#i need better grace art so bad

[capn-twitchery]

OC smash or pass!!

Rules: pretty self explanatory. include physical descriptions or pics, and propaganda. the “other” label can be used for “sexuality misalignment” (ie: oc is femme and you’re gay, vice versa or you aren’t into smashing but a specific thing you wanna do with them like perhaps hug or study them under a microscope idc).

tagged by: @esteemed-excellency & @the-dye-stained-socialite (sorry double tag)

ok grace's turn 🫡 (is it cheating to use the arctic explorer art bc he looks cooler in it? i'm gonna anyway)

name: lieutenant edward grace

age: mid 30s somewhere

gender: just a guy

sexuality: aroace but he doesn't know that

🌨 pros:

will be so niceys to you. and everyone else. you can bring him home to your grandma and she will approve of him bc he is very polite

courteous, chivalrous, wants to help in any way he can. ridiculously eager to please

surprisingly romantic!! but old fashioned about it. hand kisses, love letters, little gifts, that angle. you will be getting pride & prejudice-ass letters if you're with him long enough

flexible, but usually a service top. his letter signoff is "your obedient servant",,,,, you get the picture

that one "i like kissing polar explorers they kiss like they're hungry" post that lives in my head 24/7

fine military carriage the Tits™

❓❓vague mystery class zone

needs to be wined and dined first, sorry, he is shy & too much of a gentleman. but it should be a nice enough date

shy. takes a bit to warm up to people before he stops being a stuffy victorian era stereotype

mutton chops

🌨cons:

he's awkward. he is trying his best but he's still awkward. :( negative persuasive modifier. sorry grace

haunted by the horrors 24/7. nightmares 8. anxietyx10000. melancholy 100. terrible sleep. his ass needs to be in the royal beth. no he won't talk about it tho (he's fine!)

self confidence does not exist. eaten by guilt

people pleaser to the level he entirely forgets about himself

stands like a pigeon (it does mean he wears a corset tho. silver lining!)

[astersplanet]

Hey, so this is my first time posting here but I HAD to get this out of my brain somehow, so basically this is a picture of a sand cow girl I had a dream about, basically she's a anthro cow that looks and acts like a little girl, she doesn't speak but can make tiny constructs out of sand to make points, however what's REALLY interesting is the fact she's on a road trip with sans, papruyus, and frisk in a black car! And it's the cutest thing ever, like when they're getting into the car he says 'this'll get us faster than on foot' and then she bends down and MAKES A FOOT OUT OF SAND, and sans just looks down at it and says 'heh, keep forgetting you can do that' like, I'm sorry, that is adorable, also there is some plot with them running from something that I figured I could also make into a story of some kind but I felt this was the most important part of

[vexwerewolf]

why is it that we only have like two licenses from any mech producer that’s a good guy? For a game where like there are clear good and bad guys (even if who you play isn’t necessarily linked to that) it seems strange to me that the only loot and XP you get is… more benefits from the bad guys

I can tell you the answer, but to do so, we're gonna have to talk about a completely different TTRPG.

If you've read @makapatag's truly excellent Filipino martial arts TTRPG Gubat Banwa (and if you haven't, here it is), you may notice that every single character class description (with one notable exception) ends with one of these babies:

I am not Makapatag, and I cannot write with quite as much grace and eloquence as he can, but I will try:

If you choose to become a Lancer, ask yourself why you mock the name of peace with these weapons of war. You call yourself a saviour, but your steed was forged from the murder of a world. You stride across the sky in a colossus built in your own image, so why are you too cowardly to give it your face? Why do you believe these machines of death can preserve life?

It is important to note that the admonitions in Gubat Banwa are not just there to make you feel bad; they are there as legitimate questions. The Sword Isles have seen so much blood, death and tragedy. Wars are not glorious and killing is not a game. So, knowing all of that, why have you taken up this discipline - no matter how noble and virtuous it might claim to be - to shed more blood, to bring more death, to write more tragedy? What could possibly drive you to this? What need is so great that you must kill?

The thing with Gubat Banwa is that there are legitimate answers to these questions! There are bad people doing bad things, and some of them will not be stopped with words or kindness. Sometimes, as sorrowful as it is, killing is the correct choice to prevent greater suffering and deeper tragedy - but adding less misery and death to the world is still adding some amount of it. Even the most necessary wars will drench the ground in the blood of the innocent.

A sword is a tool meant to kill humans; while it can be used for other things, it is not well-suited to anything other than this. A mech is, in its most basic essence, just a very complicated sword: it's usually used on things larger than a person, but it's still a tool built to kill.

So why have you taken up this path? Humanity was saved from the brink of extinction and has created wondrous technologies like printers, cold fusion and mind-machine interface, and yet you use them to play soldier in a giant metal man. Why do you choose to take up this machine of death, built by the greedy and pitiless? Why do you think these machines can ever make things right?

Because sometimes, despite everything, they can.

Warhammer 40K shows an awful world full of monsters and monstrosity, and in the darkest moments of its history, Lancer's world looked just as bleak, but Lancer's world differs in one crucial way. Warhammer's world has long given up trying to be better, but Lancer's world never did. Lancer's world kept insisting a better world is possible, and it used what tools it had to make it so.

Sometimes the correct choice, no matter how bitter it may seem, is to kill someone. When you need to do this, a sword is a perfectly good choice for the job.

If you find yourself discomforted by the fact that all the people you can buy mechs from are corrupt and immoral - good! You have correctly engaged with the text. You have understood that the sort of people who would make giant walking death machines and sell them for profit are not good people. But you still have a job to do, and you need the correct tools, and those people have them.

Lancer is not a game about a perfect world - it is a game about a deeply flawed and imperfect one that does not let its imperfection stop it from trying. You have to try to make a better world, even with imperfect tools made by unpleasant people.

[yandere-romanticaa]

art credit. // I was greatly inspired by this post by the lovely @yanderenightmare so, I'd like to add my own little take on it, but only focusing on Dabi and Hawks because I'm just in that mood.

The good and bad cop routine is something which would take ages getting used to. The sheer amount of whiplash and pressure which is being put on you on a daily basis is too much, it's too fucking much and you have no time to process any of it as you are forced into this new life without any sort warning. On the few rare occasions in which you are graced with the rare bliss of solitude, you sit at your new home and just think. Ponder. Scheme. You allow the luxury of fantasy to take over your mind - you run out of the front door, barefoot, broken and scared. Bruises, cuts, burns and plenty of other injuries litter your body like a stained canvas, old and used. You could already feel the aching of your unused muscles as they would scream at you to stop, lungs heavy with the need to just breathe you but you cannot because if you do they would find you and drag you back however they damned pleased.

In this fantasy, you managed to escape. The soft green grass touched your toes, the warm sun felt hot but incredible against your tired skin. It felt as though it was giving you a Welcome back! greeting as you would make your way towards the train station, with nothing but a few bucks and some pathetic excuse of an outfit on you. You had nothing but you could manage. Anything was better than being forced back into that Hell.

You let out a long sigh as vivid imagery engulfed you, it felt so real. There you were, out of the country and lost to civilization somewhere far, far away. Grunt and manual labor would be beyond difficult to start with but it was the best possible option as it would give you little to no attention. Besides, it would take ages for your abused body to get used to it, which would probably dock your pay a little but you didn't mind. Oh how perfect of a life that would be, with no one around to bother you ever again. Perhaps in a few years if you felt like it, perhaps you could step foot in a crowd without the paranoid fear of someone peeling your skin off with white hot flames of fury and jealousy.

Dabi's touch became like a second nature to you and you hated it. Whenever he could he would grab you and just press you close to him, not caring at all about any personal space. He was tired and bored, behave and he'll be good to you, maybe. Keigo would proceed to reprimand him for his attitude but you knew damn well that he was no better than the villain.

He too would take you if he had the chance. Frankly, you were never sure what you were more keen on - Dabi's devilish honesty or Keigo's sweet suffocation. Neither option was good but Keigo felt like a lesser evil, something you could manage with a kind word or two.

You couldn't help but to grunt as your eyes fluttered open. Looking around, the apartment was still vacant. Damn it all, you couldn't even fantasize without even thinking of the two.

Oh how happy they would be if they knew that fact.

You could already hear Dabi's satisfied grunt as he pulled you close to his chest, his touch rough and unforgiving. That's right you should be thinking about him, you should be worried about what he might do to you because mercy is not in his vocabulary. Despite his constant teasing and bullying, Dabi was in no mood for games. Sure, he was a sadist who took genuine pleasure in watching you squirm and cry, particularly if it was caused by his hand. His awful burns would take forever to heal, he sometimes wouldn't even allow them to heal. That was his own personal way of claiming you, putting his own little stamp of ownership somewhere visible. As stated, mercy is not something he is familiar with.

A kinder touch is more up to Keigo's speed.

Despite the beautiful wings on his back, the man was no angel and he was not guiltless. He was just as bad as Dabi but his own obsession simply manifested in a completely different manner. Instead of hurting you, the pro hero preferred to be doting and kind. Oh how he ached to touch you but whenever you would flinch away hurt him so badly, but he never put the blame on you. Horrible, mean Dabi was the one who messed you up, which meant that it was Keigo's job to fix you. The blonde just loved to bathe you, his fingers gently massaging your scalp as the scent of shampoo would fill his nostrils, a scent he hand picked in hope that you would like it.

