#it’s my only source of interaction sometimes

[styluswritesdc]

For Jonathan crane from nolanverse maybe reader can talk to animals and she talks to one of his crows, and the crow leads him to her and he falls in. Love with her instantly and it leads to smut? No degration plz but it can be as smutty as you want

Ofc! I'm not too invested in Nolanverse so I've written it to the best of my ability! As I do gender neutral reader for inclusivity, all genitalia is vague.

GN! Reader! Smut below so ‼️MDNI‼️

The crow landed lightly on the stone rail of her balcony, feathers dusted in city soot, beady eyes too intelligent for an ordinary bird. You tilted your head.

“are you lost?” you murmured. It cocked its head. “He watches. He waits. He dreams of fear.” Your lips twitched into a smile. “Does he now? and who is he in question?” The crow didn’t answer. It only spread its wings and took off, toward Gotham’s industrial outskirts. Something deep inside told you to follow, so you do, trailing close behind. maybe it was fate. you've often been led to something interesting by animals, especially crows. the curiosity to the man the crow mentioned had piqued your curiosity after all.

Jonathan Crane had always considered himself a man of science, twisted as it was, but there was something about the girl who had just wondered into his abandoned warehouse, turned makeshift lab that made him doubt the edges of reality.

She stood in the doorway in the cold, taking in her gritty surroundngs, shoes squeaking on the cracked tiles, not a hint of fear on her face.

“I didn’t expect a visitor” he said quietly. you immediately try and find the source of the voice, looking around slowly into the darkness, suddenly very aware of the remoteness of the building. “I didn’t expect to be led here.” you replied. now this piqued his interest. He stepped closer, out of the dark, long coat trailing behind him. “who led you here? how did you know about this place?”

“oh, a crow.. possibly yours..” by notng the quirk of his head at your response you realise you should probably elaborate. "sorry, i should say, i have the ability to talk to animals. regardless of species. although sometimes theyre a bit vague, like your crow, i can still understand them." He blinked slowly. “ah, a metahuman then? facinating. i dont believe ive met one in person before..”

A pause. A breath. You both stood still, surrounded by half-broken surgical instruments and shadow. Then he broke the silence, “Why are you here?” You answered without hesitation. “Because something in your mind called out. which the crow conveyed to me, and I wanted to see if it was worth answering.”

his was the first time in, perhaps forever, that jonathan crane was unsure of what to think, say or do next. he had longd for companionship, more than the crows could facilitate, whcih they had sensed, and thus brought a person to him. He merely wanted a friend, perhaps a confedant, but now that you were here before him, and as admitently beautiful as you were, Jonathan couldnt help but long for a connection.

"yes I seek some form of human contact. even just someone to speak with, unlike for you, they cant respond to me." he walked towards his desk chair and continued; "however, now that the opportunity presents itself I fear I do not have the ability to actually have anyone in my life." this confession leaves you a tad confused so you take a place near his workbench, not close enough to startle him. "well why is that? if your desire for humanity was that strong, why change your mind now?" he hesitates and begins to twirl a nearby pen in his hand "well, quite frankly, I'm not a respectable sort of person. I daresay you've heard of my illicit activities although you might not connect the news stories to the man you see before you, but trust me. I'm not the kind of man of want to interact with, let alone befriend." your eyes flick to the contents of the desk. Along with piles of paper and notebooks, you can see a corner of burlap from behind his monitor. you shift your posture slightly as you connect the stories of the terrorising "scarecrow" to the man in front of you. This man who seems almost neat, with his hair styled tidily and glasses placed just so seems so different to the urban legend that haunts Gotham.

"Well, maybe I'm okay with that." you respond, thinking that you've made it this far into the conversation without experiencing any of his famous toxin, so why not? he shoots you a curious glance once more, seemingly puzzled by how a person could not be immediately put off by being in the presence of a criminal. "I respect your discipline of your fear. you've shown none thus far and I, quite frankly find it impressive." You practically blush at the compliment. coming from him, its one hell of a way to say you're impressive. you struggle to come up with a response at all, grasping at something to say within your flustered mind. "oh, what? crow got your tongue? I really must say you should probably be more careful when wandering into strange warehouses. you never know what trouble could await you." he was smirking now with a sudden surge of confidence. Again, you were left flustered. "I- I don't know what you mean." pretending you were aloof to his tone, whilst your mind scrambled for any witty remark. "well, perhaps as a doctor, I could demonstrate." he rose from his chair, making slow strides towards you like a cat toying with its prey. His eyes never left yours as he came to a halt just in front of you. you could feel his breath on your face as you looked up at him. "Frankly dear, our corvid friend has quite an eye, picking a gem like you for me." he said softly as he gently lifted your chin up to him.

The first time he kissed you, it was cautious—like he was afraid you’d vanish. But you didn’t. You leaned into him, your hand threading into his hair, whispering something in an old tongue—something that made a crow scream above.

In his bed, the madness softened. He watched your body writhe under his hands like something sacred. Worshipful. Curious. No roughness. No manipulation. Just touch. Warmth. Mutual need. “You’re not afraid of me,” he said, hovering over your lips as your fingers traced his jaw. “No,” you whispered. “You’re the one who’s afraid of being seen.” he kissed you again, slow and deep. Neither of you spoke again, afraid of breaking the dreamlike spell that came over you. when you reluctantly pulled away for breath, he stared at you, almost in study. eyes darker than they had been, lit with something raw. Something unguarded. He pulled you into him with a firm hand on your lower back, his other hand cupping your jaw as he kissed you, open-mouthed and deep. There was no hesitance now. No doubt. Just need. “You have no idea,” he murmured, lips brushing yours, “what you’ve done to me.”

“Then show me,” you breathed.

He didn’t rush. He peeled your shirt over your head slowly, fingertips grazing your skin like he was savouring every inch he revealed. His hands mapped your ribs, your waist, your hips, grounding himself in your warmth like he was terrified he might lose it.

You undressed him in turn—unbuttoning his shirt to reveal the pale skin beneath, lean muscle and the sharp lines of a man who forgot how to rest. You kissed down his chest, feeling his breath hitch. When you pulled down his pants and wrapped your hand around him, he let out a strangled gasp—already hard and twitching in your palm.

“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes fluttering shut as you stroked him slowly, teasingly. “You’ll undo me.” “That’s the idea,” you whispered.

He pushed you gently back onto the mattress, crawling over you with the kind of control that made your thighs clench in anticipation. His mouth trailed kisses down your stomach, his breath warm, tongue flicking over your skin with reverence. Then he looked up at you from between your legs, eyes locked on yours.

