger?

His hand slips over your arm, your free one clawing at his clothed back still. He knows you will mourn not getting your nails into his skin after, but he will let you satiate the need all you like later. He’ll savor the way you try to tear him apart, like he always does.

(And sometimes, he swears, you’re just trying to tear down his skin to be closer. Deeper in him. Scratching at his ribs and his sides like you want in, in, in. A bad dog at his door. A wraith that claws at his soul.)

As he pulls at your forearm, flattening it out against the desk beneath you to pin you beneath him, he knocks into the bowl of fruit.

The last of the plum slices tip out onto the desk and the remaining juice at the bottom of the bowl pools in a sticky mess over the wood, some over your forearm and wrist, over his own, too.

He thinks you move without thinking, bringing his wrist up to your lips where you lick up a stripe up into his palm, against his thumb.

You take his thumb into your mouth with ease and he cups your cheek in a possessive hold as he lets you suckle, tongue soft and warm and gentle against the pad of it. You groan, lashes fluttering, and this seems to please some part of you.

His thumb in your mouth, cock lodged deep inside you.

He pushes himself deeper on his next thrust, enough that you whine a little, eyes going glassy, cheeks hollowing around his thumb.

He can feel the spit pooling in your mouth, wet and slick, can feel the way your walls squeeze and flutter around him desperately.

He presses on your tongue, thrust growing a little faster, but still hard, deep–a little ruthless.

But it’s what you need–so it’s what he gives you.

You hold his wrist, little nails digging into his skin, desperate to keep his thumb between your lips. He can feel the press of your teeth in the meat of his hand.

He readjusts, tries to draw his thumb out barely, only for you to latch down tighter on his wrist, and slide it back into your mouth with a noise of protest. Saliva spills a little, slick and messy against your bottom lip, against his hand.

He coos, but it’s too dark to sound reassuring, and sounds more like a rough purr, just shy of a pleased growl.

“I won’t go anywhere,” he soothes lowly, but it sounds like less of a comfort from a husband, and more of a promise from the beast you shouldn’t have let in in the first place. It’s loving in the same way a possession is. “My little god, I have you now.”

Your peak this time makes something inside of him roar open. He feels your inner muscles bear down on him, fluttering desperately.

Your eyes tip behind your eyelids, hiccuped breath against his hand as it twists into a guttural sound that he feels against his palm.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, turning your face so that he can press open mouthed kisses against your throat, suck a bruise there, turn the flesh tender, “I’ve got you. Good girl–that’s it.”

Perhaps he draws blood when he bites you this time, too. Tastes it sharp on his tongue, the blood of a god. He lifts his head from your neck and finally draws his thumb from your mouth, spit slick as he traces your bottom lip. He pulls himself up from you to gaze down at you, slack jawed and messy, near feverish with your lust.

His hips quicken, harder, and you reach out to splay your hand out against his tensing stomach, to push at him a little.

But he doesn’t stop, feels you nip at his thumb, still making a mess of your lips and chin.

Your legs are still hitched tight around him, drawing him in, keeping him close.

He squeezes your hip with his free hand, he loses his rhythm when you draw his thumb back into your mouth, suckling softly on it.

He groans, feels his own pleasure in a rush down his spine, a burst of heat that unfurls like a supernova. Collapses inward. Expands outwards. He buries himself inside of you, as deep as he can manage, deep enough that you make a little noise of pain maybe, but you hold him tight to you. Again, you constrict around him, dragging him back down by his clothes to slot your mouth against his as he fills you.

It’s your turn to hum, pleased, almost purring, tightening your hold around him, locking him against you.

The kiss this time is slower, but dirtier, all tongue, open and messy. He groans into it, holding your jaw, feeling himself twitch inside of you, his own eyes fluttering with pleasure, lashes against your cheek.

When you both pull away, you’re out of breath. Chests rising and falling against each other.

You seem subdued now, heavy-lidded, but your lips drag to his cheek, down to the curve of his jaw.

You roll your hips a little.

“More–” You murmur, “I want more.”

His laugh tapers into a moan. He flexes his hips a little, heat simmering beneath his own skin.

Your hands pull at his clothes finally, tugging at them, pulling at buttons until they snap and burst beneath your fingers, until you reveal bare skin. Instantly, your hands are on him, nails scratching into his chest gently, over his shoulders.

(He’s going to take you to bed after this and he’ll rid you of the scraps of your clothes and the rest of his. He'll get rid of anything between you.)

The ache in him builds again and suddenly he’s rocking into you again, deep and slow, watching the way he disappears inside of you. The mess he’s already made of you, the way he wants to make it all worse. He feels feverish himself now, a little lost to the sight– his desire suddenly feels inhuman. Monstrous. Too big for his own skin.

You always seem to remind him of his divinity.

“Hold me,” you demand now and as if commanded, he goes to you.

He gets his arms around you and he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. His desire unwinds. Time unspools from him. He loses himself in the pull of you, in the undertow of desire and hunger. He tries to satiate the ache you have carved in him. The ache you always have nestled inside of you.

You beg him of more–more pain and more pleasure and more of him–until he feels near mindless with it. Gone with it.

Shuddering with sensitivity and feeling you tremble with it, too.

He doesn’t regain himself until another peak has been reached and fallen from, until he realizes the hour; the moon hanging in the window of his study like a copper penny. He forces himself to slow. To lodge himself deep and go still inside of you and let his head fall to your chest.

You cradle his skull, fingers slipping into his hair, catching your breath as the haze fades for a moment.

He picks his head up barely, shifts only so he can catch your gaze.

“Stay for a while.” He demands now.

You let go of a sigh, deep, perhaps tired.

“I thought I wasn’t allowed.” You hum softly.

“Will you behave?” He asks and you lean down to kiss him–sweeter now. Perhaps apologizing. He accepts your affection with warmth, though.

“You know how I get restless.” You respond, fingers tracing along the nape of his neck, one of them trailing down the bend of his jaw.

You are softest now, like this. It’s a rare sight; one he savors, one he will stay hungry for his whole life, he thinks.

“Yes,” he agrees, perhaps fondly, perhaps sadly. “If you could keep mortals out of it, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Even if I tried to kill you again?” You ask, finger tracing the bow of his upper lip.

He smiles faintly and you touch the corner of his mouth, “yes,” he agrees, “even then.”

“Or tried to steal your Gnosis again?”

He snorts softly, picking himself up further to hover over you, to gaze down at you with more love than you have ever known what to do with. “You can certainly try again.”

“Perhaps I should try harder this time.” The threat is fangless this time and you are at least soothed somewhat for now. He knows it won’t last long.

But for now, he takes advantage of it. He cups your cheek, brushes his thumb along your jaw affectionately, and for once, you nuzzle into the touch. You rub your cheek into his palm like a cat.

A flash of your teeth. You bite down into his hand.

He laughs softly, but pulls his hand from you, dislodges your teeth from his flesh.

Slowly, he tries to detangle himself from you. You are reluctant, but he appeases you with promises of more, of his bedroom. Of a bath and whatever you want.

“More plums,” you say, letting him carry you to his bedroom like a young bride, cradled in his arms. “I’ve always loved plums.”

He smiles, “I know. They remind me of you.”

The admittance is a tender one, one that he has held for centuries that has finally loosened from his mouth like a bird taking to flight.

In the morning, when you have slipped from him and his bed and his life once more, all that’s left are the marks you left on him, the deep scratches and latches of your teeth on tan skin–

And the pits of plums you devoured before you left. Not one is spared and he thinks his heart never has been, either.