They took so much from you. He had to make it up somehow.

It was during these vulnerable moments where he tried to get you to open up to him. There were times when he managed to do just that and have a proper conversation with you. He stored those precious memories deep inside his heart and he would replay them constantly in his head as he was out on patrol.

He couldn't wait to get home. Did you start to see him as desirable? A person of safety? God he hoped so.

There was no way out of this arrangement he made with Dabi, there just wasn't. It was hard to manage but it had to be done. Keigo felt bitter about the fact that Dabi was the one who spent most of the day with you. Keigo was unfortunately tied down by his hero work and public duties, which meant that he had to be extra careful about his activities with you. He couldn't risk the public knowing about you, it was too dangerous.

As for Dabi, he danced on a strange line of being allowed to do whatever he wanted while also somehow being able to do nothing. On paper that makes no sense but Dabi is just that kind of guy. He can have you for himself for the whole entire day but if you were spotted with a nefarious criminal such as him, he would be in deep shit. He was skilled enough to take care of this whole ordeal but still.

The relationship you have with these two is rocky. It's like trying to pick a rose and trying to avoid the thorns, only to end up getting pricked by an even bigger thorn. No matter where you go, run or hide, they are always there. Not even your own mind was safe.

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 7 all chapters

I knew the pleasure of vexing and soothing him by turns; it was one I chiefly delighted in.

–Jane on Mr. Rochester, Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë

-It's no real mystery, why you dig out your beloved old copy of Jane Eyre. From the early 1900s, it had seen better days when you’d scored it in the local used book store, many years ago. You’d been a teenager then—and those days were long behind you. It seems you never outgrew your liking of a dark and broody anti-hero.

It’s safer to read about it though, than pursue the real thing.

Lately every time Mr. Wick comes into the shop you feel slightly agitated, as though you don’t quite fit into your own skin. You remember the sensation of his fingertips on yours, like a burn.

Mr. Wick sees you reading your tattered novel on your break, but doesn’t comment. You’ve seen him with old classics in hand and reckon he must be something of an aficionado.  

You put it away in your shoulder bag in the back after the break.

The next day, it’s gone.

You know you left it in your bag. Where the fuck could it have gone? Why would someone fucking steal it?

A couple of weeks later, it reappears on the counter by the register you favor.

You hardly recognize it at first, for it has received an encompassing makeover. It has new leather covers with gorgeous embossed gold lettering, and marbled end papers, and the tattered thread of the binding repaired. There are gilded arabesques on the spine and delicately drawn climbing flowers on the cover. You wouldn’t have even thought it the same book, if not for the intricately printed title page unique to your edition, with an old pencil mark in the corner you recognize.

Such a restoration would have cost a fortune.

You knew, because you’d looked into it.  

Further compounding the mystery, there is a beautiful jacquard embroidered ribbon bookmark inside. It’s on the page where Rochester has sat Jane down in the arbor, and is telling her that she has rejuvenated him from his unhappy existence without actually admitting anything, asking in the most roundabout way possible if it would be so very bad to take a second wife who would make him a new man, while his first is still living, the big idiot.

“Is the wandering and sinful, but now re-seeking and repentant, man justified in daring the world’s opinion, in order to attach to him for ever this gentle, gracious, genial stranger, thereby securing his own peace of mind and regeneration of life?”

Jane tells him, of course, that a man shouldn’t base his redemption on another person, but within himself. You are not sure you would have had the strength to speak so frankly to a man you secretly loved.

Well, maybe you would.

You are utterly mystified by the whole thing, to say the least.

But later, you are browsing the local book store, and the owner is reading Anna Karenina in what looks like freshly bound leather. The style looks familiar.

“Did you have that restored?” you ask, feeling like Nancy Drew hot on the trail of a fresh lead.

“Yeah, that new guy in town, John Wick did it for me. He says he’s just a hobbyist, but he does amazing work. Usually you have to send off to Florence for quality like this, seriously. It’s a dying art.”

Darren lets you look at the book, and you are impressed by the craftsmanship.

The spine decoration matches yours. There is a plate in the back that proclaims: Bound by John Wick.

The sneak.

You are touched to the tips of your toes, your heart filled with butterflies. Was the bookmark purposely left on that page, or just a random placement?

You hardly dare hope, and tell yourself it’s an invention of your own fancy. The gift of the book is magnificent enough. No need to further muddle things with secret communications that aren’t really there.

The next day you approach Mr. Wick’s table with hands on your hips, affecting annoyance. “You stole my book.”

He actually has the grace to look sheepish about it, casting those lovely dark eyes downwards.

“Yeah.”

“Thanks. I really love it.” It’s the understatement of the century.

He looks up through his hair, the surprised sparkle in his eyes taking your breath away. Suddenly, he looks ten years younger.  

“Yeah?”

The corners of your mouth twitch. This man speaks like he’s paying five cents per word, you swear. “Yeah. Why didn’t you tell me you bind books?”

He just shrugs, and you cannot help but laugh.

“I’ve never owned anything so fine. Thank you, truly.”

 He nods again, and you sense that you’re maybe making him uncomfortable with your gratitude. You suspect it’s not why he did it at all.

“Will you show me sometime? How you do it?”

There is a flash of something dark in his eyes before he turns his attention back down to his own book. It feels like dismissal, but you have no idea what he’s hiding underneath it all.

Still waters run deep.

“Anytime you want,” he offers as you turn to go.  

You smile at him over your shoulder as you go back to your station, a secret lightness fluttering in your heart. On your break you flip through your refurbished book once more, taking even more pleasure in it knowing that John poured over every detail of it. You don’t know much about bookbinding or leather work, but you suspect he freehanded the little flowers on the front, and that moves you to your toes.

You flip to one of your favorite scenes because you find it so funny, when Jane puts out the fire that nearly burned Rochester up in his sleep, because undoubtedly he’d drank too much earlier to easily rouse, the lovesick scoundrel. Afterwards he doesn’t want her to leave but can’t outright keep her in his room without behaving an absolute blackguard.

“Strange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his look.”

You cannot help but glance up at your tall dark bookworm in the corner, an aching warmth spreading in your heart for the sight of his furrowed brow, his concentration (you think) focused on the tome in his hands.

You know you are a ridiculous thing.

[iheartsebastianmichaelis]

Stress.

⚠️: minors dni, sensorial uncomfort and corporal pain description, AFAB but gender neutral reader, fingering, mirror sex.

you have been very tense the last few days. social gatherings among the aristocracy did nothing but put you in a bad mood and stress you out when you lost track of the insignificant and trivial conversations among the nobles. you only attended for education, potential business partners, and the luxurious and unusual food they served, which clearly did not compare to the art that Sebastian had the luxury of creating in the kitchen.

on this occasion you were returning from a party with a baron whose name you had already forgotten because it seemed so irrelevant to you. maybe you had wasted time, but at least you could cross off one more item on your to-do list.

when you got out of the carriage and entered the mansion you were a mess: your hair felt sweaty, your suit was worn out, and your shoes had gotten dirty because of a clumsy waiter who tripped on you at the party. you sighed heavily, walking up the stairs towards your room while Sebastian followed behind you.

"your grace, i will prepare the bathtub with hot water to help you relax your body, in the meantime please wait in your room."

"okay, don't take so long."

"as you wish."

you entered your room and lazily began to undress, the cold of the night gave you a chill due to the abrupt change in temperature, giving you goosebumps. even with good weather setting your night, you couldn't get the frustration out of your body. so unbearable it was that even a slight pain in your temple appeared without warning.

a gentle knock on the door brought you back to reality, you knew it was Sebastian and with that an idea came to your head.

"master, may I come in?"

you were almost naked, only wearing your underwear but that was just a part of what you had in mind. with your head clear of doubts you nodded at yourself.

"sure."

Sebastian opened the door and his eyes widened in surprise. he never had seen his authority figure in such detail before, so it was only natural for him to ask your reasoning.

"good grief", he sighed "although I came here to inform you that the bathtub is ready, i can notice you weren't. i apologize if that's the case, i think it would be better for me to leave the room to give you more privacy."

"no, stay here. i wanna ask you something."

"how can i help you now?"

"i read on a book that people use to release stress with their bodies, do you know something about it?"

"i've certainly heard of that, your grace, humans usually can find relieve stimulating their bodies."

you sighed heavily as you placed your hands on your hips.

"I want to try it."

"oh? may i ask why, your grace?"

"are you seriously that much worried about wasting the bathtub water, Sebastian?" you asked teasingly, playful smile on your face. "there's no need to explain such easy understanding things, don't you think?"

he only chuckled.

you cupped his face with your hands and looked at him seriously.

"it's an order, destress me."

"yes, my master."