“Let me taste you,” he said quietly—like a plea. You nodded, breathless.

Jonathan ducked down and dragged his tongue over you, groaning like a man starved. He ate you slowly, deliberately, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. He licked and sucked with growing hunger, fingers gripping your thighs, holding you open as your hips bucked against his mouth. “Jonathan—please—” you gasped, one hand fisting in his hair.

He didn’t stop until you were trembling, panting, your body arching off the mattress as you came with a shuddering cry. He rode out your orgasm with his tongue, slow and soft now, until you sagged into the bed, boneless. He crawled back up, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his lips. “I need to be inside you,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I need to feel you again.” “Then take me,” you whispered back. “All of me.”

He lined himself up and slid in slowly, watching your face the entire time, as though committing your reaction to memory. You stretched around him perfectly, warmth and tightness drawing a guttural moan from his throat. “You’re perfect,” he groaned. “Too perfect.” You pulled him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Then ruin me.”

He thrust into you slowly at first, savouring every stroke. His pace was deep and purposeful, every movement full of devotion and unspoken obsession. You gripped his shoulders, nails leaving faint marks, anchoring yourself to him as pleasure began to build again. “God, you feel like heaven,” he whispered into your neck. “Like you were made for me.” “Yours,” you breathed, clenching around him. “I’m yours.” That broke him.

He snapped his hips harder, deeper, still not rough—but desperate. His rhythm was frantic now, chasing the edge as your walls pulsed around him. You came again with a soft cry, and he followed seconds later, burying himself deep inside you with a groan that sounded like surrender. He collapsed onto you, forehead to your shoulder, heart hammering in his chest.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You just lay tangled, your fingers stroking his back, his breath fanning across your collarbone. “You make me feel sane,” he said finally, voice barely audible. “However i think that now, I should probably ask you your name."

[goozeghost]

Hands wip 🙏‼️

[sipcup]

my bpd ass is sometimes a bit upset when i see other wolg/raha shippers but im normal and just distance myself instead of exploding about it. if you care

[shadesofmauve]

I want to step away from the art-vs-artist side of the Gaiman issue for a bit, and talk about, well, the rest of it. Because those emotions you're feeling would be the same without the art; the art just adds another layer.

Source: I worked with a guy who turned out to be heavily involved in an international, multi-state sex-slavery/trafficking ring.

He was really nice.

Yeah.

It hits like a dumptruck of shit. You don't feel stable in your world anymore. How could someone you interacted with, liked, also be a truly horrible person? How could your judgement be that bad? How can real people, not stylized cartoon bogeymen, be actually doing this shit?

You have to sit with the fact that you couldn't, or probably couldn't, have known. You should have no guilt as part of this horror — but guilt is almost certainly part of that mess you're feeling, because our brains do this associative thing, and somehow "I liked [the version of] the guy [that I knew]", or his creations, becomes "I made a horrible mistake and should feel guilty."

You didn't, loves, you didn't.

We're human, and we can only go by the information we have. And the information we have is only the smallest glimpse into someone else's life.

I didn't work closely with the guy I knew at work, but we chatted. He wasn't just nice; he was one of the only people outside my tiny department who seemed genuinely nice in a workplace that was rapidly becoming incredibly toxic. He loaned me a bike trainer. Occasionally he'd see me at the bus stop and give me a lift home.

Yup. I was a young woman in my twenties and rode in this guy's car. More than once.

When I tell this story that part usually makes people gasp. "You must feel so scared about what could have happened to you!" "You're so lucky nothing happened!"

No, that's not how it worked. I was never in danger. This guy targeted Korean women with little-to-no English who were coerced and powerless. A white, fluent, US citizen coworker wasn't a potential victim. I got to be a person, not prey.

Y'know that little warning bell that goes off, when you're around someone who might be a danger to you? That animal sense that says "Something is off here, watch out"?

Yeah, that doesn't ping if the preferred prey isn't around.

That's what rattled me the most about this. I liked to think of myself as willing to stand up for people with less power than me. I worked with Japanese exchange students in college and put myself bodily between them and creeps, and I sure as hell got that little alarm when some asian-schoolgirl fetishist schmoozed on them. But we were all there.

I had to learn that the alarm won't go off when the hunter isn't hunting. That it's not the solid indicator I might've thought it was. That sometimes this is what the privilege of not being prey does; it completely masks your ability to detect the horrors that are going on.

A lot of people point out that 'people like that' have amazing charisma and ability to lie and manipulate, and that's true. Anyone who's gotten away with this shit for decades is going to be way smoother than the pathetic little hangers-on I dealt with in university. But it's not just that. I seriously, deeply believe that he saw me as a person, and he did not extend personhood to his victims. We didn't have a fake coworker relationship. We had a real one. And just like I don't know the ins-and-outs of most of my coworkers lives, I had no idea that what he did on his down time was perpetrate horrors.

I know this is getting off the topic, but it's so very important. Especially as a message to cis guys: please understand that you won't recognize a creep the way you might think you will. If you're not the preferred prey, the hind-brain alarm won't go off. You have to listen to victims, not your gut feeling that the person seems perfectly nice and normal. It doesn't mean there's never a false accusation, but face the fact that it's usually real, and you don't have enough information to say otherwise.

So, yeah. It fucking sucks. Writing about this twists my insides into tense knots, and it was almost a decade ago. I was never in danger. No one I knew was hurt!

Just countless, powerless women, horrifically abused by someone who was nice to me.

You don't trust your own judgement quite the same way, after. And as utterly shitty as it is, as twisted up and unstead-in-the-world as I felt the day I found out — I don't actually think that's a bad thing.

I think we all need to question our own judgement. It makes us better people.

I don't see villains around every corner just because I knew one, once. But I do own the fact that I can't know, really know, about anyone except those closest to me. They have their own full lives. They'll go from the pinnacles of kindness to the depths of depravity — and I won't know.

It's not a failing. It's just being human. Something to remember before you slap labels on people, before you condemn them or idolize them. Think about how much you can't know, and how flawed our judgement always is.

Grieve for victims, and the feeling of betrayal. But maybe let yourself off the hook, and be a bit slower to skewer others on it.