Not from you, his wife, his curse, his love–not from his god of hunger.

***

a/n part ii: thank you for reading!! here are those notes on the reader's godly names:

There are three titles the reader is referred to. Two of them are latin, similar to Rex Lapis, and the third is from @itoshisoup, and is Tanai Zhenjun, which mao explained as such: "贪爱 (tanai) is a Buddhist term that is often translated as "craving", and refers to desire for both physical and mental things. From my understanding, tanai is sometimes considered a cause of suffering (苦 or ku), but is sometimes considered closely related to suffering in other ways. Given the motif of hunger, I would name the god Tanai, and additionally give them the honorific "Zhenjun" (a title associated with Taoist gods - much like "Dijun", which is the honorific in Zhongli's Chinese title, Yanwang Dijun; however, it is a lesser title than Dijun). Tanai Zhenjun is therefore what I'd call them."

The other two are Deus Inanis and Rapax Regina, which mean "empty god" and "rapacious/ravenous queen" in Latin.

i plan to write more of this reader and use these godly names again soon <3

#zhongli x reader #zhongli x you #zhongli x y/n #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x y/n #cielo collabs!#cielo writes!#cielo's writing!#god of my hunger

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olderthannetfic · 3 months ago

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Finding myself thinking more and more like single-fandom writing spaces aren't for me.

I know people will say "two cakes", but there's a writer in my fandom in this space who is more experienced than just about eceryone else and is also extremely prolific, and they often like to take other people's ideas and write them.It makes me not want to share ideas in the space, because if it's good enough that people start saying they like it, inevitably they'll write something riffing off it, and their fic will be seen as the better version that everyone will want to talk about.

And people will always try to pull you towrads fanon, and minor disagreements about canon get blown up even more because people will take it as a reflection on their writing/interpretations.

I'm sure every space isn't like this, but this experience has been bad enough that I think any fandom writing group I'd want to be in going forward would be way more generalized.

I like writing spaces if I can make friends there. If I'm not hanging out with friends, I'll still enjoy a more practical space that's just about sharing tips or something, but I'm not fond of the quasi-social but not really my friends spaces that a lot of writing discords and the like seem to be.

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thedroneranger · 2 years ago

Text

Hotel Homecoming

Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Précis: Jake and his wife reunite in their traditional fashion.

Warnings: 18+ only, smut.

Word count: 2.8k

The valet loved creating personas for the guests based on their vehicles as they arrived at the porte cochère. Watching a sleek Aston Martin roll up the drive, they began to write the driver’s story.

Standing side-by-side on the curb, their lips moved minimally as they riffed off one another. They pictured a tall, dark-haired man neatly dressed in subtle luxury brands. Other than the car, the only signs of wealth would be the timepiece encircling his wrist and the healthy tip given to the pair. They would offer to deliver the leather overnight bag produced from the passenger seat, but the driver would insist on taking it himself.

The attendants were pleasantly surprised when a woman, clad in over-sized sunglasses and a watch that was easily worth their combined yearly salaries, stepped out of the car. She gave them a pearly smile, pulling an overnight bag from the passenger seat. The trunk popped, and she collected a garment bag. Clamoring, they offered to take her belongings, but she insisted her room wasn’t far.

One attendant accepted her keys and slid into the driver’s seat, while the other walked her to the lobby. Once she was inside, she slipped her guide a tip that she insisted be shared. She reinforced the ask by joking she would be back to check.

“Welcome!” The front desk agent greeted her, and then asked for the reservation details. She provided the necessary information and enquired if room service would deliver a bottle of champagne within the hour. Of course, the agent obliged. She departed the desk with a smile and soaked in the opulent lobby on the way to the elevator.

The room was a golden hue as the sheer curtains diffused the afternoon sunlight. She stepped up to the floor-to-ceiling windows to take in the ocean view. Waves lapped the sand, and people scurried along the shoreline.

A soft knock on the door and a muffled “Room service!” let her know the champagne arrived. The server was kind, opening the bottle and pouring the first flute.

She could barely wait for the door to close as she began to shed her clothing. Drink in hand, she sauntered to the bathroom where she drew the hottest bath. Sitting in her ring of fire, she sipped champagne and hummed along with the music she had asked Alexa to play. Interrupting her jam session, she asked her voice assistant for the time. Sighing, she began to drain the tub—it was important she stick to the schedule.

Thankfully she had the hardest part out of the way: curating her outfit.

While he loved her no matter what she wore—he often told her that her messy buns and his t-shirts drove him the wildest or her birthday suit was the ultimate gift—she knew what would give him itchy fingers and tight pants.

Tonight, she opted for a floor-length gown with thin straps and an almost waist-high slit. Since the look did not allow for a bra, she also opted to skip panties—that would get him going.

Although he loved her hair down, she wanted to show off her neck and shoulders, which he would appreciate too. Plus, she wouldn’t have to fuss with it later.

One last look in the mirror confirmed her look was almost complete. Tucking a few baby hairs behind her ear, her heirloom wedding band and custom diamond engagement ring gleamed. She slipped the trinkets off her finger, dropped them in a silk pouch and tucked them into her clutch for safekeeping.

The clock told her she had perfect timing. Her lips pursed as an idea swirled in her brain. She picked her panties out of her bag and looped them around the inside doorknob as she exited. A smirk carved her lips as she padded down the hallway.

The dark-stained wood and rich leather made the hotel bar warm and cozy. Knowing her odds were best at the counter, she slid into an empty chair. The lone bartender immediately minded her, opening with a few flirty quips. She played along and earned her first drink on the house.

With a wink, she vacated her barstool in search of secluded seating. She liked the suspense of him wandering around looking for her. Especially as the bar began to fill.

Her drink had one more swig, maybe two if she took small sips. The thought of returning to the bar for a second crossed her mind until a masculine voice broke her thought train. She peered up to see his playful green eyes boring into hers. A smile spread across her features and heat began to build between her legs.

Jake was all man—tall, tanned and his suit fit as though it were sewn on. Since their meeting was informal, he went sans tie. The first few buttons on his shirt were undone, exposing a sliver of hard chest and hair. And that smile—it was impossible to not be bewitched.

She watched him as he slid into the booth, leaving just a little room between their bodies. He handed her a fresh drink. They clinked cups and pressed their glasses to their lips. His eyes scanned her body as they sat, and his arm made its way behind her head, resting along the back of the booth. Goosebumps hatched on her skin as his calloused fingers grazed her shoulder. The move persuaded her to close the gap between them. Their bodies fit perfectly together as she tucked herself under his shoulder. She let her hand skim his muscular thigh. Her head tilted back to meet his gaze, and he looked down at her with that chokehold smile.

It had been six months since they had seen each other. Fashion season was in full swing, so she kept busy traveling for shows. Jake, on the other hand, had been locked away on his homebase for an intense deployment.

Every Sunday, she kept her phone in her hand, no matter what she was doing, so she wouldn’t miss his call. Sometimes he called in the morning and other times in the evening. On the Sundays he called later, she often got worried she wouldn’t hear from him. She worried the call would come from an unfamiliar voice telling her to expect a folded flag at her door.

His hand shook her from her thoughts as his fingers brushed behind her ear and along her neck. Her eyes floated shut and she purred into his touch. She opened her eyes to meet his, which were darker than when he arrived.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her panties neatly folded in the breast pocket of his suit. “Nice pocket square.” She smirked. Smile lines carved his face and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

“You like it?” he asked, taking a swig of his scotch.

