#<- tagging this just in case but let me know if i need to add more

[silcoitus]

Could you write a (young)Silco/Disabled Reader, who for the most part is able to walk just fine with the help of a brace but on bad days they’ll bring out the cane and on really bad days a wheelchair but is still insistent on trying to do things no matter how much they shouldn’t?

I tried to be as sensitive as I could towards reader's disability. I hope it comes across sincere and that I haven't committed any faux pas. If I have, please let me know in the comments and I will happily revise. Like young Silco in this fic, I will quickly apologize and learn if given the opportunity.

A Voice Like Yours

Masterlist | AO3 link

Rating: Mature

Tags: gn!reader x silco; disabled reader; Silco; Felicia; Connol; Vander; Benzo; fluff; angst; hurt/comfort;

Word count: 3.5k

Beta reader: @juniper-sunny

You would've liked to get to the market sooner, but getting out of bed was particularly hard today. Typically, you're able to handle just fine with only your brace. And when that doesn't work, your cane will usually suffice. But with rough sleep last night and a flare-up this morning, you opt for using your chair today to get to the market. Just until you can get your bearings again.

With your later arrival, you're unable to beat the morning rush, sandwiched between what seems like every citizen of the Undercity. Most give you a wide berth, but others shove past you unceremoniously. You're used to it by now, but your fatigue plasters a permanent scowl on your face as you try to find your usual vendors.

As you make your way through your shopping list, the bag sitting on your lap getting slightly heavier with each new stall you visit, you feel a bit better. (You used to keep your bag slung over the back of your chair, but stopped when some asshole stole it.)

You're on the last item on your list when you get settled in front of one wooden stall and make small talk with the shopkeep. He greets you by name and grabs your usual order, setting it down on the counter before turning his back to fix something. You try to reach for your purchase, but it's just a touch too far. You're about to move your chair closer when a stranger waltzes up and plucks the bag off the counter.

“Hey! That's mine!” you protest, rolling closer to him.

“I know,” he replies, handing it to you. “I was just getting it for you.”

You snatch it and shove it into your canvas bag, still frowning at the tall, slender man with long raven hair. 

“I'm perfectly capable of doing it on my own.” You grab your wheels and in one fluid, practiced motion, reposition your chair away from him. You start to leave, but pause, looking over your shoulder. “I don't need your help.”

Out of your periphery, you see him raise both hands in surrender, but from this angle, you can't tell if his expression is sincere or sarcastic. You try to shake it off, ready to go back home and wash your hands of the interaction. 

The Undercity is supposed to be the city of self-reliance.

So why does everyone still treat you like a child?

The following day fares better. You bring your cane (just in case) for your shift at the shop, settling into your stool at the cash register. You're reading a book during the slower hours when a customer comes in and sets a stack of papers down onto the counter. Your eyebrows furrow at the flyers and you lift your eyes to see a familiar face.

“If it's alright, I'd like to add these to your bulletin board,” the man from yesterday says, not even looking at you. He leans on the counter, looking out the large windows to the street. “Got a meeting coming up and want to get the word out.”

Finally, he turns to you.

You watch as his face cycles from apathy to confusion to recognition. His eyes dart down to your stool and the surrounding area, seemingly looking for your wheelchair. When he comes up empty, he looks back up to your face, head tilting to the side.

“I didn't need it today,” you preemptively answer. “Not that I owe you an explanation.”

“Right, right, sorry,” he's quick to apologize. “I didn't mean to insinuate—”

“That I'm faking?”

“No! Never!” he says, hands coming up in surrender, again. His shoulders sag forward slightly and he runs his fingers through his hair, an exasperated sigh leaving his lips. “I'm sorry, can we start again?”

He puts his hand out. You eye it warily.

“Hi, I'm Silco.”

Your lips thin, but you take his hand.

“Hi, Silco.” You give him your name.

“I would like to put these up on your bulletin board,” he says, nodding to the corkboard behind you.

You put your hand out.

“Only two,” you instruct. “One here and the one in the back.”

He starts to hand you the flyers, but then pulls back.