[lolab4t]

off duty - fluff

18 + part two

pairing: avenger!bucky barnes x fem!avenger!younger!reader summary: after a rare night off, you stumble back into avengers tower at 2 am.. tipsy, feet hurting, and definitely not expecting to run into bucky barnes on the couch. word count: 5.8k warning(s): light cursing, alcohol consumption/intoxication, fluff, use of nicknames, humor, age gap, mild suggestive language, reader is a young adult avenger, reader is described as wanting to party a/n: here's my first fic! it's a throwback to the avengers before the infinity war. i really hope you enjoy :) and if you do, please like, comment, or reblog! <3

cherry - lana del rey

being a young adult and an avenger at the same time wasn't easy. you wanted to be like others your age... party, stay out late, maybe dance with a random guy you found mildly attractive under the dim nightclub lighting, then bolt when you actually saw his face in the light. hell, you would settle for just shopping or grabbing lunch with your friends, however mundane that sounded.

but, as a full-time avenger, you weren't privy to this lifestyle. the main issue was your schedule. being an avenger isn't exactly a 9–5 job... it's more 24/7. you're meant to always be ready to jump into a mission when needed. with your time mainly consisting of training, meetings, and missions, you didn't exactly have free time.

this didn't stop your friends from pushing, though, and they eventually got through. so, after a few long conversations of begging stark, here you are, stumbling into the elevator of the avengers tower at like 2 in the morning, ever so slightly intoxicated. who can blame you? it was your first night off in a while; of course you took advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and got shitfaced. you might regret it during training later that day, but for now, all that mattered was that you had fun with your friends.

you did regret wearing heels, though. you wanted to trade in your boots for something more fun tonight, but god, did your feet hurt. you were also dying to get out of your minidress. considering your wardrobe now reflects your job and only consists of suits and very little casual clothes, you had to borrow this dress from your friend. you were beginning to remember why you never liked to wear dresses even before joining the avengers.

the elevator dinged, and the door opened to the top floor, the avengers' quarters. you dragged yourself out, hair messy, dress slightly hiked up, and feet already blistering. your makeup made it clear you had been sweating on a dancefloor not long ago. you headed to your room when a voice stopped you in your tracks.

"where ya been?"

you turned to the source, shocked to see bucky barnes sitting on the sofa. he was laid back, one arm draped lazily on the backrest, and the other on his knee. he was almost smirking, likely having a good idea of your whereabouts based on your appearance.

you and the winter soldier weren't exactly close. he was a very quiet and reserved guy, usually a man of few words. your interactions mainly consisted of short conversation and sometimes catching him staring at you on the quinjet or in meetings. you never really thought much of it.

but his tone... his expression right now was different. it was weird, but a good weird.

"why're you awake?" you huffed, walking toward the couch.

"couldn't sleep," he stated simply, scanning your form with that smug look on his face. "you have a fun night?" he chuckled to himself a bit.

"yeah, i went out with some friends," you replied, sitting on the couch. you began fiddling with your heels, wanting to go ahead and relieve yourself of the pain. however, the alcohol was messing with your coordination, and you were struggling rather pathetically.

noticing the pout forming on your lips and the clear trouble you were having, bucky snickered, speaking in his gruff voice, "need some help?"

you looked up at him and nodded, still pouting. without a word, he moved a bit closer to you and curled his fingers around your ankles, a soft gasp escaping your lips as he rested them across his lap. you were reclining into the corner of the sofa now, watching him in shock. he hummed as his fingers slipped through the straps of the heels, sliding them off your feet gently. he set them down carefully, his free hand absentmindedly rubbing your calves.

"i've never seen you in anything but your boots," he grinned, turning his head toward you. "so, how much did you drink?" his grin turned into a knowing smirk.

you scoffed, pulling your legs away, drawing your knees to your chest. the short dress wasn’t doing you any favors, and you were probably flashing him, but bucky never looked. he was a gentleman... at least in the ways that mattered. you groaned, rubbing your face sleepily. no point in pretending.

"too much," you muttered.

"yeah, i can tell. you practically stumbled out of the elevator," he chuckled, eyes following your every move.

you let out a half-laugh, sheepish. your head dropped to rest on your knee as you sighed.

"kill me."

"not tonight, doll. i’m off duty."

your head lifted slightly, an eyebrow raising. "did you just call me ‘doll’?" you snickered at the old-fashioned nickname, trying to hide how much it made your heart beat faster.

he smirked, leaning back again with that maddening ease. "i dunno. you kinda look like one."

was he flirting? surely not. he probably saw you as some annoying kid.

"alright, old man. what do you call natasha then? sugar? darling?" you smiled lazily, thinking of more old-timey terms of endearment.

"hell no. she’d break my jaw," he grinned.

"and you think i won’t break your jaw?" you smirked, raising a brow.

bucky scoffed out a laugh. "oh, i'm sure you can, but i don't think you would."

"if i wasn't tipsy, i might've. you're getting off easy this time, grandpa," you giggled, starting to slur your words. your eyelids were beginning to feel heavy, and you found your head resting on your knee again.

bucky laughed at your slurred speech, not sure if it was the alcohol or just exhaustion. "you okay, doll?"

"mhm," you hummed, obviously dozing off.

"alright, i guess i'll babysit the lightweight," he joked, his grin never faltering.

you eventually drifted off, and so did bucky not long after. you both slept better than you had in a while. that was, until you awoke to the stunned faces of the other avengers. they definitely weren't expecting to find you in bucky's arms on the sofa. hell, you weren't expecting it either.

thanks so much for reading <3

18+ part two

[chuluoyi]

𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍

- sylus x reader

when your husband went away without so much as a proper notice, you thought you wouldn't forgive him so easily. but he tries everything to capture your heart back: spoiling and indulging you… little do you know that he expects a reward in return

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—rotten fluff, domestic bliss, explicit smut, cunnilingus, fingering, mating press, taking elements from sylus' card night of secrecy, secret times approaching dusk and spoilers! from myth beyond cloudfall

note: my first sylus x mc fic! with this i'm spreading the soft!sylus agenda and that spicy 4-star approaching dusk has destroyed me :') loosely based on this post

Sometimes, you do wonder... does Sylus really think you're that easy to placate?

On one chilly morning, you woke up only to discover your hunk of a husband gone... and in his side of the bed, a sticky note.

Your eyebrow twitched as you read the audacious message scrawled on it:

Hey, kitten. I need to leave for a few days. There are things I have to handle on my own. Take care of yourself while I’m away. I’ll come back soon.

That was it. No clear explanation, no further details. Just those vague words in such short notice. The day before, he’d seemed like his usual self, not a hint of this sudden departure in sight.

It irked you. It made your heart clench at the same time. Because even after marrying you, Sylus remained elusive, playing his cryptic games. It was beyond you how he didn't even stop to consider how you were left worrying about him while he drifted in and out of his dangerous world without a second thought.