“Goes well with the suit,” she added.

His free hand dipped below the table into her lap. He found the slit in her dress and skimmed his thumb up her bare thigh. Her breath hitched as he came closer to her naked core. He was amused, staring at her with a wolfish smile. She proposed they head upstairs to their room.

A closed-lip smile pulled the corners of his mouth as they stared at each other. “Finish your drink first,” he stated. An involuntary eye roll broke their staring match and a soft sigh signified her compliance. He watched her as she drank until the final swill. Gingerly, she placed the glass on the table and then motioned for him to let her out of the booth.

As she exited, she made sure to graze her backside against his front. She turned to look him in the eye, not acknowledging her actions. “See you upstairs, Lieutenant Commander.” Always a gentleman, he took her hand and kissed the back before she walked away. His eyes fixated on her as she disappeared into the lobby.

Jake loved this part of their ritual, getting dressed up for each other. Tonight’s dress was new but definitely something he would add to his favorites. As good as it looked on her, his favorite place for her clothes was still on the floor.

After what seemed like an eternity, really only 15 minutes, he finished his drink and threw a Benjamin on the table before heading to the nearest elevator.

When he arrived, she was nowhere to be seen in the main room of the suite. Closing the door softly, he shrugged his suit coat off and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Then, he hunted for her. It wasn’t long before he spied her in the dressing room. He pushed the ajar door wide enough to slip through. Their eyes met. “Help?” she asked softly.

Risking a split in his perfectly tailored pants, he wordlessly walked over and knelt in front of her. She watched as he looped her calf over his bent leg and began to unbuckle the thin strap of her shoe. Once he was done with the first, he placed a soft kiss on her kneecap. He repeated his actions for her second shoe.

However, this time, his lips lingered and his fingers wandered. She held her breath as they skimmed up her thigh, taking her dress with it. His lips followed, trailing kisses. He froze and looked up at her. His fingers had reached her warm apex. A smile pulled his lips as his fingers grazed her lower lips and a small moan escaped her mouth. He pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee, and his fingers dipped into her folds, barely grazing her most sensitive nerves. However, it was enough for her to jolt forward with a pleasurable gasp.

He ran his tongue along the bottom edge of his teeth as his signature grin returned. He looked up at her through his eyelashes. Deviously, he again slid his finger along her most sensitive spot, and then down to her entrance, pushing in. Her mouth dropped open, and her hips rolled forward. He quickly recoiled, slipping his glistening finger into his mouth. She watched as he enjoyed her taste. Eyes closed, he slowly pulled his finger out of his mouth with a pop sound. He placed one more kiss on her thigh before standing up.

During his ascent, he grabbed her hand and pulled her out of her chair. She trailed him into the bedroom. Once inside, he guided her to the bed with his hands on her hips. When the back of her knees hit the mattress, she tumbled into the feather bedding.

He followed her, a knee between her legs and a hand on either side of her head. She supported herself on her elbows so their lips met. The kiss was all teeth and tongues. “Undress me,” he breathed in her ear as the kiss ended.

She sank flat on the bed, biting her lip as she unfastened each button on his dress shirt. Halfway through, his dog tags fell out, dangling between them. They looked at each other and she eyed the gold band that hung with the flanks of metal.

She continued unfastening buttons, making sure her fingers grazed his skin. Every so often, she would glance at him through her eyelashes. She could tell his patience was thinning. Slowly, she pulled his shirt tails from his pants.

He barely waited for her to unbuckle his belt and open his pants before he was sliding off the bed to ditch them on the floor. Unsurprisingly, his cock was fighting the fabric of his boxer briefs.

He climbed back on the bed and trailed his lips up her exposed leg. She let her fingers card through his hair as his lips wandered up her body. Finally, they were face-to-face, and she curled the chain of his dog tags around her finger to lower his head until their lips met.

Her free hand slid down his chest and his stomach to the bulge tenting his boxer briefs. Jake groaned into her mouth and he felt her lips curl into a smile. Her hand dipped past his waistband and pumped his length. “If you keep that up, this will be a short reunion,” he warned. She purred as he sucked on her collarbones and gently slipped her dress straps off her shoulders.

Once her arms were free, Jake began sliding down the dress bodice as he peppered her chest with kisses. She closed her eyes and cradled her head on her folded arms as Jake worshiped her. Soft moans left her lips as he nipped and sucked her nipples until they were hard nodes. He showered her exposed skin with kisses and continued to slide the sheath of fabric down her body until it fell atop of his clothes on the floor.

“God, I missed you,” he said between kisses.

“My name is fine,” she teased.

She could feel Jake smiling as he continued his descent toward her pubic mound. Her breath hitched when his tongue delved between her folds. Jake guided her legs over his shoulders and he looped an arm around one of her thighs as he continued to lick broad stripes up and down her core. She moaned his name each time his tongue swirled a figure eight on her swollen bundle of nerves.

The tightening low her stomach built each time Jake touched her. Humming with pleasure, she threaded her fingers into his hair and gently tugged so he looked at her. “Jake, I want my first orgasm to be on your cock.”

He grinned ear-to-ear as his lips softly tugged her clit one more time before he sat back on his knees. Hooking his hands behind her knees, he pulled her so the backs of her thighs rested on the tops of his.

She sat up and captured his lips with hers. Her body scooted closer until her core was resting against his length. He rocked against her as they made out. Her hand dipped between them and guided Jake into her. A soft sigh left her lips, and Jake smiled into the kiss.

She kept rocking her hips into him and eventually put her full weight onto Jake, signaling for him to fall onto his back. Soon, she was perched on top of him, setting their pace. Jake’s hands moved to her thighs, his fingertips digging into her, while her hands fell to his chest. One curled around the chain of his dog tags and tugged whenever Jake tried to overpower her rhythm.

Her orgasm nearing, her pace began to slow, and Jake seized his opportunity when her eyes slipped closed for a few seconds. He sat up, causing her to tumble backward. Fluidly, he slipped one of her legs over his shoulder and the other rested on his waist as he feverishly pumped into her. “You want my cock, and I want the satisfaction of making you come,” he said as he snapped his hips with a little extra emphasis after each word.

She stared at him with hooded eyes and one hand curled in the bed sheets. The other slipped between them and stroked her clit to help break the heat low in her stomach. Her back arched and her eyes closed as an orgasm shuddered through her. A smirk pulled the corners of Jake’s lips as his name fell from her mouth. He continued his forceful thrusts as he watched her.

His hips stuttered as her hand moved to his cock, squeezing around the base and his balls to coax his finish. Jake groaned her name as pleasure pulsed through him. Releasing him, she smiled and dug her heel into his ass to pull him as close as possible.

Hovering over her, he pressed a chaste kiss to her lips before rolling onto his side. She followed him, curling into him under his arm and wrapping her leg around his thigh while her hand rested on his chest.

They laid together, and she swirled her fingertip on his chest, catching his dog tags every so often. Finally, she carefully unclasped the chain and slipped his wedding band off it. After reclasping the ball chain, she gently pushed the ring on his finger.

“Where’s yours?” Jake asked. With a smile, she reached past him to get her clutch from the nightstand. She opened it and he reached in to pull out a silk sachet. He held it while she untied it and then flipped it so both bands tumbled into his hand. Then, he slid them on her finger.