“I can put up the one out back,” he offers.

“It's fine,” you say, insisting with a gesture of your hand. “I can do it.”

Silco looks at your hand then up to your face, understanding slowly spreading across his features. He nods, mostly to himself, as he hands you the papers.

“Of course.”

You take one flyer and a thumbtack from the corner of the board, stabbing it in place with a bit more force than necessary.

“You should come,” Silco says from behind you. “We could use a voice like yours in the Children.”

You turn back to him, eyebrows furrowed.

“Just think about it,” he says softly, gathering the pile of papers. With a small, almost apologetic, smile, he leaves.

You lift the remaining flyer, scanning it.

Children of Zaun 

Town Hall

Wednesday 

4pm

The Last Drop 

“Hey, Monte?” you call out. “If it's okay, I think I'm gonna head out a little early.”

Your boss peeks his head out from one of the aisles, his glasses slightly crooked on his nose.

“That's fine,” he reassures you, calling your name. “We're pretty slow today; I can take it from here.”

You take your cane from behind the counter, slinging your backpack over your shoulder.

“Thanks! I'll see you tomorrow!”

You make your way to The Last Drop, having spent a couple days wrestling internally about whether or not to go. You had heard of the Children of Zaun, but not really given them much thought. From what you'd heard, they were a ragtag group of misfits posing as rebels, claiming to want independence from Piltover. You had rolled your eyes in disbelief at the notion. Besides, you have plenty of your own concerns to worry about; it's not as if you have time to take up some righteous cause.

But Silco's words ring in your ear, propelling you forward.

“We could use a voice like yours in the Children.”

What did he mean by that? “Like yours”—what’s that supposed to mean? So they want some sort of token disabled person on their crew to make them look better or something?

But the sincere remorse on his face and the softness of his tone told you otherwise. 

Maybe he meant it.

Maybe he does actually want to hear what you might have to say.

So you walk up to The Last Drop, hand clutching your cane, holding it less like a walking stick and more like a blunt force weapon (which it has had to be, on occasion). Taking a deep breath, you pull your shoulders back, and push open the door.

You're by no means early, but there's no way this is the entire gang. You can count on exactly one hand the number of people that showed up. There's Silco, standing with his back to you, what looks to be a couple sharing a table, and then two larger men standing by the bar. You're immediately filled with regret and start to turn back around, until you hear someone call your name.

“You came!” Silco says, more excitement in his voice than you'd expect. “Hey, this is who I told you about.”

Four pairs of eyes turn to you and you feel rooted on the spot.

You shoot Silco a look.

He told them about you? What could he possibly have said?

He gestures you forward, leading you to the couple at the table. You take one of the empty seats and Silco sits in the one next to you. He leans forward, one forearm barred along the wooden surface as he addresses the couple.

“I told you we were missing something,” he starts. “That this—” he gestures to the group, forefinger pointed and moving in a circle, “wasn't enough.”

That same forefinger comes down, tapping incessantly on the table.

“If we're to be the voice of Zaun, we need to make sure that everyone has a spot at the table.”

The woman glances at you before turning back to Silco, nodding slightly as she speaks.

“Okay…” she nods a little more, as if the thought is taking root in her head. “Yeah. That makes sense.” She turns toward you. “My name is Felicia and this is Connol,” she says, leaning her head toward the man next to her. 

“Felicia. Connol. Nice to meet you.”

You shake hands with both of them.

“Would you like a drink?”

You pull your lips through your teeth and Felicia is quick to reassure you.

“Don't worry; it's on the house.” She straightens up, calling out to the large man behind the bar. “Vander! Some beer!”

“Get it yourself!” he calls back.

“Fuck you,” she laughs.

“Oy,” the other man says, bringing a tray over. “Watch yer language ‘round the new recruit.”

Felicia laughs.

“They’re an adult, Benzo; they can handle it.”

You look back at her and she offers you a smirk. You take the free mug of beer and Silco raises his up in toast.

“To the Children of Zaun.”

Felicia and Connol mirror the movement.