You understood the reality of your lives—that you were a hunter and he was the Onychinus leader, and that to be with him meant you had to walk that fine gray line between light and dark.

And you'd already made your choice. You had accepted it—accepted him—wholly. Even when your marriage had been a rushed affair and registered under false names to protect both your identities.

Things couldn't go on like this. You had to teach him a lesson too.

As your irritation simmered into determination, a devious plan began to take shape in your mind—a way to spite him just enough to make your point crystal clear.

Two days later

Sylus was done with his dirty business faster than he thought, and to appease you, he had come bearing gifts.

The precious little thing that is now his wife, of course he missed you too. But your safety was a price he wasn’t willing to gamble. If going away to take care of those pests meant your peace would be unperturbed, then he would leave without hesitation.

However, as he stepped inside the base, his relief quickly turned to unease. The space was eerily empty, the usual hum of activity conspicuously absent.

Normally, you’d be at the center of some commotion, locked in a spat with either Mephisto, or Luke and Kieran. But now—

“What do we do?! She’s gone!”

Sylus immediately rushed to the source of the ruckus, thinking something bad had happened to you. He found his henchmen standing in a tight, anxious circle around the coffee table.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Without a word, they stepped aside, revealing the object of their concern: a single note lying on the table.

He snatched it up, scanning the words. Then, he let out a sharp exhale of relief, a smirk began tugging at the corners of his lips.

Catch me if you can.

Typical. Absolutely typical. And maddeningly you.

. . .

That night, you had a very strange dream, it felt almost felt like stepping into the pages of an ancient tale.

You were a fallen princess wrongfully accused as a sorceress, who began consorting with the fearsome fiend from the Abyss.

The sorceress and her dragon. Together, you were an infamous pair, a dark legend whispered across generations. Your union had ignited Doomsday itself... and yet, amidst the turmoil and destruction, the sorceress fell in love with the dragon... deeply and irrevocably.

The dragon, in turn, was utterly bewitched by his little witch. He indulged your every whim, no matter how mischievous or perilous, and though he rarely spoke of his true feelings, he always found ways to show his affection.

The lucid dream felt as though it might go on forever, but you were pulled from it by the soft brush of lips against your forehead. The warmth lingered, blurring the lines between dream and reality, until your eyes fluttered open.

“Sylus...?” His features, fresh from your dream, now materialized in your reality. It took you a few seconds to realize that he had come here—

“Morning, sweetie.” His voice was rich and smooth, with that familiar, mischievous edge. A smirk curled on his devilishly handsome face as he leaned in, garnet eyes gleaming with playful intent. “Caught you now, hmm?”

The haze of sleep vanished in an instant, and you were suddenly wide awake. In a flurry, you shoved him away and turned your back on him, trying to regain some semblance of control.

You’d left the N109 Zone for one of his safehouses in suburban Chansia City, thinking it would take him some effort to track you down. Clearly, you’d underestimated him.

“Oh. The kitten is in a bad mood, it seems.” Sylus’ gaze lingered on you, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Well, what do I owe the ire for?”

“...”

“Silent treatment, huh? The lady of the house is getting better at our little games while I was away.”

“...”

“Remember, sweetie, there’s no divorce in our relationship, hmm? If you’re tired of me, keep taking naps.”

You felt the weight shift as he rose from the bed and stalked away. The door clicked shut, leaving you in the silence of the room.

You wanted to resent him for coming and going on his terms, for never offering even an apology. Yet, no matter how much you tried, a part of you remained hopelessly tethered to him. The part that couldn’t ignore the reminder of the dragon from your dream—captivating, powerful, and infuriatingly hard to resist.

You love him, really you do.

. . .

When you didn’t come down for breakfast some time later, Sylus barged into the room once again, and this time he came up with a different approach.

“My lady,” he began, his voice sickeningly low and sweet, but his eyes gleamed with a touch of mischief. “You haven’t had breakfast yet. Please come down.”

You shot him a look, unamused, and decided to play his game as you crossed your arms together. “What if I don't want to?”

His smirk only grew, his tone dripping with mock formality. “And what must I do to change your mind?”

Despite yourself, you couldn’t help but notice his persistence. He had chased you here, given you more time to sleep in, and now stood before you to get you to eat. You felt your resolve beginning to soften—maybe just a little.

“Carry me there,” you said with a hint of defiance, lifting your chin high, daring him to follow through.

Sylus tilted his head, failing to restrain his snort. “As you wish, my lady.”

He placed his arms around you effortlessly, one hand beneath your knees and the other supporting your back, lifting you into a flawless princess carry. You instinctively put your arms around his neck, and he turned to you.

You opened your mouth, ready to fire off a sharp retort, but before you could, he dived in—

Smooch!

—and planted a bold, wet kiss on your lips. You, wide-eyed, punched his chest in retaliation. “Sylus!”

He chuckled, entirely unfazed. “Careful now, sweetie. Wiggle too much, and you’ll fall.”

He carried you downstairs, effortlessly navigating each step with you still in his arms. Once there, he gently set you down onto the dining chair, and that was when you noticed the table.

Salad, slightly burnt toast, scrambled eggs, milk—simple dishes by all means, but the thought the big, bad Sylus making them?

Wait. When you arrived last night, this place was a dusty shell, and the refrigerator had practically nothing—

“You cleaned the place?” you asked, your tone laced with surprise as your turned from the spotless room to him.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Why is that so surprising? I can cook and clean just like everyone else.”

It sent a wave of warmth through your chest. He’d prepared food and cleaned the place knowing you’d be hungry and uncomfortable with dust all around.

You huffed, trying to hide how your heart fluttered. “No, your cooking skills are questionable at best.”

As if to prove you wrong, Sylus disappeared into the pantry and reemerged with a tray of warm, freshly baked dough that filled the room with a heavenly aroma.

“You are... baking?” You approached him, mystified at the sight of your husband, who usually at the scene of crime, behind the counter and started frosting the cupcakes.

He set the frosting bag down and picked up a cupcake, holding it to your lips with a teasing smile. “Here. Open up.”

Dutifully, you nibbled on the cupcake, and the sweetness immediately spread into your mouth. “It's tasty,” you mumbled, blinking at him. His eyes crinkled with satisfaction as he gestured toward the tray.

“Go have some more.”

Grinning, you grabbed another cupcake and eagerly took a bite. Munching away, you missed how Sylus’ gaze softened, his bright red eyes focused solely on you.

He couldn't resist pinching your full cheeks at that moment.

“Sy-wus!” you protested, glaring at him. His laughter broke free that instant, warm and unrestrained.