He kissed her rings before trailing more kisses up her arm. She smiled and wrapped her arm around his neck, curling her fingers in his hair and leaning up to capture his mouth. Her body shifted so she was laying mostly on him as she softly kissed him. “Welcome home, baby,” she said as she pulled away.

A hand ghosting the small of her back, he leaned up to kiss her forehead. “It’s good to be home.”

#jake seresin #jake hangman seresin #hangman #top gun maverick #top gun #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #hangman x reader #hangman x you #jake seresin smut #hangman smut #jake hangman seresin smut #top gun smut #top gun maverick smut #tgm smut #tgm fanfic #top gun maverick fanfic #jake seresin fanfic #hangman fanfic

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catprinx · 2 months ago

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I know art is all about practice and trying out new things and not being afraid of using references, but do you have any advice for newer artists about areas to focus time on? Especially for learning digital art/colouring? I've always loved your art style so any advice you have would be valuable.

hi anon!!! Thank you for the kind words :)

There's no one good answer to this because art is about a lot of things. So rather than give you clear-cut actionable items to do, like a checklist, I'll just write down my own philosophies about art exploration. I've also been thinking a lot about this in terms of my own improvement.

(Also for everyone reading this I am by NO MEANS a teacher so take everything I say with a grain of salt. I'm simply someone that just enjoys thinking about art)

I think art is a lot about the combination of technical skill + visual language + concept.

Practicing technical skill, as you said, involves using reference and doing studies. I think an important thing to remember is you need to know what you're trying to learn. Here's a good example the former is a traditional still life of grapes, the artist probably intended to make a piece with a good composition and an impressive rendering technique. While the latter is definitely more of a value/color study. I'm certain this artist could have gone into detail rendering those grapes but being realistic isn't their intention/style. So when you're doing your studies I think simply asking "what do I want to work on?/what am I trying to communicate" can be helpful.

If your goal is working on color specifically I think it would be important to practice values, hues, and temperature control. Those things are the basis of color and after that you can play with more stylistic color. In the end my advice is to do a lot of studies, and look at a lot of art! Doing these studies digitally is just a matter or practicing and familiarizing yourself with the art programs (it takes time). If you have an artist you like you can probably look at their work and breakdown what you like about it. For example the narumitsu art I was working on here is kind of a study of @/rei_17's art (from twitter). I love her use of non-local colors and colors that are very close in value but the depth comes from the hue/temperature shifts in color. It's so masterful to me!!! So, now that I know what I'm looking at it becomes easier to break down and put it into practice for my own art.

Visual language usually refers to "style". To me, it can mean a lot of different things but for the sake of this long ass text post let's say it's just about "art style". My tip is to...copy! Copy what you like and figure out what it is you like about it. I feel like your hand will guide you towards your own art style in the end. I don't view myself as someone with a particularly interesting or unique art style but I can breakdown my influences a little. I'm someone who grew up with anime/shoujo influence but also copied a lot of popular tumblr styles back in the day lmao. I want my anatomy to "feel" correct even though it's rarely realistic and I don't really exaggerate form too much because I don't have a preference for it. I'm someone who values drawing speed and clarity of form over details. And all those things added up are the reasons I draw like I do. You can totally make a style by more intentionally riffing off others, and you can also develop a style just by doing your own thing. Your art will always have an identity of its own even if you don't know it at the time!!!

Concept is just your idea/intentions/narrative etc. I really think concept can be anything you want. Some people can go really in-depth with their concept with studying and research and etc, and other people can make something visually interesting simply by going "I want to draw a cute girl". Everyone is different! I wouldn't take concept advice from me personally because I don't make original illustrations. Fanart is easier to work with because usually you're interpreting someone's existing narrative and you can churn out something cool from that. Maybe my advice is draw more fanart???

#ty for the ask anon I actually wanted to rant about this but i was embarrassed LOL #asks

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sky-kiss · 8 months ago

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Eeeee Shadow Raphael anon here! I'm so happy you're inspired by it! I have two options you can choose from.

1) platonic - them having a chess match and it just being a wity banter off and them enjoying riffing off of each other so much. Maybe this is at the inn/brothel lobby so other people can be there if you'd like.

2) Them having a one night. I don't really have specifics but my brain is barking and screeching because I'd imagine anything explored via your writing will be so good and so much to chew on so I'm up for ANYTHING really!

Thank youuuu!

A/N: Ok, so this is so rushed, and I’m sorry about that. I want to do stuff with these two SO BADLY. Anyway, Dark Justiciar Shadowheart. Post game. Raphael received the crown.

Shadowheart/Raphael: Meetup

"Raphael—I'm not surprised to find you here."

The half-elf slides into the seat across from him, lips turned up a charmingly self-satisfied smirk. It takes Raphael a moment to recall her name—she is, in truth, only tangentially referenced in his mental library, one of Tav's many delinquent compatriots. He leans back, humming, before he says, "Astutely observed, my dear, though perhaps less impressive than you hope. The Caress is nothing if not my home away from home."

"I've no interest in impressing you, devil.

"No, only in interrupting my meal, it seems," his voice dips to a velvety purr, cataloging the minute shift in the Sharran's posture. She arches a brow, gaze flicking to the empty table. Raphael indicates the crowded hall around them. "My hunting grounds, my meals, priestess. Every moment you linger is an opportunity wasted."

Shadowheart scoffs, drumming her fingers on the table between them. The pretty creature tips her head to the side, regarding him through artfully lowered lashes. "You were more civil before."

"Your intrepid leader had something I wanted—and our business has long since concluded." The cambion clucks his tongue. "Where is my Mouse these days?"

She stiffens. "I wouldn't know. Tav…she took her leave some time ago."

"Oh?"

"I've no need to explain myself to you."

"None at all. But you were a precious little pair, weren't you? Haarlep does so regret being unable to…collect you both." Raphael lifts his right hand, inspecting his nails. "One fair turn for another…tell me the truth of your parting, and I will hear your request."

Shar's Chosen regards him coldly. "My Dark Lady demands the whole of my heart."

"How selfish. I almost admire her." Oh, but he likes that flush of color in her cheeks. Power radiates off her, different, colder than many of the god's chosen toys. Shar has given this one a shocking amount of play, provided she remained a loyal little dog. No slipping her leash. "Tell me what you need, my dear."

"An enemy of Lady Shar has gone to ground. I'd have him found."

"Simple enough—hardly requiring my talents. Or worth incurring my cost." Raphael smiles with teeth, curiosity piqued. "Who is this erstwhile quarry?"

She paints him a picture: one of Selune's most beloved champions, a lycanthrope, long fled from the city. His trail and his scent had long since gone cold. The damned creature had very likely fled to a different plane.

The devil considers the offer, taking in her appearance again: beautiful, dark. Some trace hint of Tav's scent still lingers on, perhaps in spirit rather than reality. It's intoxicating. Her eyes glitter with dreadful ambition and determination—it calls to an echoing spirit festering in his own breast.

"No contract," Raphael drawls, tracing the rim of his glass. He has ordered wine for them, richer, deep, and red. "Let us consider this…a favor between friends."

"Very generous of you. Suspiciously so."