“The Children of Zaun!”

You lift your glass and say the words, though you don't take them to heart just yet. But as you bring the mug to your lips, you can't help the small smile from creeping onto your face.

Every Wednesday, you leave the shop to go to the bar. And every Wednesday, you become a little more smitten.

With the cause.

With the man that introduced you to it.

The more you get to know Silco, the more you realize your first impression of him wasn't a good representation of the man he is. 

Or, perhaps, maybe it was the perfect representation.

A man who only wants to help, eager to uplift those around him. So excited to do so that he steps on a few toes in the process. He's stumbling and clumsy with his help, but he's quick to apologize and quick to learn. 

It doesn't take long for you to realize—he’s that way with everyone. It wasn't just you and it wasn't just because you're disabled. He's always on alert for if someone could use a hand, always first to arrive when someone asks for assistance. That's just who he is.

And if this is one of the rebels trying to uplift the Undercity, the Nation of Zaun is in good hands.

Silco is keeping you company at the shop, following you around as you restock some items. He carries a crate of goods while you arrange them on displays, your discerning eye careful to make them look as appealing as possible.

You drop one of the small boxes and Silco is quick to bend down to grab it.

“Silco,” you warn, “What'd I say about helping without being asked?”

“Sorry, right,” he says, straightening up to let you retrieve it. “Force of habit.”

You grin up at him, chuckling. “I'm just fucking with you.”

With some assistance from him, you get out of your wheelchair and resume your place at the cash register. Silco takes the opportunity to sit in your chair, long fingers fiddling with the wheels. You laugh as he tries to maneuver the chair around the front of the shop.

“Have you learned any tricks on this thing?” he asks, trying to lean back and balance it so that his feet lift off the ground.

“It's a wheelchair, not a skateboard, you jackass.”

“That's a ‘no’ then,” he says, smirking. But the smirk is wiped clean off his face when the chair tumbles backwards, sending him crashing to the floor.

You let out a bark of a laugh at that, laughing even harder when he starts to groan.

“Serves you right!” You grab your cane, gingerly getting off the stool to help him back up. “If you broke my chair, I swear to Janna… Do you know how hard these are to get? I had to pay so much coin for it.” 

You point your cane at him threateningly, but he wraps his fingers around it and tugs, pulling you forward. A startled squeak at your throat, you fall on top of him, catching yourself just in time so you don't headbutt him.

“Silco—”

“Now we're both down here,” he teases, smirking.

“Wonderful,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “What a masterful plan.”

Something sparks behind Silco's ocean green eyes, something playful, mischievous.

“I'll say it is.”

And with that, he lifts his head, closing the distance between your lips. Your eyebrows lift and your eyes flutter closed, savoring the warmth of his mouth against yours. His hand comes up to tenderly cradle your face and you lean into the kiss, pressing your chest to his so you're flush with him. You don't know how much time has passed, but as you kiss him, you feel as light as a cloud, until—

“Hey!”

You straighten up, face red with blush.

“I don't pay you to swap spit with the customers,” Monte says, but there's no bite to his words. “Get up before someone trips on you.”

You laugh, pressing your forehead to Silco's. 

“Here.” You push yourself up, offering him a hand. “Let me help you.”

It’s been a while since you’ve had a friend group like this. Ever since the accident that caused your disability, no one seems to have the patience to deal with your rougher days, as if you’re holding them back.

It’s hard to not internalize that feeling.

But with Silco and the rest of the Children of Zaun, you feel different. Whereas before, it felt like your mere presence was a burden, you feel seen and appreciated. You feel heard.

When you tell Vander that the bathroom stalls are too tiny for your chair, he knocks the dividers down to make room.

When you lament about the small step outside the front door, Benzo throws together a small wooden ramp. 

More and more, The Last Drop feels like home, though going to the basement or the upstairs office still eludes you. It’s not that you can’t. It’s more that you’re worried that you’ll have to ask for help to get you back on the ground floor should you get stuck in either place. But, there’s never really been any reason for you to visit either floor, so you’re content to stay in the main bar area, occasionally ducking into the back room when the crowd gets a little too loud.