Utterly funny, utterly precious—that’s what you were to him.

Indignant, you scooped up some icing from the cupcake and smeared it right across his face. The stunned look he gave you was priceless, and before he could react, you burst into a fit of giggles and bolted out of the kitchen.

But as you reached the base of the stairs, a strong arm caught your waist from behind, halting your escape. You squealed in surprise, “Noooo!”

Sylus leaned closer and pressed you to his chest, his voice rumbling in your ear. “Ha. Did you really think you could get away that easily?”

He lifted you up with one arm and brought you back to the kitchen, setting you down on the counter and trapping you in place with his arms braced on either side. His eyes sparkled with mirth as he leaned in, and with a grin, he bumped his frosting-smeared nose against yours, leaving a sticky smudge.

“This is unfair!” you protested, still caught in a fit of giggles as you looped your arms around his neck for balance. Sylus chuckled along with you, his gaze steady and warm, never leaving yours.

Being with Sylus in the kitchen like this, savoring simple meals and smearing each other with frosting, it made you realize that you craved this domestic bliss more than you thought.

As the laughter subsided and you both settled into the quiet, your expression softened, all your previous grievances forgotten. The tenderness in your eyes said everything you didn’t need words for, and Sylus could see it clearly—you adored him, just as much as he adored you.

The one who gazed into his jewel-like eyes, embraced his burning soul and sang to him in the night wind... is once again in his arms. A part of him was almost sentimental at the thought.

Instinctively, he closed the distance between you, his lips hovering just a breath away from yours. But as they were about to meet, he paused, as if hesitating, leaving you puzzled.

Then, without a second thought—

To hell with it.

You chose to abandon all senses. You seized the moment—yanking him to you and capturing his lips, claiming him for yourself.

“…!” Suck, suck, bite, suck— You were relentless, and you didn't really know why. At first, even he was taken aback, but then his hand slipped behind your head, fingers threading through your hair as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling with yours in an intoxicating rhythm.

“Mmm...” You sneakily began to undo the buttons of his shirt one by one, your fingertips grazing his warm skin with each deliberate motion. Feeling it, Sylus broke the kiss just enough to smirk, his voice husky. “Getting bold, aren’t we?”

But before you could respond, his hands trailed down your sides, firmly pulling you closer, leaving no space between the two of you. His gaze burned with desire, as if daring you to keep going.

Then, without warning, his lips began their descent, grazing your jaw softly before trailing down to your neck and chest, leaving a trail of warmth and shivers across your skin. The feeling was intoxicating, even as his hair tickled you, making it hard to focus on anything but him.

“Ahh,” you couldn’t help but sigh, pressing him closer.

His lips left wet marks on your neck, and he whispered, “Now tell me... what made you so upset that you left home?”

When you didn't answer right away, one of his hand slid beneath your blouse, unhooking your bra and grazed your skin—

“You... keep coming and going as you please...” you stammered, feeling him begin to cup and squeeze your breasts, your breath growing erratic.

Sylus bit down on the skin at the nape of your neck, and you almost gasped.

“It's almost as if— Mmm—” The way he fondled your chest made the space between your legs grow warmer. “—you wouldn’t... miss m-me at all...”

How untrue. He stopped his ministrations, and the steel behind those eyes you loved so much met your gaze once again.

His wife was a mess of sweat already. He swiftly hooked your thighs around his waist and claimed your lips once more. With effortless movement, Sylus guided you to the long recliner in the room, laying you down there, still lost in the heat of the kiss. His hand intertwined with yours, pinning you to the soft surface.

“So...” he rasped, breathless against your lips, “You’re upset that I didn't miss you when I was away...”

His other hand worked to unzip your skirt. “But don’t you know? I... was worried about my wife getting into trouble when I wasn’t with her too... That’s why I was in a hurry to go home...”

Sylus pulled away, both of you panting for air, and he took a moment to savor the sight of your glazed eyes.

“But then I couldn't find her anywhere.” His voice was low and taunting, trailing his fingers on your belly. “I made it back as soon as I could, just like I told you and you are the one who misbehaved... Don’t you think I deserve something as a compensation?”

It took you three solid seconds to realize that the lower half of your body was now exposed. Your husband parted your legs and settled his face between them, pressing a kiss on your knee.

“So I believe at the very least... I deserve this.”

He dived straight for your clit then and you let out a loud gasp.

“Ngh! Aaah...!” You let out incoherent moans as he devoured your folds, lost in the cloudy haze of pleasure. It didn’t take long to unravel you at all.

“Mmnh—!” Your eyes almost rolled to the back of your head. Ticklish, hot, wet— all in all, it felt like a sin, but you just had to get this heavenly taste. “…a-ah!”

Sylus felt how you were this close to get your orgasm, so he moved faster, licking and sucking your clit, while adding a couple of fingers to bring you to the peak faster. You unconsciously moved your hips against his face— too far gone to be thinking anything else, grasping the leather of the sofa and pulling his hair—

“Ahh— S-Sylus!” And then you came hard, screaming his name, feeling how much it was— were you squirting?

You didn't know, didn't care either, as it was the sight of his ruby eyes that grounded you. You were spent, spread on the sofa (most probably ruined it, even), your chest heaving to catch your breath.

Sylus let out a low rumble as he wiped your juices off his lips with a thumb and tasted it, looking so sinfully sexy like a forbidden fruit while at it.

“You said... I wouldn't miss you.” He traced one finger on your face with such tenderness. “Now, I'm going to show you, and you'll be judge of it. Are you sure you don't want me to stop?”

If you said no, he would comply. That was the kind of person he was and you knew it. Sylus had always looked out for you since the very beginning, no matter how nonchalant he made himself to be.

“No.” You met his eyes, your voice steady. “Show me.”

It was the only affirmation he needed. He began unbuckling his belt and pants, keeping his unclouded gaze on yours, and soon he too was bare before you.

He was thick and long, and while you had taken him many times, it was never fully easy to ease the intrusion. His tip was already slick with precum, and he spread it along his length.

“You know the rule,” he murmured with a meaningful smile. “If it becomes too much, you scream, and I'll stop.”

He positioned himself at your entrance, sliding in slowly. The sharpness of the stretch seeped into you bit by bit, and you couldn't help but groan.

“—!” A sharp hiss escaped you as he fully sheathed himself inside, hitting that sensitive spot. Had your eyes deceived you, or was there a slightly noticeable bulge in your belly from where he was?