"Is it? I've always found it most advantageous to conduct my business in a more...relaxed fashion than your dear Lady. The first taste, as they say, is free." He raises his glass in a toast. Shar's Chosen returns the gesture in kind, lips turning in dark satisfaction.

~~~~~~

She comes to him months later.

“The first taste was free,” Shadowheart grumbles, leaning back. “So, name your cost.”

He scoffs. “My dear, where is your flair for the dramatic? Tease out the tension! Savor the give and take, bargain…”

“...you make it sound like seduction, devil.” The Justiciar’s tongue flicks out to wet her lower lip, so sweetly, ignorantly satisfied. Oh, but she is young. All her power, violence, and inexperience still hang about her like stray traces of baby fat in a youth’s cheeks.

“If you like. I prefer to think of it as a dance—coming together, stepping apart, together…all to our mutual satisfaction.”

Shadowheart’s eyes glitter in the half-light, intrigued.

~~~~~~

She comes to him again.

And again.

Again.

They work surprisingly well together. And her goddess turns a blind eye.

~~~~~~

“How sweet,” he purrs, sucking her lower lip between his teeth. They’ve recently started conducting their business in the Den rather than the common room, and the added privacy has led to this. Shadowheart walks him backward, hands already at his belt. The half-elf whimpers against his lips, the delicacy of the noise contrasting with the natural authority she carries. “You still taste like her, pet.”

She chuckles, flicking her tongue along the seam of his lips. “You never tasted her.”

“No, but…” Raphael’s grip is bruising on her hips—she fails to so much as flinch. “Haarlep is so eager to indulge me—I wager I’ve had her more frequently than you.”

“Ah—a poor man’s imitation.” She stands on the tips of her toes, tracing his nose with hers. The half-elf leans back, smirking. “We should compare someday…see how your counterfeit compares to reality.”

He laughs despite himself. “It could be arranged." He presses his lips to the shell of her ear, pleased at the way shiver. "I’d quite like to watch them fuck you.”

“I’d like it too. But for now…” she pushes Raphael back on the mattress, crawling over him. “I shall have to be content with you.”

#bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #shadowheart #bg3 fanfiction #shadowheart x raphael #asks #sorry this is not great and ive not done my loves the justice they deserve #next time

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mariequitecontrary · 4 months ago

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2024 TF Reverse Mini Bang Memories Part 1

With the @tf-bigbang discord server closing today, I thought I'd share just a few of my favorite memories during my first community fandom event :)

Not to be dramatic, but this event changed the trajectory of my part in the transformers community for the better. It felt like I was at a 4 month long summer camp! I had so much fun talking to everyone and making so many precious, precious friends that I truly hope to stay in touch with.

So buckle in and grab some boba or your preferred drink of choice, because this is going to be long and sentimental.

A Welcoming Start

I joined at the beginning of April, due to someone reposting the Big Bang's twitter post about how writers were still welcome to join. I thought, "Only 5k word requirement over the course of a few months? Yeah sure. I can do that." Little did I know I'd actually committed to writing a fic almost 5 times that length

The vibes in the discord server started out with a bang (heh). Everyone was immediately kind and welcoming to one another. It was an immediate safe space to be excited, let loose and show our freak XD I loved how ferally affectionate we were with bringing new friends into the fold.

A sketch by @nepetacataria-art perfectly shows this I think XD

The Support and Love Shared

The sheer amount of love, comradery, and support shared with one another was astounding. Almost 200 writers and artists shared tips and tricks and offered advice and encouragement to each other! It was unreal and I learned so much. It truly encouraged me to improve in my craft and even inspired me to want to learn how to draw again!

Oh, and the RECS everyone shared!!! Everyone shared so many fics and art pieces that I am now obsessed with! I have been blessed with a LOT of quality, amazing content that I never would have seen otherwise! My tbr list grew from large to neverending haha <3

Teasing the Artists Before Match Ups

I'm ngl, I had WAY too much fun once the sketches were released to the writers and the secret-authors-corner channel was made. We all OBSESSED over all of the art and fangirled over each one! But we also talked, and talked, and talked. And dropping out of context messages into the public channels for the artists to see was too much fun!

Talking Transformers

IT WAS THE BEST THING EVEERRRRRR!!!!! WOWOWOWOWOW! I loved raving about characters and lore, both canon and fanon! Even when I wasn't a part of the conversation, just lurking and reading what people talked about whether it was AUs, comics, shows, character breakdowns, brainstorming ideas...it was all so cool and so fun. Everyone is so creative and thinking about the sheer amount of fun we all had makes me tear up.

Like, SO MANY plot bunnies were made with everyone! Myself included! Sometimes people would just say a random ass thing and then five others would hop on, riffing against each other and developing that little idea into something concrete and so so JUICY.

Two out of many MANY conversations that I personally loved were the video games x transformers ideas and talking tentacles and transformers in the nsfw channel XD

Writers Panicking, As We Do

It was all in fun, but it was very entertaining and validating to be in a space where we can all stress about our writing, our fics, and approaching deadlines.

The mods clearly enjoyed adding endless fuel to the fire and (lovingly) watched us all scream and run around in a fiery chaotic panic over every little thing.

Streaming

I didn't get to join many, but it was always so cool watching artists draw! I also had a lot of fun streaming Hades 2 with a few friends with it was first released :)

Team 0 - A King Julien Starscream Fic

It all started when Writer's Choice Period began...and the example inspired many of us writers to obsess over this...I'll let the screenshots tell you XD

A King Julien Starscream fic just WORKS and you can't tell me otherwise! @mendely's sketch REALLY sold it to me as a thing that's GOTTA happen.

Madagascar AU FTW

AND THEN THE MODS MADE IT A THING THING

@useless19's king julienscream puppet owns my soul and their little vid is possibly the finest piece of silent cinema I've ever watched in my entire life. I was ENRAPTURED.

@sxpaiscia's art KILLS ME. PUTS MY HEART IN A CHOKEHOLD. Julienscream lives in my head rent free and 50% of it is imagined with their art in mind.

The sad end to the story is...the Team 0's fic wasn't completed within the time requirements to be posted with the rest of the Mini Bang's fics :( Do we still plan on continuing and finishing it? HELL YEAH WE ARE!

To Be Continued...

Did you know that there is a limit to the amount of images you can share in one post? SMH.

Link to Part 2!

#mariequitecontrary posts #transformers #transformers big bang #tf big bang #tf big bang 2024

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wildflowerteas · 5 months ago

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omg I always forget to actually send in asks to people for ask games anywayyy 7, 10, 13, and 24 hope none of these have been asked already lmao

convinced you escaped from that Soviet sleep chamber during all the chaos because WHAT time is it over there????????????

7. How do you choose which POV to write from? If this is about choosing between the first person, second person, third person etc. ( yes I have written in the second person perspective ) I choose depending on the vibe of the story. but if this is about CHARACTER pov, I choose based on what I want to reveal to the reader at any given moment, and also to say something about the relationship between the characters. it's why the tsp sskk scenes have a lot of really subtle switching back and forth, it's more fluid, you almost can't tell where their thoughts begin and end because they're together always, thinking about the same things, and riffing off of each other. on the flip side, soukoku scenes have a very clear POV divide because while they're in tune with each other, very in love, and whatnot, they're not on the same page.

10. Cltr+f "blinks" on your WIP & copy paste the first sentence/paragraph that comes up.

i do not like them.

13. What's a common writing tip you almost always follow?

Just. Write. Do not edit as you go, that shit will kill you.

24. Worst writing advice anyone ever gave you?

I don't know how this is the most difficult question on this list, but somehow it is . . . I think the worst 'advice' I've ever gotten was being told to not start a project until my skill level matched it, so that I could save myself the disappointment of making something I'm not proud of forever and ever. I've learned to love what i create, regardless of its value to others or even it's quality compared to my newer works.

#hi rori!#ask #ask game

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letters-to-rosie · 1 year ago