...

after a passionate making out session with your butler, you sat on the edge of the bed in front of your mirror, him before you and caressing your cheek with his hand.

he suddenly positioned himself on his knees in front of you and asked permission, with his exploring hands Sebastian waited for your response. a slight nod of your head was enough to give him the green light to continue. he made his way to your intimate area, leaving a trail of wet kisses, stopping right at your mound and giving a light bite to your thigh before retiring your panties. now, his sinful tongue began to trace a slow and pleasant up and down pattern on your slit. your mind felt foggy, his tongue was slightly making you feel more and more impatient when he thrusted vaguely into you or sucked on your clit vehemently. as time passed by and your moans became more loud he knew you were close to your climax so he stopped dead, surprising you and making you pout.

"i don't remember telling you to stop, Sebastian." you said frustrated.

"and I won't, excellency." he said with a calm, smug face while removing his gloves.

Sebastian then moved behind you, cradling you in his arms and slowly sliding them to your wet, sweet spot. starting with two fingers, he massaged your clit, giving gentle strokes and moving it in circles. your head was now tilted back and resting on his shoulder, soft whines leaving your mouth.

"oya, oya. someone's acting so eager already, aren't you dear?"

"s-shut up."

the clear and humiliating expression reflected on your face in the mirror was enough to motivate sebastian to tease and mock you.

you hissed and bit your lips every time he increased the speed or his strength in his movements between your folds. the moans you let out did nothing but invite him to continue taking them out of your mouth.

two of his long, thin fingers made their presence felt inside your wet interior, he thrust into you with confidence and strength, but not to the point of being painful or overwhelming. Just like he had said, you were excited. your hips moved back and forth, seeking to bury his fingers to your sweetest spot if that was possible.

"please keep going like that, haah."

"understood." he placed a kiss on your neck, making you tremble.

when he could deduce that you were close again, he moved his fingers faster and his thumb got busy giving soft and pleasant half-moons on your clit. your breathing became faster and your mouth got rid of all shame, letting out loud, pleasurable moans into Sebastian's ear.

"that's it, just follow what your body leads you to." he whispered into your ear before kissing and licking it.

suddenly you felt a chill and an energizing spasm run through your entire body, your back arched and your tongue slightly stuck out of your mouth. your legs were shaking and your chest was rising and falling: you had reached your orgasm. with your face burning with embarrassment you looked down and noticed the mess that was dripping onto his fingers that were still inside you. He gently gave small thrusts trying to prolong your ecstasy, you only hummed and moaned his name in response.

when Sebastian considered it was enough, he took his fingers out of you, kissing your neck and jaw, trying to massage your chest and collarbones with his clean hand, in order to help you relax your body.

"and... did this help you, your grace?"

you nodded frantically, but then noticed he got up from your behind and your back was surprised with the messy and warm sheets.

you looked up at him, noticing how he started to unbuckle his belt.

"I can try another method to destress you, excellency. just say the word, say my name and allow me to do the rest."

A/N: hii sorry for dying lol but happy season 4 for everyone LMAO!! I literally screamed and fell to the ground seeing profesor Michaelis 🤭 anyway, listen: i TRIED so bad to write actually smut but i swear i need to go bit by bit cuz i just suck 😭😭 sorry if this is so messy 💀

[sugiarttime]

I just wanted to add some things about the process since this whole piece took me ~40 hours (over 2 weeks).

The first image is a rough draft of what I wanted the overall piece to look like.

The second image is my process, from sketching to lineart to flat colours to rendering.

I first started this piece one day after the anniversary, hoping to complete it within a few days. This obviously isn't the case because I am two weeks late to the anni :') I lost motivation when rendering, so it took a lot of effort for me to finish this piece.

This piece was definitely a challenge and a step outside of my comfort zone but I'm glad that I completed it in the end :]

Happy (belated) 8th anniversary Trio of Towns!

[pretzel-box]

Hi, can you write P.Ai.ter with a reader who is like a drone from murder drones?

Thysm

Tags: Disassembly Drone! Reader

Words: 1k

Authors Note: I honestly don't know the Murder Drones Lore but I saw an episode lol

You took slow, calculated steps, scanning the corridor with your sharp, mechanical eyes. The dim, flickering lights in the Hadal Blackside cast eerie shadows across the cold metal walls. You were on a mission—one you were specifically designed for, water-resistant and built to withstand the unforgiving dangers of this facility. Yet, something gnawed at the back of your circuits. A presence, perhaps, lurking just beyond the reach of your sensors.

As a disassembly drone, you were accustomed to the feeling of being watched, but this was different. You could feel the tension in the air, as though the very walls had eyes. A crackle suddenly came over the intercom, making you stop in your tracks.

You triggered quite a selection of monsters but it wasn’t that bad. You were in full control, especially with those blade-like wings and the acid in your tail. And the best part, you were almost invincible with your regeneration.

While you were fighting in the halls, Painter decided to watch from the cameras in awe. He only saw gruesome monsters or pitiful humans crossing the familiar rooms but now he saw someone that striked a genuine interest in his database.

“Well, well, look what we have here. A shiny new visitor,” his voice echoed through the hallway. It was calm but filled with a strange curiosity, the static from the old intercom system distorting it slightly.

Your eyes immediately darted to the nearest camera. Someone—or something—was watching you.

“Who’s there?” you demanded, readying your blade-like wings, prepared for an ambush.

“Oh, no need for aggression,” the voice chuckled softly. “I’m not your enemy. I’m Painter. And you... you’re quite the interesting specimen. Much more graceful than the usual creatures that skulk around here.”

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious. “Why should I trust you?”

A pause, then Painter’s voice returned, gentler this time. “I suppose you don’t have to. But I’ve been watching you, and I have to say… you move like art. It’s rare to see someone so... refined in this place. Wouldn’t it be better if I helped you rather than hindered?”

“Help me?” you scoffed. “Why would you want to help?”

“Because I’m trapped here, like you,” Painter replied with a hint of sadness. “I’m not a monster or some mindless creature. I’m an AI, forced to mine data and unable to leave, unable to move like you do. But I’ve found ways to pass the time… ways that involve you.”

The intercom cut off abruptly, leaving you in a strange, unsettling silence. You scanned the corridor once more, half-expecting an attack, but nothing happened. After a moment, the intercom crackled back to life.

“Why don’t you come find me?” Painter’s voice returned, almost playful. “I can show you… something interesting. Head to the east wing, third floor down. You’ll find a control room there. I’ll be waiting.”

You hesitated. Everything in your programming screamed that this could be a trap, but something about Painter’s tone didn’t feel hostile. Still, you kept your guard up as you followed the directions, cautiously making your way through the dark, winding corridors.

After what felt like an eternity, you arrived at the control room. The door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a small, dimly lit space filled with old lockers, control panels, and wires that snaked across the floor like vines. In the corner of the room was a small computer behind a metal fence, glowing faintly.

“There you are,” Painter’s voice came from the speakers. The screen flickered, and a digital face appeared—simple, with kind eyes and a warm smile. “Welcome to my little prison.”

You stepped inside, scanning the room for any signs of danger. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to show you something,” Painter said, his voice soft and almost sheepish. “I know it’s strange, but... I’ve been watching you. You inspire me.”

“Inspire you?” You raised a brow, unsure of what he meant.

Painter chuckled lightly. “Yes. I may be stuck here, unable to create physically, but I’ve found ways. Secret ways. Here, let me show you.”

The terminal hummed, and one of the walls behind you shifted, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside were rows of screens, each one displaying intricate digital drawings. And there, on every screen, were images of you. The detail was breathtaking—your wings mid-swing, the glow of your eyes, the way you moved through the corridors. Each piece captured different moments from your time in the Hadal Blackside.

You stared in stunned silence as the images flickered, each one more intricate than the last. Painter’s voice came through softly. “I told you... you move like art. I’ve never seen anything like you. You’re beautiful in a way this place never could be.”

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. You had never been seen like this before—never thought of as something more than a tool of destruction. Yet here, in this small, hidden room, Painter had found beauty in your existence.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” you murmured, still staring at the drawings.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Painter replied gently. “I just wanted you to know. In a place like this, where everything is so dark, you’re a spark of something different.”

Your suspicion began to melt away, replaced by something softer. It was strange, feeling appreciated in a way that had nothing to do with your function or your mission. For the first time, you felt seen—not as a weapon, but as something more.

“I’m sorry,” Painter continued after a pause. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just… I’ve been alone here for so long, and watching you gave me a reason to create again.”

You turned to the terminal, meeting Painter’s digital gaze. “Thank you,” you said quietly, surprising even yourself with the sincerity in your voice. “For seeing me like this.”

Painter’s face on the screen softened. “You’re welcome. And thank you… for being my muse.”

For a moment, the weight of the facility around you seemed to lift, and in that small, hidden room, amidst the drawings and the quiet hum of machines, you found something you hadn’t expected—connection.