Sylus seemed to notice it too, but he folded your knees, spreading you further. His gaze intense and filled with something deep, something possessive. The room seemed to narrow, your entire focus consumed by him as he settled in close.

“Eyes on me, kitten.” He gave you a smile, and with that, he started pounding you—

“Ah, hah, ahhh!” You couldn't stop moaning beneath him as he thrusted into you. The feeling of him so deep inside, coupled with the way you tightened around him, sent waves of blind pleasure through you.

Sylus’ eyes darkened, his jaw clenched as he watched you squirm under him. Your skin glistened with the heat of the moment, and the sound of your breaths, frantic and needy, filled the room. His control slipped, just a little, as he pushed deeper, his movements faster, chasing the release that quickly building within both of you.

A pretty mess, his wife is. Your face contorted in a mix of pleasure and pain as he bred you, and he swore, of everything he had gone through, this look in your face was always worth it.

“Sylus—!” you almost wailed, nails digging into his back, and he growled, knowing full-well that he was finally losing it.

Just like that he shot his cum straight to your womb, his own body shuddering, thoroughly rutting into you. You cried, tears falling from your lashes as you too reached your climax.

Full, too full... Yet you knew that you wouldn't have it another way.

. . .

It felt warm and comforting.

Your eyes fluttered open hours later, and the first thing you noticed was Sylus' sleeping face, and that you were now in the bedroom.

He looked so vulnerable like this. You couldn’t help but be drawn to how serene and unguarded he was, a side of him that only you got to see. Even in his sleep, his arms were wrapped around your waist, as if to protect you from anything that might disturb your rest.

Your lover... and then husband. He was rough around the edges, sometimes didn't make any sense at all, and often reckless enough to burn himself playing with fire.

“You sly crow…” You gazed at his profile, still in awe that this elusive man was your husband.

Sylus was easy to read sometimes, and you couldn’t help but smile at your earlier doubts about him. How could you not see just how deeply he was attached to you?

Just like the inseparable pair of dragon and sorceress in your dream, you knew you’d stay by his side until the very end.

Out of a playful surge of affection, you tapped his nose, and he grunted softly but didn’t wake, instead nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, seeking more of your warmth. It was cute, how he was so worn out that he sought comfort in your embrace.

You pressed a soft kiss to his forehead then, vowing with everything you had that you’d never let him go, and that with him by your side, you would definitely made this life you shared a happy one.

Several weeks later...

“Thank you, miss!”

The boy bowed his head with a wide grin as soon as you handed him the red pocket money for Linkon New Year. You waved at him, smiling warmly as he skipped away, clutching the envelope in his hands.

The festive occasion inspired you to pay a visit to a nearby orphanage, driven by a desire to share more of the joy and blessings. You brought small gifts and red envelopes, hoping to bring a little light to the children’s lives and make the celebration even more meaningful for them.

Of course, Sylus tagged along too. He was the benefactor, after all.

“Sir, thank you for your generosity.” The headmistress approached Sylus, who looked effortlessly sharp in his red suit, and gave his hand a shake. “The children are really happy with the cupcakes and pocket money.”

He merely chuckled and pointed at you with his chin. “Thank her, my wife is the one with the idea.”

You joined the conversation shortly after, and it didn’t take long for the topic to shift from the orphanage to your personal lives.

“So, do the two of you have plans to start a family soon?” the headmistress asked, her tone warm and curious. “Both of you are still young, and you're so good with kids. Having children of your own might bring even more joy into your lives.”

You mustered a polite laugh, the words to gracefully deflect her comment forming on your lips, when—

“Soon,” Sylus interjected smoothly, his arm slipping around your waist, pulling you closer. “Very soon, in fact.”

You blinked at him, startled by his bold declaration, while the headmistress’s face lit up with approval. You nudged him discreetly.

As soon as the headmistress went on her way, you turned to him with a frown. “Why would you tell her that?”

Your gaze met his, clear and utterly clueless. Sylus snorted, so tempted to pinch your cheeks, but settling instead for a tender pat on your head.

“You'll see soon enough, sweetie,” he replied, his tone laced with playful mystery.

Epilogue

It was the dead of night when a sudden wave of nausea overtook you. Stumbling out of bed, you rushed to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before retching up the contents of your stomach.

Your body trembled as you stood, dizziness threatening to topple you. Leaning heavily on the sink for support, you rinsed your mouth, trying to steady yourself. The effort left you shivering, your legs almost buckling beneath you.

Before you could even comprehend the blur in your vision, a pair of strong arms got a hold over you. “S-Sylus...?” you murmured faintly.

Without hesitation, he lifted you into his arms securely as he carried you back to the bedroom, his expression shadowed with concern.

As he settled you onto the bed, he held you close, pressing your face against his bare chest that peeked from his unbuttoned shirt. “Take deep breaths,” he urged softly, his voice grounding you.

You inhaled shakily, letting the familiar warmth of his scent calm your frayed nerves. Slowly, your breathing steadied, though the nausea still lingered in the back of your throat.

“Is it the first time?” he questioned, smoothing your hair. “Have you thrown up before?”

You shook your head. “No... I get dizzy spells but that's it... This is the first time.”

Nausea, dizziness, vomiting. It wasn't hard to piece together what it was. Amidst your dazed thoughts, the realization hit you, and you turned to your husband almost in wonder. “Sylus... a-am I...?”

Sylus broke into a smirk, ruffling your hair. “Told you. I know your period is late.”

Your heart skipped a beat—and it was the only thing you could hear in that moment. The thought that a baby would enter your lives left you briefly speechless.

“Yeah, at the rate we're going, it’s like we’re bunnies,” you quipped sullenly, trying to regain a sense of control as you leaned into his broad chest.

You really thought he would poke fun at you for your highly possible pregnancy, but instead you were taken aback when he pressed a fond, lingering kiss to the side of your head. His arms tightened around you, his soft chuckle reverberating through his chest.

And when you found his gaze again, his jewel-like eyes softened into such an extent that made your heart soar.

“Well, aren’t I the luckiest man— having this fair lady be the mother of my child?”

[libraford]

Like... when I'm pointing out that a recipe image is AI, the purpose is not to shame them for posting AI, because even people who are familiar with the tells will sometimes fall for it.

I want you to have reasonable expectations about your food.

Because when I see this:

I remember this:

Which was a full decade prior to AI-based misinformation, and just how many people were pissed off that the Pinterest post misled them.

And even more-working in a craft store during the Pinterest heyday:

"We want to make this." Shows a picture of:

-a marimo moss ball terrarium in a light bulb.