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Sorry I'm sending so many asks, tho I'm curious if you have any tips on writing race in the Arcane universe. Clearly it's not the same as the real word but it a showrunner were to say point blank that racism doesn't exist in Arcane I think I'd get really mad. Idk, if you're still figuring it out sorry, I I'm just curious

lmao no problem I never stop talking anyway

but not only do I never mind getting asks, I was THRILLED to get this one. this isn't in my wheelhouse. it IS my wheelhouse. it's what I'm getting the phd for so they'll let me teach this sort of shit lol. I was literally so excited when I saw this that I had to make myself get to a certain stopping point on my final paper for my history of race class (how fitting) as a motivation so I could come answer afterward lol

the real key to it is something you've already identified in the ask itself: that it's not the same as the real world, but it's definitely there. and with that in mind we can think of talking about how race comes about

so I'mma break this into two sections. the first is about dealing with race (or racialization) in a fantasy setting like Arcane, and the second will be on how real-world structures still have a bearing on what we write about those fictional worlds and how they're perceived. okay, let's get into it (and let me type properly lol)

Because race isn't rooted in biological reality, it's constantly shifting. It's meanings are never fixed, but because race is a way we naturalize the world around us (much like gender stereotypes), it appears more permanent than it is. Now, this isn't discounting racialized violence any group has endured. But the process of defining who belongs to what group, where the dividing lines are, what racial stereotypes mean, and so on, is ongoing.

Race is a popular way of dealing with difference, but it's far from the only one. So what we have to ask is how a group of people become not just different but fundamentally different in ways you can assign supposed traits and behaviors to them. There are a lot of ways this can happen, and every instance has its own historical specificity. Also, every instance is caught up in a "web," so to speak, of cultural context, understandings, and referents (riffing Clifford Geertz and Stuart Hall a little here) that allow people in that web to make sense of the world around them and to understand themselves. So it's very messy, but often we can find some key events that set the process of making a race, racialization, in motion. A good example IRL is the way that brown people of all backgrounds were racialized as vaguely threatening in post-9/11 America. Another is the Transatlantic slave trade, which gave economic incentives for dehumanizing black people and, eventually in the U.S., created a social structure where people who were only partially black could still be enslaved, which is how you get tan black people like me lol. Another example could be the absorption of various European immigrant groups into whiteness throughout U.S. history, or the effort to separate the Japanese from other East Asians after they beat Russia in a war in 1905.

In general, we're asking "what set racialization in motion?" A war? Colonial expansion? Mass immigration? Capitalism? Usually you don't have just one, and usually race combines with one of those forces to exacerbate a previously-held idea of difference in a society. So all of a sudden those people aren't just different, but they might as well be a different species.

In Arcane, we don't get enough backstory to say anything definitively, but we can assume that the divide between Piltover and Zaun is primarily economic. The game lore suggests some colonization, too. In any case, by the time of the show, there are already:

firmly-established delineations between Piltovans and Zaunites

a stereotyping that hides the complexity of the problems the cities face (see Jayce saying to Viktor that the Zaunites are criminals; of course, he's worried about Jinx, but he's operating on the assumption that the Zaunites are acting up because of their criminality, which hides other motivations for their behavior; in all likelihood, most of them were upset because they couldn't get to work, which would lead to a loss of wages and more economic precarity than they already experience)

a robust system of incarceration, police brutality, and environmental racism leading to disparate health outcomes across groups

and a division of labor that relies on all of the above (though I REALLY wish they'd explain more about the mines I need to KNOW)

So, again, it's not race as such, but it's helpful because we can see that it's not entirely reducible to social class, ether. If it were, Viktor would have had a much easier time, and there would be more economic mobility both up and down the ladder. I think it's more than fair to say that racilization is at work, even though the characters have a wide array of physical features on both sides of the river. Racialization can most certainly happen even when the people involved look mostly alike (see the English and the Irish for the classic example).

Okay, so we've established that some race-y things are going on. What about the second part? What about the real world?

We have to be honest and note that our real-world experiences are going to affect how we engage with these characters. This isn't inherently a bad thing, but it's important that we're aware and cautious, handling the question of race delicately. I, for one, have been really disappointed in some of the audience reception of the show's black characters (and a teeny bit in how I feel like their arcs were rushed compared to the wider cast). I'm not really invested in any ship involving Jayce, not gonna lie (though I will say it takes a lot for me to get invested in a ship in general; I have to really click with it to care), but the hate Mel gets over shipping cannot be separated from mysognoir. It just can't. Likewise, with Ekko, I'm sometimes nervous about descriptions of his body that remind me of the VERY long tradition of fetishizing black men to hell and back. But he also gets the short end of the stick in shipping sometimes, and I think his relatively lower popularity in fandom is likely related to his race.

This is me, a black woman, calling it as I see it. We could also get into Sky, but that's a whole other thing. I think that when we engage with these characters, it's important to note what is actually in the text and what might be a projection of our world's current concepts of race onto the fantasy world.

So, for example, assuming Caitlyn is better at math than Vi because her facial features are East Asian. Vi is Jinx's sister. Vi is better at math, presumably, at least in terms of talent, since Vi wouldn't have gotten to go to school. A way to work in the racialization of the show's setting could be for Vi to express frustration with people think ing she's dumb just because of where she's from, or she could be upset she doesn't know something not because she is a Zaunite but because Zaun is so oppressed that Vi never got a proper education.

Mel is a pretty calm character. If someone wrote her as very angry, for example, I'd be like whoa, sounds like the stereotype that black women are angry is at work here. Mel expresses anger at her mother, but otherwise she's very level-headed. For an example in the setting, perhaps Mel tells a close confidante she's a bit tired of the veneer of civility Piltover can put on. Race works in multiple directions. By saying the Zaunite are the rowdy ones, it's saying Piltovans can't be (not that they actually can't, just under their world's racial logic). How would this play out in Mel's life? Could make for an interesting fic.

One example I can speak on personally, because I'm writing it, is my attempt to engage elements of real-world black radicalism with the Arcane universe. Like, I have lines that Ekko says in one chapter that are deeply inspired by one of the most famous Pan-Africanists in U.S. history. But I can't map that thought onto, say, Mel, just because she's black. Her position in the society is such that real-world blackness doesn't really have anything to do with her outside of her reception by the audience. I do, however, engage that sort of thought with other Zaunite characters, mainly Jinx, despite her being white in the real-world framework. In the setting, she's racialized as a Zaunite, and I'm proceeding accordingly, working with those categories of race instead of the ones I deal with in my real life.

Another thing I'm very wary of is beauty being attached to skin color. I'm a bit wary of skin color being mentioned a lot in fics in general, honestly. In a world where skin color isn't the means by which people are divided, it wouldn't be nearly as worth noting. What about...accents? Perceived intelligence? Did Viktor go to Piltover and have people go "oh, you're so articulate"? I bet he did.

Okay, this is getting very long. Pretty much what I'm trying to say is that the answer is to think about what race does in the real world and then think about how it would work in Arcane or any other fantasy setting. What gets people designated as a race? What stereotypes are associated with them? How do people resist this? and so on.

And on the flip side, we have to be attentive to how race in the real world might be coloring our perceptions of certain characters. By being conscious of this, we can avoid potentially reinforcing real-world racial logic. And by examining what racial logic is and what it does, we can become prepared to deal with it in the real world.