It’s on one such trip to the storage room that Silco finds you, huddled on the floor, your cane propped up next to you. Your knees are pulled up to your chest and your palms pressed flat against your ears, trying in vain to drown out the sounds of the bar. You had made the mistake of visiting during peak hours and didn’t have the energy to go all the way back home. You thought you could power through it until the customers dwindled, but it became too much. So, you retreated to the back room, holding back tears.

“We have one more!” Silco calls over his shoulder as he opens the door, talking to Vander who tends the bar. “After this, we’ll need to get more.”

He turns over his shoulder to see you on the floor. Immediately, his voice lowers and he crouches down to get eye level, your name a reassuring coo on his throat.

“Hey… are you okay?”

You shake your head, eyes squeezed shut.

“Okay, just… give me a second.”

You hear him pick up a crate of bottles. The door swings open, letting in the raucous noise from outside. You let out a whimper as the door swings closed. After a few tense minutes, the door opens again and you hear footsteps approaching you.

“Hey, I’m back,” Silco coos. There’s shuffling as he moves to sit next to you. “What do you need?”

It’s a sentence you practically trained him to ask. With his tendency to charge forward offering the help he thinks you need, you managed to finally get him to learn to ask you first. 

It’s a small gesture, but at this moment, it’s everything.

“I need…” Your breath is shaky, your eyes holding back tears. “I need quiet. And— And it’s too far to walk home.”

Silco shifts, moving to crouch in front of you, hands on either of your shoulders. He squeezes them and you look up to see a tender expression on his face. Not pity or condescension. Concern. Sincere, genuine concern.

“It’s much quieter upstairs in the office,” he offers. “Do you think you can make it?”

Your lips tighten. It’s hard to think with so much noise; you can barely hear your own thoughts. It doesn’t help that you can feel a flare up coming on, pain shooting through your legs.

“I… I don’t know.”

You watch Silco chew on the inside of his mouth, thinking. 

“I could… carry you.”

You shoot a look at him, equal parts indignation and humiliation.

“I know, I know. It’s not ideal.” He looks around the storage room as if he’ll find an alternative answer. “But the sooner we get you out of here, the sooner you can feel better.”

You bite down on your bottom lip, wrestling internally. The sting behind your eyes is threatening to push past your defenses. Finally, wordlessly, you nod.

“Okay,” he says, tone firm. 

His ocean green eyes dart around your body, trying to figure out how best to pick you up that keeps your dignity intact. But before he can reach a decision, you’re wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him to yourself, holding him in a tight embrace.

“Oh! Hey…” He melts into the hug, bringing both arms around your back, squeezing you gently. “It’s okay.” He rubs your back with one hand, palm warm against your shirt. “It’s okay. We all need help sometimes.”

“I did too much today,” you say into the crook of his neck, tears escaping your eyes. “I should’ve stayed home.”

“Shhhh…” he shushes, shifting his arms as he slowly rises to his feet, bringing you along. 

You manage to get to your feet, but your legs feel wobbly and unstable under your weight.

“Here, let me…” Silco bends down and hangs your cane over the crook of his elbow before bringing one arm behind your knees. “On three. One… two… three.”

You lift your legs up and he scoops you up in his arms, straightening to a stand. Instinctively, you wrap both your arms around his neck, nuzzling your face into his shoulder.

“I got you,” he coos. “I’ve got you.” He takes one final look around the room before pushing the door open with his back. “We’ll go behind the bar; no one will even know.”

You nod, tears flowing in earnest now to stain Silco’s shirt.

You press one ear to the crook of his neck, trying to dampen the loud voices of the bar patrons. At that, Silco walks a little faster, making his way up the staircase. In his haste, he drops your cane on the landing.

“Shit! Sorry, I’ll go back for it,” he says, continuing forward.

After opening the door and carefully depositing you onto the plush red cushions of the couch, he darts out the door, returning with your cane in hand. He sets it on the coffee table in front of you before sitting next to you.