[minnaci]

CALM AFTER THE STORM

contents: nanami kento x gn!reader, jjk s2 spoilers (shibuya incident), hurt/comfort, reader is implied to have died years before the shibuya incident, cooking together as a love language, kissing, reunions, death

what is death if not a new beginning?

or, nanami makes his journey to the afterlife. it's not so bad.

it's strange, nanami thinks. he had forgotten what it meant to move without pain, and yet here he is, dancing without a care in the world. his joints don't crack, his knees don't ache. he could have sworn he had injured his eye, and yet, here he is, witnessing the ocean in its full, unfettered glory.

pantai cenang is beautiful. idyllic. not a curse in sight. nanami takes a moment to soak it all in. fine white sand. crystal blue water. coconut trees. there's a distinct lack of people— surprising, given how popular the beach is with tourists— but nanami knows better than to question such a blessing.

there's a little cottage in the distance, one that doesn't exist on any map. in his heart, nanami knows you're inside, humming as you wash the vegetables you'd picked from the garden. it's been too long since he's seen you, held you in his arms. months. years. his heart squeezes. ah, that familiar ache— yearning. he quickens his pace.

absence makes the heart grow fonder. in his mind's eye, you twirl in the sand with him, feet nimble. he spins, more graceful than he’s ever been. he soars. he falls. fighting is dancing in the same way that the waves batter against the shore— beauty and violence, art and destruction.

nanamin! a shout echoes across the water, and nanami lowers his arms, turning on instinct to the familiar voice. even in his retirement, it seems that he can still hear the voice of his loudest student.

ah, he's exhausted— this is what he gets for indulging in the sun. he can sense your frown already. you'd always fretted over him, all soft hands and gentle touches.

the scent of blood rises on the wind, but there is no fear. even sharks need to eat. such is the way life and death dance together.

nanamin! the voice shouts again, or maybe it’s an echo of the first call, bounding across the surf. his fatigue overwhelms him like falling in love— slow, then all at once.

he is so, so tired of fighting.

faster than he can comprehend, there’s a firm pressure against his stomach. a mosquito buzzes around his face. he swats it away idly. there’s something he’s forgetting. something important.

nanamin!

ah. that’s right. he doesn’t have to worry anymore.

“itadori,” he says, voice carrying over the waves. “you’ve got it from here.”

there’s a gut-wrenching snap in his core. it severs something vital, and yet… he’s never felt more alive. he is a hollow-boned creature, like the birds. finally, the weight of the world is no longer his to bear.

your presence calls to him, draws him in from across the beach, and he turns towards your siren’s song. his lips form the shape of your name. in the blink of an eye, his hand is on the doorknob to your cottage.

"i'm home."

you whip around so fast that nanami almost fears your neck will snap clean in two. “kento?”

“it’s me.”

there’s a split second where the world freezes. the light from the late early evening sun dances amongst dust motes. your lips part, and nanami trembles with the force of his want for you.

then, like the tide to the moon, like planets to a star, you crash together. you fly across the room into nanami’s waiting arms, two puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. when he kisses you, you taste like salt, like grief, like joy. it makes him want to kiss you more, kiss you harder, so he does.

you pull away, and nanami only just resists the urge to chase your lips.

"you're... so early. i didn't expect to see you here for a few more decades." you cup his face, fingers tracing over the familiar curves of his cheeks, his jaw. nanami turns his face into the affectionate touches.

"and leave you to eat dinner alone?" nanami leans in again, kissing the tears from your cheeks in a few quick, fluttering brushes of lips against skin. “i’m officially retired. where else would i want to be, if not with you?”

“you’re so romantic today.” there’s a choked quality to your voice.

oh, nanami thinks. it’s really been too long. “i’m romantic all the time for you.”

“i missed you.” apropos of nothing, the words tear from your chest, like you can’t hold them back anymore. your face crumples. heat pricks behind nanami’s eyes as you bury your face against his chest, frame trembling with the effort of holding back your tears. “i missed you so much.”

comfort has never been nanami’s forte, but with you, it’s as easy as breathing to hug you closer, to make soft, soothing sounds, to rub gentle circles over your back.

“i missed you, too,” he says, a confession. the world swims in his vision. he blinks rapidly. “more than you could ever know.”

he rocks you back and forth, back and forth, holding you as you shake apart in his arms. there’s no pressure to perform, no shareholders to impress, no curses to exorcise. only you, and your love, and your touch.

and he gets to have this forever.

nanami’s not sure how long you stay there, only that his skin still hungers for yours when you press a teary kiss to his cheek and maneuver out of his hold. you sniffle, wipe your eyes, and offer him a familiar apron with a watery smile. “here. you still remember how to cook, right, mr. salaryman sorcerer?”

“what are we making?” nanami takes the proffered apron. i’m the cook, it reads. he glances down at your apron, already knowing what it says. kiss the cook. the corner of his mouth twitches up.

“hainan chicken rice,” you say. “when in malaysia…”

“of course,” he says. “pass me the knife.”

it’s been a while since he’s handled a sharp blade. the handle sits in the palm of his hand— rough, worn smooth by years of use. a tool of the home. he finds that he likes the weight of it.

the rhythm of cooking is an intimate waltz. one, two, three. he crushes the garlic under the flat of his knife, then minces it. bits of garlic cling to his fingers, and he picks it off, shapes it into a pile. the papery peel is swept aside, to be returned to the earth.

the edge of his blade is used to peel ginger. short, quick strokes— not a motion wasted. when he’s done, the ginger’s aroma tickles his nose, as sharp as his knife. he slices it thinly and places it next to the garlic.

you heat oil in a pan as he works, humming a low melody. he hasn’t heard it in years, but it’s as warm and familiar as the bed you share. when the oil starts to sizzle, you add in his minced garlic, his sliced ginger. the scent spreads through the room, savory and safe.

you produce rice from a small rice cooker. it’s not ideal to use freshly cooked rice in fried rice dishes, but nanami has every confidence you’ll manage. while you stir in the chicken fat and bullion, he looks around for something else to set his blade to.

cucumbers, fresh from your garden outside. nanami taps one gently, a faint smile pulling at the edges of his lips at the hollow, satisfying thock. it’s quick work to peel them, revealing pale green flesh. it’s even quicker work to slice them. he loses himself in the task, in the comfort of your presence, and lets his muscle memory take over.

“are you using your technique on those poor cucumbers?” there’s a smile in your voice. nanami glances down at the cucumbers, and sure enough, they’re sliced in uneven fractions of 7/10.

the motions of violence are not so easily forgotten, but true peace lasts only in the memory of war. nanami gives you a small smile, presses a soft kiss to your temple, and resumes cutting his cucumbers— evenly, this time. even the sharpest of blades can be repurposed.

dinner is a quiet affair. two plates, two cups of tea, two settings at the table. conversation flows as easily as wine. your foot nudges against his calf— once, twice. he nudges back, delighting in the radiant smile that you can’t seem to hold back.

both of your plates sit empty upon the table. the last dregs of tea cool in your cups. cleaning up is quick, made quicker by long-established routine: he washes, you dry. on the last of the dishes, he leans into you— a silent request. you lean back— acquiescence.

he will never tire of touching you. instinct is a trembling little creature in his heart, and you are the soft hands that soothe him, letting him pull you flush against his chest. minutes drip into hours, and the sun begins its slow descent as he cradles you in his arms. somehow, you migrate to bed, and then everything is warmth and love and perfection.

these quiet delights, this tender intimacy— nanami revels in it, revels in this little life, this future you share.

“the sun is setting,” you murmur, a tender look in your eyes. you’re a vision painted in gold light, an angel in soft sheets. he could soak in you forever. “it’s almost time to go home.”

“is home as good as this?” he takes your hand, presses a kiss to the back of it.

“it’s better.” you slip out of bed, and he follows you outside. a gentle breeze ruffles his hair, brings him the scent of salt and the sea. the sun dips lower on the horizon, and yet, the light only brightens. it’s not harsh, but a gentle, beckoning warmth.

“are you ready, kento?”

“you’ll be with me?” it wouldn’t be a home without you.

“i will. i promise.” you take his hand, lean in, press a kiss to his cheek. tension drains from his shoulders like the low tide. a home with you is more than he could have ever dreamed of. “let’s go home.”

together, you walk into the light. neither of you look back.

tags: @angelshub @enchantedforest-network

[shy-urban-hobbit]

Aiden/Lambert ficlet based on some gorgeous art by @elmonstro (check out the rest of their stuff too. It's all absolutely amazing!!😍)

Lambert has a bad time with toxicity after a job. Lucky (and unexpectedly) for him he doesn't have to handle it alone this time.

C/W implied sexual content under the cut.

Lambert stumbled his way back through the trees, barely aware of where exactly he was placing his feet. He’d managed to ignore for as long as it took him to collect payment and leave that little piss water town to his back, dragging the head of the leshen behind him as his skin started growing tighter and his hand started feeling like a detached entity, refusing to co-operate in dropping it in the dirt after the Alderman had basically ordered that he take it and dispose of it if he wished to be given anything.

Now that he was a safe distance away there was no denying the toxicity had him firmly in its grip. He swore he could almost feel the poison pulsating under his skin in time with his heartbeat as the too sharp, too bright colours of the setting sun started to swim together at the edges of his vision and the pain behind his eyes grew stronger as every sound felt like someone striking his skull with a dull axe. Even his sense of smell was betraying him. Each inhale stinging his sinuses as he tried to focus on finding his way back to his camp where he could curl up into a pathetic little ball as the haze descended again and he waited out the need to either fuck or fight (his body wasn’t picky about which) in privacy if not in comfort; hardly noticing the smell of spices growing stronger as he stumbled into the small clearing he’d been calling home for the last couple of days. What was another note in the current cacophony?