(and yeah I would also not enjoy a showrunner saying it doesn't exist in the universe lol)

#arcane #racialization #rosie's writing desk #this turned out long as hell #but if you're interested it might be worth a read!#thank you for the ask! really was such a blast #a nice end to my day #i love talking about this shit lol #arcane meta #media criticism

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cutiecorner · 2 years ago

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You write agere fanfics right? I'm curious about if you have any tips? I'm working on one rn for a fandom I'm in and I suddenly find myself STUMPED when it comes to actually writing it, even when the dynamic is clear in my head.

I do write fics (they're in a fics tag here and Obscure_AO3 is my ao3)!! However I am terrible in terms of advice, I have to get hit point blank with the inspiration/motivation fairy to work on anything 😭 I guess, here's some stuff I do if it helps?

I base my fics on scenarios I return to often in my head. Like recurrent daydreams that comfort you, if that's something you do. Because I have an idea for what happens already in my head, that's a start.

Once I have the idea, I go through it but this time try to describe what's happening in a Writy Way, cause its more like a movie than a book to me.

To imerse the reader and give the whole thing a potent Vibe (of at least try to) I try to focus on the five senses, and also less identifiable senses. What do you first notice when you enter a room? The light, temperature, smell?

To add to the previous point, flesh those out by mentioning how those things make the character feel or think. Maybe the scent of vanilla reminds them their carer always makes cookies when they're upset - which both portrays a sense of comfort and love and shows the carer picked up on their feelings

On that last note, I'm big on the little things. I love pointing out small details and letting them imply things about the character's lives. Their rituals that give a sense of familiarity, their little flaws that make them human. It's a really big deal to me.

I guess my biggest tip is, think about how you think. Since the subject matter is agere, think about what brings you comfort. Think about your emotional states, how your brain and actions change while regressing - find a way to portray that that feels authentic to you. Essentially, draw from life lol.

Don't be afraid to skip around! Do you have that one scene all planned out but don't know how to get to it? Just write the scene. Any writing is better than no writing!

If all else fails, just start riffing. What's the first thing that comes to mind, any idea no matter how small. Just put one metaphorical foot after the other until you're running!

Sorry if that's not particularly helpful! I am. Just realizing now how much my writing is affected by my autism ahjkctbhmi, either that or I just described the basic act of writing and thinking in excruciating detail. Either way, I hope it can provide a little help.

#agere #fandom agere #squeaks #agere fandom

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artsy-alice · 2 years ago

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Hello! For the shoujo au, what tips the scales of restrainted horny or oblivious bi for one of Wangxian to confess? Will it be Wei Wuxian in the most Dramatic way where she uses the speaker system to say "I Love You Lan Wangji! I fancy you! I admire you! I whatever you! I want to do everything with you! Sleep with you! Wake up with you! ... I..I just, I Love You!!!" Or is it something else? (P.s. I riffed off canon WWX's confession)

y'all should know by now there really are no plans for this AU, it writes itself according to memes and quotes that file themselves in my head while i watch sitcoms

so yeah, i.... have no answer for this, except that ur whole message reads like it's Nie Huaisang having a nightmare.

#(asks)#kaitou-cure-prism12 #mdzs modern au

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moiderahart · 2 years ago

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Capitalism is Anathema to Art

You cannot convince me that it's not. Capitalism is anathema to art. You can look me in the eye and try telling me "but a billionaire funded this artist to-" no. Artists would be willing to produce and draw and create on their own. In fact, artists would be willing to do that for free.

I know this from personal experience. Do you know how much work it takes to produce a comic? Do you know how elaborate an experience it is? Do you know how difficult it is to produce animation?

People do that for free. They don't do it because they want to be hired, they do it because they want to create, because the creation of art is inherently rewarding.

Transformative work, as it's called, is beautiful. There's a vibrant, vivid culture of remixing and twisting and changing music in hiphop. Anime characters are recontextualized in murals. There's a grand culture of mythology, of stories told and retold over and over again with different, often contradictory timelines and canon.

Because the creation of art is inherently rewarding.

The more I think about it the more I realize that "transformative" art feels like the default. It feels like that's simply how art should be. Hell some of the best communities I've been in have all had people riffing on each other's characters and concepts all the time. Being able to throw concepts at each other is enriching!

All ideas are best when they are open to interpretation and change. But because of capital, art is now tied directly to finances. What should be fun and freeing is now shackled to the idea of income. Copyright is now necessary, because what should be open and free to interpretation can now be exploited.

We need protection because what otherwise should just be free is now directly open to abuse and exploitation by parties who do not understand nor care about the creative process.

I would love nothing more than to just be able to create without having to worry about whether or not I can pay rent. I still throw my concepts and ideas to friends, and I still write fanfiction.

And yet because it's all tied to capital it's not nearly as free or as open as it should be. We live in an age of plenty, and it's all hoarded to a small selection of the most selfish bastards imaginable.

There's a sick irony to all of this, when I post this looooong, long, extremely high-effort post, that there's a tip jar at the bottom of it and I still have to shill my commission work to pay my bills.

#long post #effortpost #fuck capitalism #lol lmao

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paulmezcal · 11 months ago

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20 questions for fic writers

ty. for the tag, @hangmanbradshaw! between you and mo, i feel v welcomed to tumblr haha

1. How many works do you have on AO3? 7

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? 75,042 (writing this after seeing yours was humbling)

3. What fandoms do you write for? top gun with a sprinkle of marauders-era in my drafts but shhh

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

there's a limit to your love -- sereshaw amnesia fic

caught a fever from the inside -- bradley fixing all of jake's self doubt and thought spiraling issues with his wang

sugar on my tongue -- pierced nip fic no. 1

when bradley falls in love (goose&carole's version) -- iwtby companion piece for someone's birthday

you've got the win in your bag -- pierced nip fic no. 2

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? yes! from the point that i started doing it (i don't have the attention span to go back, sorry) but moving forward i do! i eat every comment i get as crunch croutons on my soup

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? LOL can i answer with some ideas on my "to write" list here because...

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? fever's got a pretty happy ending for how spiral-y it starts off with

8. Do you get hate on fics? nah

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? stares at the 20k series i wrote about jake seresin with nipple ring(s)

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written? technically i wrote an in-fandom crossover in the iwtby-verse! but nothing so far

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? doubt it!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? nope!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? i did a round robin fic that was pretty fun, but otherwise no(t yet). i vibe with group writing though, wouldn't be opposed to doing it more!

14. What’s your all time favorite ship? jake/bradley right now! took a fandom break for a long while, but was definitely a deancas girl for a while, also i have read a large chunk of "the man from uncle" illya kuryakin/napoleon solo fic, i'm not sorry.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? ahhh there's a few i am afraid i have preemptively lost steam before even starting but i am not giving up (yet)! there's a reverse-hanahaki-disease jake/bradley that got riffed on discord that i really want to write.

16. What are your writing strengths? idk maybe thought spiraling and angst?

17. What are your writing weaknesses? keeping things short/to the point hahaha

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? fine with it, but i do judge the google translate options from french when i read it (sorry)