“There.” He rubs your hip as you lay on your side. “Is that better?”

You nod, reorienting yourself to rest your head on his lap. Silco settles on the couch, bringing one hand to your head, smoothing down your hair in soft reassuring strokes. His other hand grazes your cheek, wiping away your tears.

It’s finally quiet.

Your legs still ache, but it’s not as bad as it was before. You can feel the rise and fall of Silco’s chest against your back, his breathing a calming rhythm.

“Thank you, Silco,” you whisper.

“Of course,” he whispers back.

After a moment, he shifts, bending down to bring his lips to your temple. You smile at the touch, feeling warmth settle behind your ribs.

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off. “I’ve never heard you apologize before and I don’t want to hear it now.”

The firmness in his voice has you turning your face to look up at him. There’s a resoluteness in his expression, a confidence you typically see reserved for Children of Zaun meetings. He looks off into the distance, as if seeing something that’s not there. A vision. A promise.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he continues. His chin dips and his ocean green eyes find yours. His eyebrows lift and his lips curl into a soft smile, full of pride and affection. “You’re perfect.”

Taglist: @averagecrastinator @mazikomo @writingmysanity @insult-2-injury @ariaud @jennrosefx @ins0mniac-whack @steponmesilco  @sherwood-forests @leave-me-alone-silco @givemebeansnow @aeryntheofficial @dreamyonahill @lostbunn @whatisafandom @violet-19999 @juicboxd @sageandberries-png @sirenofzaun @blissfulip @mutedwordz @fly-like-egyptian-musk @jennithejester @mrsdelirium @witheringblooddemon

Join my taglist!

[beefscrap]

!!! DESIGN A STORY CHARACTER CONTEST !!!

Finally, it’s here! To celebrate 400 PLUS followers now, I’m hosting a WOF design challenge/contest! Your mission is to design a character that’s going to appear in TBoFS 2. The character is already decided, and you’ll be given information/prompts to design them. First place winner will have their design be the official design for the character, and anyone who doesn’t win can keep theirs! So keep in mind that if you win, I’ll be the ‘owner’ of your design and the character.

!!! GENERAL INFO !!!

- 1ST PLACE PRIZE: Your design will be the official design in the story! You also get a free dumb doodle from me of any OC (or character) you want.

- 2ND PLACE + 3RD PLACE: You’ll each receive a doodle, as well as being featured as winners when they’re announced! Of course!

- Anyone else who submits a design will get honorable mentions, and your design will be linked when winners are announced.

- Very little artistic bias is involved. Not being able to ‘draw well’ isn’t an issue, as long as you have good ideas and a good imagination!

- DESIGNS ARE DUE BY [ Friday, December 20th ] !!! I’ll have results by December 25th!

- I’ll personally be picking the top 3, then put a poll up that lasts for 1 DAY. This will determine the winners.

- TO SUBMIT YOUR DESIGN: Either tag me in a post or send in my asks inbox! I will be reblogging/posting with the hashtag #TBOFS2DESIGNCHALLENGE (and you can post with the tag too ofc!)

- Please ask questions if you have them!

!!! RULES !!!

- I have faith in people but PLEASE BE NICE! I don’t want fighting for any reason, I don’t want unwanted criticism of people’s designs, etc. I want this to be enjoyable for EVERYONE, even if you don’t win!

- You may only submit ONE DESIGN! If there’s some sort of issue where you need to resubmit, just let me know!

- Another reminder that the first place winner gives me ownership of the design, and I’ll put them up on my Toyhouse folder. Please don’t submit to win if you’re uncomfortable with this!

- I have faith about this too, but just in case: don’t submit inappropriate art. If I find out you draw gross feral art/sexualize dragons I won’t accept your design and you’re blocked.

- Similarly, no design you submit should be offensive or hateful in any way.

!!! DESIGN INFO !!! finally the fun stuff

- The character is a PURE NIGHTWING.

- I prefer to stick to MOSTLY canon color choices, but some deviation from this is welcome! Ask if you aren’t sure, but feel free to look at the character designs in my TBoFS Toyhouse folder. That should give a good idea.