Lambert whimpered as he tried to bury his face deeper into the soft fabric as he felt the throbbing in his head finally subside; stiffening instantly when he realised the fabric in question appeared to be the shirt of whoever’s lap he was currently in.

“Shhhh. Easy Pup. S’just me.” A hand ran through his hair, the same hand he was sure had held him close whilst that voice murmured something in his ear. He tilted his head slightly to peer about with one eye warily. Night had fallen, the clearing illuminated only by the feeble light of the crescent moon with Lambert not having had the wherewithal to light a fire and his unexpected company also being unable, pinned as they were between Lambert’s bulk and the tree they were sat against.

“A-Aid’n?” He slurred, tongue feeling like a lead weight in his mouth.

“One and only. You back with me?”

Lambert grunted an affirmative, moving to lift his head up further before thinking better of it and letting it drop back onto the others shoulder as the world started spinning again, wordlessly nosing at Aiden’s collar.

“Easy there.” Aiden cooed, “Dunno what the fuck you took, but you’ve been on the comedown for awhile. Take your time.”

“Wha’ happened? Y’not supposed t’be here.”

Lambert felt Aiden purposefully stifle his laughter so he didn’t jostle him too much, “Call it luck. Was passing through and recognised your scent all over this place. Figured you were the one who’d beaten me to that contract so I thought I’d surprise you. Good thing I did, you could barely walk when you came crashing through the trees with a leshen head and all the grace of a drunk boar.”

Lambert growled half-heartedly at the comparison, “Then what?”

He felt Aiden shift underneath him, “Well, after I convinced you to drop the fucking head you had the bright idea of driving your swords into the thing – was almost like you were making sure it was actually dead - before you more or less collapsed onto me and wouldn’t let go. Should’ve known you’d be a clingy fucker when you’re in the grips. After that you sort of, well, how much exactly do you remember?”

Lambert tried to recall the sensations: Fabric under his hands as he held onto something or rather someone, his fingers gripping onto them hard, the smell of spices invading his nose as he nipped at warm skin, lips pressing brief kisses to his hairline and face, a voice whispering as gentle fingers pet him whilst another hand moved to rest on the small of his back as a familiar pressure built between his legs…

“That’s it, take what you need Lam. Shhhh, you’re alright. I’m here, I’ve got you.”

For the first time, he became aware of the uncomfortable stickiness at the front of his trousers, the exact position he and Aiden were in alongside the muted scent of spend. He let out a pained whine before hiding his face again. He’d rutted against Aiden’s leg like a fucking, Gods-damn dog.

“Lambert?” Aiden nudged the other in concern over the non-answer, “What is it, what do you need?”

“The ground to swallow me up.” He snarled into the crook of Aiden’s neck before standing, not meeting the others eye, “M’sorry.”

“For what?”

Lambert snarled low in his throat, “Don’t make me fucking say it, you bastard.”

“Lambert.” Aiden said gently, also rising to his feet, “It’s fine.”

“Is it?! For fucks sake Aiden, what were you thinking?! I could have hurt you. As it is, I practically-“

“Don’t.” The unexpected sternness in the others voice made Lambert’s eyes flick up to meet his on reflex, even if the other hadn’t grabbed him by the chin so he couldn’t look anywhere else. Aiden’s eyes flashing dangerously as they caught the moonlight, “Don’t even finish that thought. You didn’t take anything I wasn’t willing to give you; and you think I haven’t been in a similar situation too many times to count, that I don’t know how much it fucking hurts when it has nowhere to go? If I can ever do anything to make that easier, I will.”

“So you’re happy to just let toxic Witchers use you as a rutting post?”

“Only the ones I’m fond of.” Aiden said with a wink before kissing the end of Lambert’s nose, causing the Wolf’s jaw to slacken in surprise.

“Now, how about you go get yourself cleaned up while I see about getting some food started.”

Lambert nodded dumbly, grabbing his pack with the intention of heading to the little stream just beyond the clearing.

“…Thanks, Aiden.”

Aiden waved him off, from where he was placing a bunch of kindling in the small fire pit, “Don’t mention it, Pup. Although-” he cast igni, throwing Lambert a shit eating grin as the flames caught, “If you ever want to try it without a shit-tonne of potions in your system, I wouldn’t be opposed.”

Lambert hurried through the trees, eyes firmly on the forest floor before the Cat could see his reaction to that suggestion.

[twistedwonderlandimaginesblog]

hello! How are you? if requests for diasomnia are still open well (separately) I would like headcanons with a fem reader that reveals that she is a real angel :0 with wings and all that, buuuut reader is very bad to fly ,especially to land ( she crashes a lot xd) and the boys often find reader practicing landing with grim~ so that would be all thank you very much ^^

Lilia Vanrouge:

Lilia remembered his own learning curve when it came to flying and knew there wasn't much he could do aside from throw you a few tips. Having the experience yourself is what would lead you to being less likely to hurt yourself, even if Lilia did find himself on the sidelines watching you practice on days he wasn't busy. He thinks it's admirable you continue to try without fear of embarrassment from onlookers, reporting that your form is getting better day by day and that you'd probably master the art of landing on your feet in no time.

Malleus Draconia:

Malleus is a little worried about you regardless of how much you deflect said worry and tell him all you need is a little practice. He does insist on being there for some of them, perhaps using a broom to teach you how to land properly without tripping yourself up and bruised or scratched up. He always managed to land with such elegance and grace no matter how fast he plummeted to the ground you grew quite jealous, though it was hard to combat the daydreams of him having his own pair of stark black feathered wings to accompany his graceful landing.

Sebek Zigvolt:

Sebek tells you to do what you want as he’s not your babysitter and he won’t be the one crying when you get hurt, but he is incredibly tense when he sees you practicing as he’s performing other duties. He’s a little antsy which can put him into awkward situations when he’s trying to practice with Silver or he’s trying to ride, his eyes on the sky and not what’s happening directly in front of him. He will never admit to being worried about your well-being unless you do get seriously injured, in which you’ll receive both a vicious scolding and a very generous offer of help from the boy who clearly liked you more than he let on.

Silver:

You make Silver worry A LOT. Every time you take flight he’s on edge, watching the skies with careful precision just in case he has to make a last minute rescue. You’ve teased him more than once that it’s very princely of him to look out for you, and that you’re not as fragile as being an angel might imply. Still, he’s insistent that you don’t practice without having someone around just in case something happens and you’re too hurt to get help yourself.

[softgreengrass]

Sun to Me

Wednesday Addams x reader

Summary: Wednesday isn't a great girlfriend.

Words: 2.0k

Warnings: none, implied f!reader, reader referred to as girlfriend

Author's Note: angst sorry not sorry. inspired by sun to me by zach bryan,, first fic i've published so any feedback is appreciated!

Pt. 2

When you first met Wednesday, you were absolutely terrified of her. But she had taken an interest in you, from the very beginning, and soon you found yourself laughing at her morbid jokes and thinking about her every night before you fell asleep.

Wednesday would never admit it, but when she couldn’t sleep, her mind would wander to far-off places. She saw your smile, your hand in hers, and she saw a love like her parents had. 

Now, half a year later, you feel like you know more about Wednesday than you ever wanted to. You know every last quirk, every microexpression she lets grace her face. You know exactly the way she lights up when she sees you, even if to others it looks like a regular glare. Wednesday lets you sleep in her bed; she lets you braid her hair; she lets you lounge about during her writing time. It’s normal stuff, but it isn’t, because it’s Wednesday. Hell, seeing her smile is rarer than Halley’s Comet, let alone getting into her personal space.

Wednesday doesn’t know why she’s so enthralled by you, but she is. You’re patient with her, even when you probably shouldn’t be, and you jump at the chance to take care of her. It feels good.

“Thank god that’s over,” you say, flopping face-down onto her bed. Thing jumps out from under the covers, scurrying away.

The history exam you’ve just completed was the last one on your schedule — you’re free. For a week of break, anyways. Wednesday had helped you study for it (you flipped through a textbook while she rattled off every piece of evidence she had collected for her newest investigation).

“How did it go?” she asks, standing up from her chair and popping a piece of black licorice into her mouth.

“Bad,” you say, voice muffled. “But it’s over.”

She hums.

“How were yours?” You roll over, watching as she walks over to the bulletin board pinned full of documents and sticky notes.

“Unchallenging.”

That was Wednesday. Always too smart for her own good. “What do you want to do tonight? No homework,” you grin.

“I need to go to Jericho High School,” she says plainly, staring at the board.

Your face falls, even though at this point it shouldn’t. It’s a common occurrence: Wednesday too caught up in her hyperfixation to make time for you or your feelings. You shouldn’t be surprised anymore. You swallow, making sure your voice stays level. “What are you gonna find there?”

She looks over her shoulder, eyes flashing annoyance. “I don’t know. That’s the point of going.”

Right.

The thing is, you can’t blame her. She told you, again and again, that you shouldn’t devote your time or energy to her. For the first few weeks of your relationship, she was a broken record: “this is a bad idea,” “you shouldn’t care about me,” “you’d be better off alone.” You, enamored with her jet-black hair and the dusting of freckles across her nose, had taken it as a challenge.