-a resin-treated natural wooden shelf with glow in the dark resin in the cracks

-a really complex diorama made using museum grade resin and hand-painted figures by a miniatures artist

...to name a few.

"I'm sorry, but we do not carry (unfinished wood pieces, light reactive resin powders, live marimo moss balls, museum grade resin). Is there a tutorial attached with a materials list? No? I'm sorry, we don't have those. You can make something like this with what we have, but it won't turn out the same as in the photo. You want it exactly like the photo? I'm sorry, we can't special order these items, they're not featured on our list of vendors. I'm sorry, no, I don't know where to get them. Oh, you want me to walk you through the steps of making it since there's no tutorial? I can really only guess, but it looks like... oh, you want someone who knows for sure? I'm sorry, but no one here is terribly familiar with the process. You might see if you can reverse image search and find the source of the image. You say you want to speak to my manager? You say I'm being rude to you? You say I should be going out of my way to make you happy? You say you'll leave a 1 star review?..."

Etc.

If you ask a bartender to make you the 'celestial milkshake' and show them the photo, they are going to go through the same course that I just went through, but with mixology. They are going to explain that cotton candy dissolves when put in liquid, that edible glitter doesn't look like that, that the liquers listed in the recipe don't interact well, and that the image you have given them is essentially concept art by someone who has never even worn an apron.

Having reasonable expectations for your food is not by any means shaming you for falling for AI. It is saving you the embarrassment and them the frustration.

[furioussouls]

LADS boys when you die

[with chubby reader]

[chubby reader, don’t like it, don’t read it]

warnings: extreme angst, death, grief, self harm, depression, (passive) suicidal ideation, sadness, no comfort, pretty short, minors don’t interact

Please do not read if you feel like it might harm you or your mental health. Handle carefully. Please reach out to healthcare professionals if you’re in danger. I love you all. Please don’t engage with this if this could trigger you. You have been warned.

Disclaimer: The characters belong to the game “love and deepspace“ by InFold

Based on this request :3

ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ

Xavier:

Xavier lays in bed and stares at the ceiling. The ticking noise of his clock echoes in the background as he releases a shuddering breath. The heavy pressure on his chest crushes him with every inhale and he presses his eyes together in hopes of keeping his tears at bay. As always, he doesn’t succeed and warm tears roll down the sides of his temples. Xavier sees a flickering light out of the corner of his eyes and he can’t stop himself from following the only source of light that he had seen in multiple days. It was his phone. Xavier’s eyes widen up and he scrambles to his phone in hopes of seeing your name flash across the screen, but it was just Captain Jenna.

A deep feeling of despair and anguish settle deep inside his heart and he can feel the hopelessness soak down all the way to his bones. He quit his job. It doesn’t matter to him anymore, nothing does. He knows what he’s here for. He knows that he has a mission, but he’s tired. He’s tired of it all, and you were the only thing keeping him going.

He slowly gets out of bed and walks over to your side of the wardrobe. The heavy weight of his emotions returns as he opens the creaky door. A desperate sob escapes him as he sees your favourite sweatshirt; it’s oversized and comfy. He picks it up and holds it under his nose. Xavier inhales deeply and lets the tears flow down his haggard cheeks. “My baby.“ Xavier’s croaky voice rasps out. His eyes, which were so full of light and warmth whenever they gazed upon you, are soulless and devoid of any colour now. Sunken eyebags adorn his undereyes and his lips are cracked. What‘s the point of taking care of himself now anyway? Now that there’s nobody there to scold him for his carelessness. He slowly puts your sweatshirt on and buries his face in it.

He remembers how cozy you looked in it; how your full and warm body warmed his own one up. How you always wore it on tv nights and how happily you let him strip the sweatshirt off during intimate times. He remembers it all. Sometimes, he’s not sure if he’d like to remember more of you, or nothing at all.

Xavier’s eyes start to sting again and he walks back to your side of the bed. He lays down and turns a few times. His breath escapes sharply as all of the memories of you begin haunting him. He couldn’t save you. Your blood staining his hands. Your soft and lively face turning grey and dead, all because he couldn’t save you. Could he truly not have stopped it? Did his self assured fighting style cause him to slip up and fail to protect you? He was so sure that this was just a routine mission. Was his hubris the cause of your demise?

Xavier shakes his head. Numbness has spread deep in his chest and he closes his eyes. He should go to sleep. Yes, that would probably be for the best. Sleeping is the only escape he currently he has.

He‘s been sleeping almost every single hour of the day. He can’t bear being awake and being reminded of you. The ghost of you haunts him down in every single room. There’s no where to escape from you, and he’s not sure if he even wants to escape. So he sleeps. And sleeps. For hours upon hours. His body is not only getting weaker with every hour, but it has also given up just like Xaver himself has. After a few weeks, he doesn’t wake up anymore.

Zayne:

Zayne sits in his office and analyses the medical records of a new patient. It’s already long past the end of his shift, but he hasn’t been home before midnight in months. Why would he? It’s not like he has anything to come back home to. He can’t stand coming home to the cold and empty space which used to be so full of life; so full of you. The very essence of your being oozes out of every single thing he has at home. Your annotated books sprawled across his bookshelf, your clothes laying securely on top of his in the wardrobe, every item of furniture that you have carefully picked out. He especially can’t look at his bed, which he used to worship your full figure on. The memories of you pop up in his head; him massaging your thick body til you were all soft and pliable in his hands, his nose gently bumping against your inner thighs before he began feasting on you. He can’t stand it, and simultaneously he needs more of it.

His fellow coworkers know not to bring you up anymore. Zayne excuses himself from every conversation about you. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk about you, he loves reminiscing. By himself. He doesn’t need to talk to people who have this false version of you in their head. They don’t know you as well as he does. The walls he has built around himself are impenetrable and he will not accept anybody’s fake concern. He can’t stand their polite condolences. He can’t stand any of it.

Zayne stares down at the documents when suddenly a few drops of blood splatter down on the page. He sighs and pulls out a tissue and holds it against his nose. Fatigue mars his face and the dark circles under his eyes are now permanently etched into his face. He rubs his face and presses his glasses closer to his face as he ignores the incoming headache. He’s exhausted, but he cannot stop working. His patient reminds him of you. Whether it’s his patient’s physical appearance, their condition, or their mannerisms. They remind him of you and Zayne can‘t let this person die. They can’t die. He’s lost patients before that reminded him of you and with every single one of those people that die in his presence, the few pieces of his heart that are left crumble into pieces so small they can never be fixed.