- Adding accessories and even little headcanons for the character are fully welcomed and encouraged (keeping in mind that some headcanons may not end up to be true, lol!)

- Name ideas are welcome, too!

- YOUR GENERAL PROMPT IS: a snobby, intelligent, standoffish Nightwing who does not believe in animus magic as it exists.

- Keeping my prompt pretty vague so you can have fun! The best designs (to me) are ones that’re recognizable. Not necessarily jam packed with accessories and colors and stuff… just recognizable.

- Your designs may be sketched, lined, etc, but my main requirements are that it’s at least a fullbody + colored. You CAN add more visuals to the design if you want (front face view, mouth view, paws, wing view, etc etc). It does NOT have to be digital!

Woo hoo! Have fun and thank you again for your support!

[pigswithwings]

the angel staying over at my house asked for a nightlight in their room and i told them buddy, don't you produce your own light? what're you gonna do with more? and they said they wanted to see why people like it so much. and also that the nightlight i own is blue and they've been trying to understand color. anyways i think they've stared at it for an hour now

[frosteee-variation]

Posting here as well because why not!! Shout out to (and rest in terror 😔) Alan Curupen of Providence Al Dente. Your soul may have overflowed on lore but.

actually no yeah we don't know what terror a. ball's deal is yet so. this may or may not go poorly for us. but at least we're plot-relevant /lh

( honestly I don't know what the quality's going to be like because mspaint but uhm. I miss you alan :[ )

[potato-jem]

it’s just

me, my body and the ceiling fan.

me, my body and the november heat.

me, my body and the silent flashes of lightning.

me, my body and day old bedsheets.

me, my body and the dull ache at the bottom of my spine

me, my body and the blankets they’re both trapped in.

me, my body and the dark.

it’s just me and my body

alone in a room together,

wondering if they’ll ever get along.

[vi-enti]

how to be yourself (who is that, anyways?)

He didn’t deserve an ending just yet. There was too much to fix. / Nobody was healed and only more wounded were going to join them, but… they’d heal. They’d do it together. / Would peace be an option for all of them? / Nothing was right. / "We can make things right."

A story of survival after death, and how to forge something new after having destroyed the world. Where every awakening is a disaster waiting to happen, but not an irreparable one. Unlikely friendships, growing bonds, and some semblance of happiness; if they can bring themselves to believe they deserve it, anyways.

tldr; the remnants of despair becoming beacons of hope again, not for society, but for themselves.

how to be yourself (who is that, anyways?) - Chapter 1 - guravity - Dangan Ronpa Series [Archive of Our Own]

[candyheartedchy]

I keep thinking about that scene from AT and how it fits them lol

[spark-ocblog]

"Want me to keep your secret?" The tone felt almost sing-song in its playful hostility, though the words were spoken in a level, cool voice. It felt like a whisper from behind. A shiver ran along William's skin in anticipation of their breath, but the sensation never came— the sound lacked the warmth or moisture that he braced himself for, and the air remained still.

[Image ID in alt text]

A 12+ hour drawing that I was inspired to create for the bweirdOCtober event! (Specific OC-tober prompt responses, and how they relate to the drawing in question, under the cut!)

⭐09 - Relationships: This work in particular represents Aine and William's relationship to one another when they first interact. After Aine uncovers William's violent criminal history, he blackmails William into doing his dirty work, to give himself a political edge and take care of some injustices outside the gaze of the law. And to ease his restless boredom. William in turn grows increasingly devoted to him, as he's never been trusted and valued by anyone as much as this before. It's mostly amusing to me that between the young prince and the experienced assassin, it's the murderer who's on the backfoot. The very first sentence of the quote listed above is a link to the first 1.8k words I've written about it!

🟡 02 - New OC: The ominously looming blonde figure here is Aine, @glitterkeecher's character! He's a new addition as of last year (WOW. how the time flies), and in this particular setting, he's a prince who is very skilled at digging up information he's not supposed to have. He's cunning, and smart, and closed-off emotionally, but ultimately he just wants someone who he can actually trust.