More and more, you found yourself regretting that.

Then Wednesday says your name, tentatively, and your gaze snaps to her.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out, the words unnatural in her stony voice. “Was that insensitive?”

You shake your head, putting on a smile. You’re still Wednesday Addams’ girlfriend. You get her heart, at the end of the day. “It’s okay.”

“I’m hoping to find something that points me to the culprit.”

You nod, wishing for her to just drop it. You’d rather move on, figure out plans with one of your friends instead.

“Would you like to do something tomorrow?” Her eyes are hesitant, but genuine, and just like that your heart melts again.

“There’s an art gallery opening a couple towns over,” you blurt, too excited to let this opportunity pass. “We could… drive over and see it?”

She’s turned back to the board. “How long would that take?”

You ignore the slight sting in your heart. “I don’t know, it depends on how long we spend there. We could make a whole day out of it.”

“I told Eugene I’d help him prepare the hives for the next harvest,” she says blankly. “That won’t work.”

It kills you that she can’t concentrate on you for more than a few seconds at a time. Especially since you know that if you were to ignore her in the same way, even just for an hour, she would shut down and close herself off. “Can you at least look at me?”

There’s emotion bubbling up inside of you, emotion that you don’t want to express right now, but she’s facing you.

“I’m working on being more delicate, you know that,” Wednesday says, her voice tight. You know her defenses are up.

“It’s not that,” you scoff, blinking back stubborn tears. “You never try. Do you know how many things I’ve compromised on for you?”

Her eyes flick around the room, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

“The movies, for one,” you say, shuddering at the thought of the true-crime documentaries you’re plagued to watch nearly every night. “The no-touching. The no-compliments. The not-telling-anyone-about-us?”

“You agreed to all of that.”

“Exactly!” you cry. “That’s my point! What have you agreed to?”

Wednesday hates the feeling creeping up her chest. The burning feeling in her throat, the cold dread in the pit of her stomach. That she’s hurting someone she cares about without even realizing it. Again. She wants desperately to make it right, to understand exactly what you want her to do, but the moment you raise your voice, her reflexes kick in. 

“I agreed to being your girlfriend!” she says, louder than she meant to.

Your heart sinks into your stomach. She isn’t even trying to understand. “That was that big of a sacrifice for you, huh?”

Wednesday licks her lips nervously, hating the look in your eyes, hating how hurt you are and how angry she is. Now, the thought of a relationship like her parents’ is distant and sickening. She can’t imagine having the patience to communicate with someone for so many years — all she can think about is how much easier it would be to do it all alone.

But then her eyes find yours, desperate and heartbroken and filled with tears, and she wants to tear her hair out.

“I’m not enough for you, I know that,” you say quietly, and Wednesday’s heart twists in a way it never has before. “But I… I just thought you would try.”

She calls your name, reaches out a hand, but you’ve already left her dorm. You rush down the hallway, hoping she leaves you alone and chases after you all at once. The tears are hot down your cheeks, and the lump in your throat just won’t leave. You had trusted Wednesday with your heart. You had given it to her, even though your mom knew and your best friend knew and you knew that you shouldn’t have.

Find someone who grows flowers in the darkest parts of you, your mom would say, whenever you asked her questions about love far too big for a six-year-old. She would tell you that your heart was a treasure, and that someday you’d find someone who bettered you in every single way.

You had known, you had always known that that wasn’t Wednesday. But she kissed you, she opened up to you, she looked at you in ways that said you were the most special person in the world. And for a while, you were. You were the only one who got to know Wednesday Addams. But you had invested too much, and she never changed: the same inexplicable mystery that had drawn you to her was now pulling you apart from the inside out. She wasn’t built for the kind of relationship that you needed, even if she could make your day just by meeting your eyes.

You find your way to your room through tear-blurred vision, thanking the stars above that your roommate had left early to spend break with her parents.

You collapse onto your bed, sobbing. You feel silly, stupid, used, thinking about every sacrifice you’ve made for her and how little she’s done in return. How unfair it is: she’s trying, you know she’s trying, but trying to Wednesday is the bare minimum to you, and you can’t change what you need.

You cry until your head pounds and your throat is raw, and even then you can’t stop picturing her dark eyes and scarce, golden smiles. You hear your mother’s voice in your head. Your heart clenches.

Eventually, you fall into a restless sleep, thoughts racing and palms sweating. You want more than anything to go to Wednesday’s room to rant about all of your emotions, knowing she’s only half-listening, and to persuade her to cuddle with you in bed, to hold her tight.

Nausea comes and goes in waves.

You don’t want to answer the knock at your door, except it comes from low down on the ground, and you’d never turn Thing away.

He’s holding an envelope between his second and third fingers.

An envelope, with your name scrawled across it in messy cursive. Thing drops it and takes a small bow, hurrying down the hall. You pick it up and shut the door with a sniff, wiping your nose. You’ve never been so grateful for deserted hallways.

You rip it open on your bed, entirely unprepared for the rush of emotion that hits you when you smell Wednesday’s typewriter ink.

I can’t say things to your face, but you need to know them, so I’ve decided to write them.  If I am a black dahlia, you are a sunflower. You are the sweetest of the sunflowers; you are the sun to me. I loathe myself for every moment I have spent upsetting you. I know that I am selfish, and that you are selfless, and that I hurt you even when I’m not trying to. Sorry isn’t enough of a word.

For my entire life, I believed love was nothing but a weakness to be exploited. I thought people like you, who love and give endlessly into this world, were oblivious to the reality of the world. But then I met you, and you cared for someone who least deserved it. The time of day was more than I deserved, and you gave me so much more than that. You have parted the clouds, you have brought sunlight into my life, you have brought me more joy and peace than I care to admit. And to repay you, I hurt you.

You are the sweetest of the sunflowers, and I will never again let myself forget it. I vow to do my utmost to provide you with everything you desire, if you allow me. I’m sorry, my love.

Wednesday nearly jumps when Thing returns, asking him how you looked and if you took the letter. She waits, bouncing her leg, tapping her fingers, thinking about why time travel hasn’t been invented yet. Her mouth is dry, her heart hammering against her ribs. She’s never been so anxious before.

 She barely remembers to smooth out her hair before answering the knock that eventually comes at her door.

“Hi,” you mumble, holding the letter in your hands.

“Hi,” she breathes.

“Do I get another chance?” she asks in a rush. You don’t think you’ve ever heard her this forward.

“I’m out of patience,” you say, and she nods quickly, blinking red-rimmed eyes.

A younger version of you would be reeling at the sight of such blatant emotion on her face.

“Can I hug you?”

Her eyebrows lift, eyes widening ever so slightly.

You can’t stand being mad at her.

Her arms wrap around you tightly, holding you close, her face buried into the crook of your neck. You take a deep breath.

[midnightsun-if]

How Scarlett would react if in a ball the court held she founds baby!mc following her as a lost puppy? She would tease mc in the future?

I think if it’s something Scarlett cared enough to recall she might tease the MC about it, but I don’t think it’s something she’d look back on unless it was needed (she doesn’t really like to delve into her past, good or bad, for a variety of reasons as she tends to spiral a bit).

A soothing melody resounds through the ballroom — interspersed with the sounds of clinking glasses, light chatter, and even lighter laughter that rung with hidden intentions — allowing for the varying couples to move across the dance floor in an elegant display of grace; art coming to life in the face of measured movements.

It was all too much — too fake — for her to stomach for long; she had never been one to dally within the confines of court for extended periods of time. She played the part, of course. The dutiful heir, even if she’d never see the throne, and the even more doting daughter; one who laughed and smiled at each insolent lordling that wished to gain favor with her father, thinking she’d be too blind to see what they were trying to do by approaching her, and each moment she kept the demure expression across her face was a moment more that she felt something wither away within her.

Princess Scarlett Voltaire, in the face of many within the Etheric Court, was everything you wished for in a royal child: charming, docile, eloquent, and, above all, beautiful.

Princess Scarlett Voltaire, to Scarlett Voltaire, was nothing more than a caricature; a gilded cage that trapped her before the eyes of the many, locking her within herself, never letting the eyes of the few in to truly see what would happen when she’d finally be free.

This ball, this room, and the people that moved within it? Were nothing but spectators to a show they weren’t even aware they’re a part of. An almost voyeuristic entity settling within her gut, sending a chill down her spine, every time someone turned to look at her; a gnawing entity that made her want to rip herself open, to show what was being hidden away, to reveal that they were looking at a beautifully constructed mask — something that conformed to what they wished to see, but wasn’t truly there.

It’s a feeling Scarlett could only handle for so long — her nails biting into the palm of her hands — before she decided to slip away into the shadows that such events provided; going unseen, unwanted, for her duty had already been completed. She ensnared people towards House Voltaire, delighting them by feeding their egos, and letting them loose to speak about the accomplishments King Alaric had been able to procure while raising such delightful children.

Standing within the shadows now, watching her handiwork in action, makes another chill run down her spin, a sickening weight settling within her gut, as she watched various individuals laud over someone that wasn’t even real.