19. First fandom you wrote for? probably supernatural or harry potter, i can't remember

20. Favorite fic you’ve written? fever is definitely my fav, both 'cause it's the first thing i wrote in a long time and kinda dragged me back into fandom, and because i love me some self-deprecating introspective character studies. limits might take this place when i finish it!

i tag @magdarko in response :) and @lewispullsman also for all your tumblr pro tips! (no pressure)

#writing #ask game

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goddamnwebcomics · 1 year ago

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Ranked from Best to Worst: Webcomics of Goddamn Webcomics (2023 Edition)

I made this ranking three years ago originally, but now that I've come back, before I start the next set of riffs, I should probably update my rankings. Thanks to @tjimmy1999 for giving me the idea.

0. Gene Catlow

Gene Catlow is completely uncomparable to any other webcomic I've riffed. It's probably the most unique piece of media I've ever seen. It has so many aspects in it that are fucking awful and horrible and terrible, but it also has just as many redeeming aspects. I am glad I came back to riff it to the end because what I riffed before the previous ranking was just the tip of the iceberg. Until another comic like it drops into my view, it will be uncomparable to anything else, completely outside the ranking as this fascinating piece of work that everybody needs to read for themselves.

Alien Dice

Alien Dice is my number one pick for the best comic I've riffed, but it's not really the best because of its content but because it does the bare minimum to be decent. It has likable protagonists, decent world building and it has an engaging story that can pace between dark and lighthearted moments. Unfortunately, it also has a ton of problems, with bullshit plot twists, Riley, unnecessary moments of sexual tension between animals, Riley, wildly inconsistent artstyle that never seems to stick to one style, Riley, very bland antagonists with no motivation, Riley and certain aspects of the main gimmick of the comic aren't explained well, and also Riley. I wouldn't recommend Alien Dice to anyone like I would recommend Gene Catlow, as I feel it needs to work out its issues.

2. Daisy Falls Apart

Daisy Falls Apart is a parody comic that doesn't exactly break new ground. It's harmless but I wouldn't read it a second time. It's held down by its horribly unlikable protagonist and how the whole conflict of the comic is very quickly resolved, and also too many sexual jokes in something that is based on a children's game. Out of all the comics I've riffed, this one is the most mediocre, and number 2 meaning mediocre should worry you.

3. Carnivores

This comic was originally a painful experience, but so many painful experiences came after it, it feels like one of the less worse ones despite having the worst art. Also i can tell Austin did this comic for fun, and not to convey a deep message. Also it’s probably the only fetish webcomic in history where fetish itself starts taking a backseat halfway through. Yeah, some of the entries will be the exact same as in the previous ranking, if I haven't given them any major revisits. Also the only reason it's under Daisy Falls Apart is because it has a much worse artstyle.

4. Bloody Mary

Bloody Mary satisfies your specific hunger for Johnny Test characters commiting several crimes in rapid succession. Reading the comic both entertains me immensely but it also makes me feel dirty. The crossover stuff is there to please the author and not really provide any point. It is unique in that the comic doesn't feature a full cast ensemble but it's rather just focusing on Mary ruining people's lives and interacting some random character from a North American animated thing. The only reason it's below Carnivores is the suspicious amount of unintentional racism???

5. Warmage

Warmage is enjoyable for all the wrong reasons. None of Dumok’s other comics have gone to the same level of bizarreness Warmage offers with each page. However it is also the host to the worst character to ever appear in this blog, Tsuki. Other than that, Warmage seemed to have semi-intriguing lore and also ended on a rather decent arc, so i think i could’ve been interested to see it continue, just because i wanna see how much worse it can get. But then again, spanking scene.

6. Kit n Kay Boodle

It's amazing that year by year, Kit and Kay Boodle gets more and more tame. More than anything it helped to expose me to Albert's usual writing bullshit, but somehow it manages to be tame compared to craziness of Gene Catlow. When you know that EVERYONE is fictional in the real life bits, it just loses the nightmare quality it once had. That being said I am bitter half of the riff is locked behind Tumblr's stupid filter system.

7. Dominic Deegan

Ah, Deegan, Deegan, Deegan... during my riff of Gene Catlow I apologised to you so many times I almost wanted to bump up your rating, but I feel like you're in a comfortable place. In a lot of ways Dominic Deegan is the quiessential mid-2000's webcomic, what started off as a gag-a-day comic soon became an edgy fantasy full of author screaming his political views and projecting his desires into the main characters. I think even Mookie is not too proud of the decisions he made, and Legacy of Dominic Deegan feels like an apology to correct the problems of the series. But there will always be the original Dominic Deegan, with its orcs and their fucked up culture, screaming manchild protagonists, exaggerated gay characters, magic that is random and nonsensical but also has schools based on teaching it, aggressive sports players and Siggy burial. However, who knows how it ranks after I finally finish it.

8. Roommates and 9. Chugworth Academy

The reason I made Gene Catlow 0 was also because I didn't want to rank it lower than these two, because I have no heart to say "Roommates/Chugworth Academy is better than Gene Catlow". If your comic ranks lower than these two, it's done and there is no coming back. I can safely say that I will NEVER EVER revisit these two comics, even if there are worse comics in this ranking.

10. Spinnerette

I said last time that Spinnerette was the worst comic I've riffed, and quite frankly I can't put it into words why that isn't the case anymore. After revisiting Spinny so many times since my last ranking, it has...improved. Remember that my last exposure to the comic was the Fat Spinny Arc and the first half of Hostess arc, and it seemed like Spinny was just embracing being a parade of Kraw's fetishes. However now that I've seen more of it, it's trying. But the comic is still like a fish flopping on dry ground in the middle of the desert. It doesn't want to pick a narrative, it just does random one-off stories forever. As much as I hated Colonel Glass I wish he came back just so this comic would have some semblance of seriousness again. Of course the comic has recently started fucking up the last decent characters, and I wouldn't be surprised if this comic bumped down again after few more revisits, BUT, it's still not the worst thing Kraw has made.

11. Las Lindas

Las Lindas is even more hopeless than Spinnerette, because this comic will introduce the decent thing, and before you know it decent thing is ruined. At least Spinnerette has decent variety of different stories. Las Lindas will never leave that fucking farm, if we don't count the spinoff comics half of which are non-canon and are about the same level of quality as main comic anyway. My brief revisit showed me the post-Alejandra era wasn't as hideous as I thought but it's pretty damn close, and with the ever-worsening artstyle and an apparent INTRODUCTION OF SUPERHEROES, Las Lindas's level of quality could best be described with that panel where Tootsie drives into a river.

12. Console Girl

Console Girl is the first comic in this ranking I just completely despise. It makes Ctrl-Alt-Delete look like Penny Arcade, it's a comic about an ecchi console that comes to life but midway through we get a plot twist and it turns out to be a cyberpunk comic that tries to treat humanoid consoles fighting seriously...or not really, as the comic has a problem taking itself seriously, outside of some questionable moments where the author seems to project their hidden anger towards video games into the comic??? We also have in-comic non-canon filler arcs, console girls eventually becoming random fetishes instead of things actually relevant to their real counterparts and TOO MANY LITTLE PEOPLE WHO ARE IN RELATIONSHIPS WITH ADULT MEN. I'm glad this comic was never finished.

13. Monster Girl Academy

Monster Girl Academy is just...the worst. It was solely created to make Kraw even more rich, but I would forgive that if the comic didn't just...fail as a webcomic, fail as a porn comic and fail as a narrative period. This comic was designed for lowest common denominator with fetishes that are too weird to be vanilla and too vanilla to be weird. Its existence pisses me off. While other comics I've riffed had potential, this never had any semblance of it. The main protagonist is a piece of shit and all his girls are also pieces of shit, the only likable character is a little girl who cries and prays in Spanish, because every character reading this comic can relate to her. Fuck this comic, and I mean it with every letter of that sentence.

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