🟡 07 - Likes: Aine likes reliable pawns to do his bidding, entertaining developments, and small emotional vulnerabilities and interpersonal connection-- with the safety buffer of blackmail and control to keep himself safe. According to his creator: "He makes situations worse recreationally." William likes attention, feeling vulnerable, being known, and being accepted for who he is, in spite of his rather unnecessarily gruesome past. So, when a mysterious voice singles him out and blackmails him into doing their bidding, he is a little bit exhilarated beneath all the fear. In the end, what could feel safer than someone who holds a knife to your back, but refuses to use it?

🟡 08 - Dislikes: Aine dislikes feeling bored, alone, unengaged, or helpless. He dislikes it when he doesn't have all the information that he wants, and he especially dislikes feeling cornered or without options. To counter this, he will do what it takes to create and secure opportunities wherever he can. William dislikes himself, his past, and the choices he's made to preserve his own life. He is plagued by his own guilt and yearns to make up for it where he can. He also dislikes being alone.

🟡 10 - Personality: Aine ultimately personifies himself as much more aggressive, malicious, sinister, knowledgeable, or frightening than he actually is. He wants to appear in control of his situation at all times, and keep any weaknesses or gaps in his confidence under wraps. William actually vacillates between two very different personalities: Laverne, a demure, affectionate, devoted type; and Orion, his criminal alias, who behaves more hardened, aggressive, violent, and guilt-ridden.

and finally, the prompt for today:

🟡 20 - Community (Day 1): For the first community day, I'll give a shout-out to @glitterkeecher, Aine's owner, who provided feedback and suggestions for the above drawing, and helped write the original draft of the linked chapter! You can find glitterkeecher's blorbotag for Aine (#🐏) here, for William (#❤) here, and for Aine and William's (eventual) relationship dynamics (#❤🐏) here!

[shinyzango]

Quite the first impression :V

Anyways figured out how to draw Monochrome Gold yaay.

[wrathevil]

video game concept about a former military robot repurposed to grow crops and them learning how to be human. also there's a butch lesbian in here. in case you wanted to know

[ask-eden]

Alaxia begins laughing hysterically, but still trying to continue speaking Alaxia: That just HAhah.,.,. THAT JUST AHHAHAAa.a.. HAPPENss..S OMETIME AHAHAHAHAhAAA Oh my GOD Alaxia covers his mouth with both hands to try and avoid laughing further His earlier painful outburst, seems to have calmed down For now. It still...... lingers. Deep within the back of his head, feeling like claws raking the back of his skull The alcohol barely masks the thing inside, desperately trying to rip its way out. Yet, Alaxia remains calm. Happy even. He begins to purr and leans back into his arms. Alaxia: I'M fINe... Heeeheeee~ I'M FINE IM FINE... Alaxia begins to laugh to himself under his breath a bit, covering his mouth once more to try and hide that he's giggling. Much how like a child would hide their laughter. He is failing terribly -- -- -- [ Alaxia is now Intoxicated ] [ Anon ] [ Background by @/sinnohsiblings ] Mod note: This doesn't effect ongoing interactions or anything previously set up. If a interaction set up from before continues, he will not be drunk. This is for most things going forward.

[b0yth1ng]

guys i SWEAR i drew this as a joke. its for the BIT okay. guys PLEASE i promise im normal about this guy!!!!

im also blaming @capt-spacebussy for this. this isnt my fault.

[lookwhatyoudidithasanxiety]

(OK, so I have this headcanon for TSaMS [like the actual canon show-] that KillCode prefers the organs of a kill rather than the flesh [he is a distinguished lad. A gentleman. A fine boi. Ignoring the fact that he's killed people-] While BloodMoon, on the other hand, just goes for the parts that have the most meat/blood [heart, muscles, etc] and aren't picky about it.)

(I was wondering if KC, Bloody and Harvest have any favorite parts of a kill?)

(And by extension, what are the favorite foods of the animatronics? If they have any.)