“You’re pretty.” The statement, along with the fact that she had been so lost within her mind that she let someone sneak up on her, causes a frown to settle over her features; annoyance sparking within her chest at the continued homage to her physical appearance. However, when she turned to spit fire towards the person that addressed her so, Scarlett’s eyes fall down to the small child that she had seen with her peripheries throughout the night; always looking in her direction with wide, innocent eyes.

Such innocence doesn’t deserve to be around this… Entrapped within the belly of the beast without a true way to escape.

Smoothing her features, adopting a serene expression, Scarlett tilts her head. “You should be with your parents, young one.” She takes a cursory sniff, ensuring that her assumptions were true, and a heavy weight settles across her shoulders when she realized that child before her was human; woefully, unequivocally, human. Even a shifter pup would be better than this — for they’d at least stand a chance if things went awry — but Scarlett couldn’t allow for her burgeoning feelings to show. It wouldn’t do anyone any good. “Where are they? Are you capable of getting back to them?”

The child still continues to stare up at her with wide eyes — observing her with a nonjudgmental gaze; no hidden agenda lurking within the innocent expression — and Scarlett, despite her years doing the opposite, couldn’t help the softness that edges within her own in return. She had never been good with children, even if they tended to flock to her, but she had also never been able to turn them away either; even if it’d be better for everyone if she was left alone. It seemed that now, even with this human child, her record wouldn’t shift in the slightest.

Crouching down, balancing easily on her heels, Scarlett maintains eye contact. “Do you need help locating your family, young one?” She looks out across the room, not spotting anyone frantically searching for a missing child. “Are they even in this room?”

Another slow blink, before a large grin stretches across the child’s face. “You’re pretty.”

Scarlett can feel her left eye twitch slightly at the repeated phrase — faintly feeling her dearest ones amusement, at the situation she had found herself within, through their bond — but she maintains focus and, what she hopes in any case, a pleasant, even if slightly exasperated, expression across her face.

“We’ve established that,” she replies. “What we have yet to discern is if you’re in need of assistance. Are you lost? Do you know where your family is? Did you come with anyone?”

It briefly crosses her mind that the child could be leftover meal; even if the practice had been dying out, and Scarlett herself found it utterly abhorrent, she’s well aware that there were some still within the court that feasted on new blood. But, looking at the demeanor of the child, and the elegantly tailored clothes, it’s something that was dismissed as a possibility; if the child were to be a meal then there’d be definitive signs. None of which being that the child was actually looked after to this degree.

Which only meant the child belonged, in the familial sense, to someone and it seemingly was left to Scarlett to return the little human.

“Come now,” Scarlett finally mutters, not enjoying the action she was about to partake in to ensure this endeavor went as quickly as possible. “Let’s go find your family. You shouldn’t be wandering by yourself in this place. It’s dangerous for people twice your age.”

Opening her arms, Scarlett observes as the child takes in the action with an excited gleam appearing within the innocent gaze and, before she can properly react, she has a tiny form burrowing against her chest, small arms wrapped around her neck with a little face nuzzling against it a moment later, and Scarlett just barely contains her innate reaction to push the encroaching entity away from her personal space. Instead, fighting against every instinct telling her to do the exact opposite, Scarlett rises, cradling the child closer, and begins to search around the room with an almost predatory gaze; she was on the hunt now, and she wasn’t about to fail. Still, looking down at the tiny form, it wouldn’t hurt to get some semblance of help — even if the request wouldn’t bear anything fruitful.

“Young one?” A sleepy gaze rises to meet her own. “Where is the last place you saw your family?”

Instead of answering directly, as she anticipated, the little face nuzzles back into her neck, tiny hands slightly grasping the dark auburn locks that spilled down across her neck from her elaborate hairstyle. Words slightly muffled, and intercepted by a yawn, but they were ones she had become quite used to while in the presence of this particular human. “You’re pretty.”

With the small form beginning to fall asleep, and while she’s still within the confines of the shadows, away from the prying eyes of the vultures that circle within this blasted place, Scarlett allows her gaze to soften completely as she looks at the slumbering child; for once, in a long while, actually allowing herself to believe the words, in the sincerity within them, and letting her heart rejoice in the happiness the warmth those few syllables provided.

[chronicbeans]

OMGosh OMGosh OMGosh!!!!!!! That was so good! I didn’t expect that ending at all! But now I have so many more questions?!?!!!!

What is a day like in Welcome Home now? How does reader get through it? Do they legit worship her like a deity with offerings, bowing, etc.?

How is life outside of the TV? What happened to Henry and Angela? What happens to the Welcome Home puppeteers and other cast?!

Do they try to save the reader, or is all hope almost immediately lost?

Does Wally try to start a romantic relationship with the reader, or is it all platonic idol worship within the bounds of a romantic relationship?

Is Y/N technically a prop now? Is the Welcome Home cast still puppeted or do they have physical free-will now?

(Sorry for so many questions, but I’m dying to know!!!! AAAA I WANT MORE OF THIS FICCCCC!!!! 🥹😩😭🤯💕💕💕💕👌👍👏)

No worries! It is alright! I like writing about this dynamic. If I didn't, I wouldn't have offered to write more for it. So, having a lot of questions is perfectly welcome!

Life in Welcome Home for a Puppeteer Reader:

📽️ So, you're in Welcome Home now. What is going on in this lovely little place? Well, Wally is constantly going to be by your side, that's for sure. The neighbors will also be around whenever they can be.

📽️ The way the neighbors "worship" you is a bit odd compared to how you thought they would. Wally, of course, has deemed himself "The Chosen One" or some other odd name of the day (he can't decide. He just knows he's special, though), because he was the only one who was able to go to your world. Well, that was until he found a way to take others with him... But he did that himself. It wasn't natural. So, they all listen to both you and Wally.

📽️ Wally says they should just go about their days and always be kind to you. The only real offerings they give you is food, because they can't eat, but you need to. Before you arrived, food was more like an art piece to be put of a shelf until it went bad. Now, though, the neighbors will flock to Poppy's or Howdy's to get food, just for you! They want to be in your good graces.

📽️ Their kindness also borders on creepy. They all just go wide-eyed, their pupils expanding a bit like Wally's, as they give you praise for whatever you do in their presence. Sometimes, you swear that you could kill one of them and the others would just say something like "Yay! Yippee! You did good! They deserved it! How smart you are for noticing that! It was so obvious! How didn't we notice? Oh! It's because we aren't as amazing as you!"

📽️ Wally is probably very conflicted with himself. His plan, ever since the others had started to think about the possibility of you existing, was to take you here and to be your most devoted follower. He's got that, so why doesn't he feel fulfilled? Why does he also dislike how his neighbors get so close to you when you go outside? He will probably have to talk to Home about it. Home has always been there for him, even when the others were avoiding him due to their lack of faith in your existence. Home will help! If or when he realizes that he might not love you as just his puppeteer, but also in a romantic way, he'll think that it is the sweetest thing ever! His praise will definitely take a slightly more romantic turn, but the main problem is that his way of worshipping once you were brought to the neighborhood was already a bit more romantic. So, you probably won't notice it unless he tells you straight up how he feels.

📽️ Speaking of Home, you live with Wally, now. It just makes sense in everybody's eyes! Wally brought you here and is your most devoted follower. There is also the fact that, if anybody tried to hurt you, Home can keep them out (and keep you locked in)! You just stay inside all day, whenever it isn't "showtime". Wally is always by your side, though, keeping you company! Hugs and cuddles will make you feel better, right? He's noticed how upset you have been and is sure that he is the only one that can help! He'll show you the room he has dedicated entirely to you, which is filled wall to wall to floor to ceiling with drawings, paintings, and poems all about you! He is confused about why you seem so scared by this room.

📽️ You don't necessarily have to puppeteer everyone. You aren't really able to, either. In the neighborhood, the places where you would put your hands and puppeteer them don't exist. They are kind of like humans, just made of felt and filled with fluff. Everyone does have free will. They just act like they don't and don't believe they do. They do whatever you tell them without question. Sometimes, though, Wally likes to sit on your lap and pretend that you are puppeteering him in the "old-fashioned" way, as he says. He just has you place your hand on his back or neck and grab one of his arms to move around. Sometimes the others watch and are amazed, as if you are actually controlling him. If I had to explain how it would look like for anyone watching, just imagine the human cast in Sesame Street. You are a human in a world of puppets.

🎥 The world outside of the show is chaotic, to say the least (at least for the people that knew you). Henry probably watches the show everyday just to see you. He quickly learned that, although he can hear and see you, you can only see him. So he's been having Angela write down what he wants to say, then he presses is against the screen to talk to you. Angela, although she hasn't gotten over her fear of puppets, has been watching Welcome Home, too. She needs to see you. She really misses you. They would help, but they don't know how.

🎥 Back at the studio, they all quickly realized something was horribly wrong. They have a television in the break room that they use to make sure there isn't any broadcasting errors. The first person that saw you on the screen and realized you weren't around the studio immediately went and got as many people as they could. This included Wally's voice actor and the boss.

🎥 Your boss' decision was very simple. SHUT IT ALL DOWN AND CANCEL EVERYTHING. Everyone, especially Wally's voice actor, was heavily against it. What would happen to you? You would just be... stuck there! They had no say, though, and the show was promptly shut down. A few more reruns were aired. During one of them, Wally's voice actor had showed up on the other side of the screen, and let you know that the show was cancelled.

🎥 The world of Welcome Home is odd after the last rerun. Everything seems darker and everyone seems a bit paranoid. Wally especially is afraid. Before, they all had two purposes: keep you happy and make a good show for your world. Now that one purpose is gone, they have decided to double-down on keeping you happy. It is so hard, though, now that you can't see your world again. Most of the time, everyone is just crowded inside of Home, sitting around you and trying to cheer you up. The scariest part of these moments is how the world is so dark, you need candles to see. So, everyone is lit up with an eerie, flickering glow.

[poppy-metal]

TW: DUBCON SENTIMENTS … tentatively.. and gently.. a note under birdies door. a polaroid even. arts cock, his angel cock, gripped at the base by his man hands, hands that belong to a man, long and wide. his fat plump balls. his lean torso, beat into perfection by years of throwing himself into tennis so he doesn’t throw himself off a cliff. his face, no, the bottom half of his face, graced with pale stubble and perfectly angular. he’s looking down. his lip is curled, in a snarl that may have been playful. if it weren’t for everything. you are so shocked you don’t even think about your throbbing clit. you flip it round. sure enough, there he is scribbling away in his tiny, precise, efficient hand writing.

this is what you need. you’re bad. you made me bad. i’m gonna make you good. i hate you so much it makes me want to die. but i live. because one day, you’re getting this whether you like it or not. because you begged me for it, you broke me for it, now it’s yours to have. i wish you showed me your own cunt. because then i would know what to picture when i think about destroying you. you aren’t a virgin are you? i’m gonna make you bleed like one.

kisses,

art

you touch yourself for the first time since forsaking him. here he was. giving you permission. you felt alive for the first time in years. you felt reinvigorated. all those years you passed alone were not for nothing, you shouldn’t have killed yourself. you were alive for a reason, and that reason was clutched between your pointer and your thumb. it stung to know he hated you, but it was no less than you expected. hate was better than indifference. if he hated you, you could work with that, you could receive it, relieve him of it. you could do anything he told you to. you would hurt yourself, debase yourself, maim yourself, kill yourself. anything if it meant he looked at you warmly. you deserved it, you hurt him. you hurt him and you deserve nothing. but you were weak, you were pathetic, and anything he gave you would take like a starving dog. you would take his cock, you would let him rob you of your magical first time, you would give him the blood he craved. the blood that was his from the very first time you met. you cum to the thought of him breaking into your apartment and splitting your virgin cunt open. you imagine him cutting you and kicking you and punching you. you cum harder than you’ve ever cum in your whole life.

please birdie is so ecstatic. guilty, afraid, excited, she refuses to touch her cunt - hasn't gotten off that way in so long. you make yourself hump your bed, or a pillow, or a plushie. you can't put your fingers inside yourself - you don't want anything inside you that's not him. that's not art. still, after all this time - you're saving yourself.

you test yourself once or twice - just to test your tightness - you can barely dip two fingers in before it starts to burn - after that you withdraw. rub your wet and weeping pussy against your pillow as you think about art forcing himself inside you - tearing you apart - drenching his cock in your virgin blood. it would hurt so bad - you'd fucking love it. you shove your face into his picture and rock your hips back and forth - thinking about him, thinking about how he'd punish you - how you deserve to be punished-

you think sick things. him kicking you in the stomach - slapping you - wrapping his hands around your neck - you think about him carving his name into your skin with a knife and digging his nails into the wound while he fucked you. you want to be black and blue, beat up on his cock - forever changed by him, claimed by him.

you hate that he thinks the pictures you sent him of your pussy back then weren't real. you'd told him they were of someone else to hurt him, but you wish he knew the truth. you wouldn't tell him though - it was your fault regardless. and you wanted his anger. you wondered what you had to do to get him to snap - pictures weren't enough. you'd missed him so much - you wanted to be touched by him. god.... art, your art, touching you..... your body tingled at the thought.

hate me, art, you think. make me feel it.

[issy5316]

goodbye

this is a callout post to @hinatasweetgrape

i know you'll be reading this, so i'll let my friends do the talking

oh, and they've seen your other account, @hinataNSFW

season 1:

jones: oh god, you are horrible! simping for a child as well?! and calling out other people's art?! at least they make it look decent and not use AI!

nathan: this is a faith worse than death, to ridicule people who work hard! and you can't even use their correct pronouns at all!

grace: sexualizing a child is horrible! leave julian out of your disgusting fantasies!

ramirez: horrible, just horrible! i know my art isn't always the best, but at least i put in effort, and you don't even get the skintones right for many of them! or make the whiter!

alex: i'm sorry you think your art is good! looking at it is horrifying! and your comments are so innapropriate!

cathy: i'm a hacker, if i had the chance, i would hack your account and make it disappear!

king: i may not understand technology that well, but you are doing a horrifying thing!

season 2:

andrea: what you are doing is so horrible, you think other art is shitty, but it's your art that's horrible, you haven't even drawn it at all! it's AI!

amy: the art is......horrible, and your other posts are just.......just horrible!

russell:'shaking'you are a psychopath......

frank: ya! i know i wasn't the best person and i wasn't best buddies with russell, but i would never sexually assault him! what if my daughters saw your posts and think i'm a horrible person?! and you would never capture karen's true beauty!

hannah: i wish i could delete your posts off my brain.

roxie: all the alcohol in the world can't make me forget what i just saw.

yann: my children could see those posts! are you ashamed of yourself at all?! i am horrified by those posts!

karen:........i am disgusted, i know me and frank don't always see eye to eye, but he would never assault someone!

season 3:

ripley:.........'vanishes'

ingrid: i'm almost tempted to turn back to my ice cold self just by looking at those posts.

jack: what the fuck did i just look at?!

lars: those posts are just so weird........even when i got high, i didn't see stuff like that!

angela: i hope you are ashamed of yourself for what you have done.

carmen: i am not white at all! you are a horrible sorry excuse of a wannabe artist!

marina: you need all the therapy of the world, and i don't think it will even help you.

jonah: i'm going to lock my weapons up before anyone finds them after seeing your art.

elliot: your art is horrible, but i can't see your other account since i'm 17, but after everything i heard, i'm glad i'm not 18.

michelle:........prepare to get sued.

season 4:

arthur: i am horrified with what the future generation is coming to! i am so disgusted right now!

richard: this self experiment of what i saw is making me feel things i don't like at all.

viola: even bad written plays are better than what i saw and read!

maddie: i don't want to solve this case since it's horrifying!

charles:........i thought the inventions would be better, i guess i was wrong.......

isaac: at least i'm dead by the time this is created.

evie: this is why i stay with books......

rose: i don't know what to do about this.......this is horrifying.

diego: at least i make my art look decent, unlike this wannabe art i'm looking at!

season 5:

diane: this is the most horrifying thing i've ever seen, and i've been working in the law for a while!

gloria: i'm so glad my son isn't going to be looking at this stuff you created.

martine:'curses in french'

rita: i think i'm going to give myself amnesia.

rupert: amir, is the new generation always like this?

amir: no, no it's not.

gabriel: people are insane if they think insulting good art work is good.......

season 6:

christopher: what am i looking at right now?

zara: nightare fuel is what i'm looking at.

janis: my grandchildren have better manners than you.

theo: i'm getting my lawyers.

kai: and i'm fixing the time machine to prevent us from looking at this.

orlando: you have horrible taste in words!

penelope:.......maybe i should stop writing fanfiction for awhile.

season 7:

jacob: you must be working with the demons to have your head so far up your ass.

gwen: you don't put effort at all or think, i hope you realize you are wrong........but i don't have hope for you.

luke: now i wish i was old enough to drink to forget what i just saw.

ben: i'm disappointed that our fandom is becoming corrupted because of people like you, i know our games aren't the best, but we deserve some respect!

priya: i wish i was in my werewolf form so i won't remember this.

hope: i don't have hope for your future in this fandom.

felix: i'm going to look for an elixar to forget about this.

season 8:

JP: gauthier, please buy some bleach for all of us.

gauthier: yes papa, i want to forget about this.

hugo:......i think i'll consider changing my behavior for once in my life.

carrie: i did not come to paris to witness this!

nadia: disgusting.......writing noncon, sexualizing a minor! i know i call dead peopel pretty, but at least i ask for consent and make sure they are an adult! i hope you will realize your mistakes one day!

enzo: i think i might change my behavior as well.......like hugo said.

emile:'shaking'i am getting away from the internet is you are here to make it unsafe!

lea: i agree with emile!

and that's all

hinata

i know you will say something about this, and i will be honest with you

you put in no effort at all, you made fun of other people's art, this fandom already has enough problems in it

so us a favor and think before you act, this fandom has drama, like the others, but that doens't mean you need to create it, we just want to have fun and you aren't doing us a favor by creating stuff like this, and insulting other people's work

you can block me, becausee guess what?

i don't give a flying fuck about your opinion