-Crumpet

//You know what, I love that idea! I honestly haven't really thought about it? But I would say that based on the fact that the twins can mostly survive off of bloodbags, that they definitely do prefer blood/blood-rich meats (for instance, if they were to go to a grocery store, they'd probably pick out raw steaks). It isn't a food, but Bloody likes to save the bones and antlers (if they take down a deer) to gnaw on.

As for everyone else:

Solar: he never ate in his own dimension because he didn't have the ability at the time (this is where the blog slightly differs from the story). But now that Moon's helped him upgrade? How did he ever not eat?? He has a few samefoods he rotates between, it's hard to get him to try something outside of his comfort zone. But he really likes pasta. Mac and cheese? Yes. Spaghtetti? Yes. Chicken alfredo? It's mac and cheese and spaghtett in one, yes. If not pasta, he likes to bake. He's really good at making cookies!

Lunar: Lunar's the one who got Solar hooked on mac and cheese because that's his favorite food! Especially the shell kind. Regular noodles are ok, but they aren't as good as shells. (Velveeta for the win). If not mac and cheese, his second favorite is hot dogs. Or hot dogs in mac and cheese! And Solar's cookies are always the best! Especially the chocolate chip ones.

Sun: Sun likes grilled chicken. Don't ask him why, but it's really versatile! Chicken alfredo? Grilled chicken salad? Chicken sandwich? He could eat chicken for days. He also likes to bake and can make a mean souffle.

Moon: Moon doesn't tend to eat much at all, he just doesn't see the need. But every so often, he likes to drink coffee (black, the monster). An occasional glass of wine isn't bad, either.

Bloody: When he isn't eating meat or drinking blood, he likes chicken nuggets. Especially the dinosaur ones. He likes to pretend he's a vicious predator

Harvest: Harvest doesn't really eat too often either. But his guilty pleasure? Chocolate ice cream.

Kill Code: He is a refined gentleman, you're right! He doesn't need to eat anything besides his hunts, no. Certainly not- Steak. He likes steak. Not even rare, he likes it medium-well. And served alongside a fresh salad? 100/10

Eclipse: Eclipse doesn't eat. Gods, that's dumb. It's not like it does his body any good. Why would you even ask? Chocolate cake. Birthday cake. Confetti cake. Angel food cake. Vanilla cake. Devil's food cake. He's got a sweet tooth.

And I know no one asked, BUT

Poppy: They surprisingly really like spicy food, especially ghost pepper chips. ("No, bumblebee. Believe me, you won't like these. No don't take control of the body-! Oh no...")

Midnight: Doesn't eat

[jacoblovesyou]

everyone please Consider🩸

[theshadowrealmitself]

Just had a scare rn where my lil sister texted me that she had been in a car accident and then I heard nothing else because her phone died (she’s okay, had a little bit of back pain so she went to urgent care who gave her the okay, she’s now safely at home)

So just begging y’all who consistently keep their phones on low battery to please please charge them, don’t end up scaring your loved ones like that

[dandyshucks-moving]

proship ppl don't always like the shit you mentioned. You meant comship lol.

This is the only thing I'm ever going to answer or say about any of this subject on here. This blog is literally just a very silly and self indulgent space where I'm having fun, and I despise this subject in its entirety. The only reason I am answering this is to have something to point to in case it ever comes up again so I don't have to say anything further.

I could not give less of a hoot about the label somebody uses. If you think fiction has no affect on reality, and/or if you think creating (in any form) jerk-off material about kids is even remotely okay or normal, then I need you to leave and block me. Doesn't matter what label you use - just block me so I do not interact with you. I'm not interested in arguing; at the end of the day, underage and incest fiction make me incredibly uncomfortable, and that's reason enough to avoid it.

The reason I specified any label at all in my pinned post is because I think sometimes people skim through pinned posts to find that word specifically so they know if somebody is safe to follow or not. I included it to be easily visible so people will know I'm safe to follow. I'll probably take it out honestly at this point to avoid ... [gestures at this ask] happening again, and if someone can't be bothered to read through the post and see my clearly laid out stance, then that's on them.