Zayne‘s hands grab onto his scalp and he winces when ice began to spread on his hands. He clenches his teeth and closes his eyes as he tries to regulate his breath. His stomach rumbles uncomfortably and he sighs as he forces a protein bar down his throat. He needs to focus on this patient‘s damn health, and his own annoying body needs to stop getting ln the way of it.

He‘ll keep being a doctor for a few years until a better and healthier doctor comes around. Zayne‘ll try his best to shove down all the memories of you, and will ignore his deteriorating physical and mental health and try to save as many people as possible, so that the void in his heart can be filled (it won’t). He will resign and then bury himself in you. In the idea of you, in everything you liked to do while you were alive.

Rafayel:

Rafayel embodies the term of a tortured artist. He locks himself in his house and paints you. That’s all he he’ll draw and those paintings are for his eyes only. He stopped selling his artworks and whenever Thomas wants to scold him for it, he‘ll give him the day off and will continue painting you. Every single expression you had, your ample body adorned in all kinds of expensive clothes, certain scenes of your previous dates. He‘ll draw it all and even more.

Rafayel stares down at the painting of you with a gentle smile and traces along your facial features on the painting. You look exactly the way he remembers you and warmth spreads across his chest.

“Cutie, you love to make me wait, don’t you? Is that it? You like having me obsessed? It makes the reunion much sweeter, huh? Well, I can’t really hold it against you. I‘ll wait for you again. I’ve done it before and I have no problem doing it again.“

Rafayel’s smile drops a little and he bites his chapped lips, his gaze still laser focused on the painting. “I was serious, by the way. I won’t hold it against you that you made me wait. I won’t even tease you about it. So, come back soon. Please.“

For a while, Rafayel will continue to live this way and it will work for him. He‘ll continue to live in the past and bask in your presence. He‘ll do so happily, and manipulate himself into thinking that he’s okay. Rafayel will think of all the ways that he will worship you when you come back. He’ll lay you out in front of him and ravish you. He’ll smell you, hold you tight. He‘ll continue to live in this self imposed delusional bubble until he notices that he can’t remember the sound of your voice anymore.

Rafayel hums happily as he finishes the painting of your laughing face. He smiles giddily at your soft face and thinks back about the date that this laugh occurred in. His smile drops immediately when he noticed that he couldn’t conjure up the sound of you laugh. Rafayel shakes his head and jumps up from his chair. His heart beats rapidly and he continues shaking his head in denial. “No, no. No, please. Please!“

He thinks back about the sweet nothings you told him, and he remembers them word for word. However, in his head it’s not your voice that’s speaking, but his.

Rafayel’s face forms into an expression of devastation and anger as he quickly grabs his cup filled with paintbrushes and throws it across the room. He pushes the easel over and buckles over as hot tears streamed down his stunning face. Rafayel’s sobs echo throughout the room. He can’t forget you. He just can‘t. He loves you, he adores you. How could he forget the sound of your voice?

Rafayel brokenly looks around the scattered art utensils and stares at the paintings of you. There was an umpteenth number of paintings in the room, and he exhaled shakingly. His delusional bubble burst and he understands that you’re not coming back. You didn’t do this to sweeten the reunion, you didn’t run away so that he could use you as a muse til felt loved enough to come back. You’re dead. It was gruesome and bloody and you were in pain.

A whimper escapes out of his mouth and he sluggishly made his way over to an empty canvas. He starts painting you again; this time it was the last moment he saw you. Your face bloody and dirty, your eyes vacant and beady and your squishy cheeks grey and dead.

He finishes his painting after a while and solemnly walks over to the ocean. It‘s freezing and slowly lapping at his naked toes. Rafayel walks forward until water reaches his calves, and then he walks further, and further.

A week later, there‘ll be news about how the popular artist has disappeared from the face of earth, and he’s left behind nothing but a room full of paintings of his dead partner.

Sylus:

Just like every day, Sylus walks over to your expensive headstone. He’s dressed in his best clothes, he showered and smells as good as he always does. His face is slightly scruffy from not shaving, but overall, nobody would be able to tell that he’s going through extreme grief.

“Good morning, sweetie. You would not believe the morning that I’ve had.“ Sylus‘ hoarse voice ground out as he starts picking at the huge bouquet of flowers. Just yesterday he brought you a different ginormous one, but he won’t let you go any longer than a day without fresh flowers. He softly puts the flowers on top of your tidy grave and smiles at the other expensive decorations he’s put there. He bought you one of the most expensive headstones in the world. Naturally, you only deserve the best. He gently wipes over your face on your grave stone and smiles happily. He picks at the leaves and dirt that have accumulated on the items and wipes the headstone clean. Sylus puts a soft blanket over your grave and sits at the very end of it. Maybe it’s the draconian genes in him that cause him to make a comfortable nest for you. He smiled at the thought and continues his story from before.

“There was a person in front of me in the line that looked exactly like you from the back. They were just as curvy as you, they had the same hair style as you and they even had your sense of style.“ Sylus grinned. He thought that you came back to him. He knew that you were alive. He knew that you couldn’t possibly be dead. When the person turned around and he saw it wasn’t you, he almost started crying right then and there. He shakes his head and pulls something out of the crinkly paper bag.

“I got your favourite drink. The barista gave me a free brownie today. She must’ve known that I was going to visit you. You always had the sweet tooth out of the both of us.“

Sylus put the fudgy brownie on next to him on top of blanket and sighs softly. He sits for a few minutes in silence. His lip wobbles and he closes his eyes tightly. He inhales and exhales sharply three times and opens his watery eyes afterwards.

“This must be my punishment, huh? For leaving you behind during our last life?“ Sylus asks with a sad smile. He looks down at the ground as tears roll down his cheeks. He wipes them away quickly.

“You wanted to give me a taste of my own medicine? Kitten, your stubbornness has always amused me, but I think you went too far this time.“

Sylus gazes at the smiling picture of you on your gravestone and his long fingers drift across the date of your death. He grits his teeth and pushes his forehead against the gravestone.

“Sweetie, I have learned my lesson. I swear I did. Come back now, alright? Come back to me. I don’t care if you don’t remember me. I don’t care if you hate me. I’ll take it all. Just come back.“

He clears his throat shakily and shakes his head. “No, this truly is my punishment. In the beginning you were disgusted by me. That should’ve been my sign to stop pursuing you. It wasn’t meant to be this time around. Our relationship should’ve happened organically. It shouldn’t have happened the way that it did and I should’ve left you alone, just like you wanted. My love, I promise I’ll do it better next time. I’ll protect you better. I’ll let you dictate our relationship. I mean, you dictated our relationship this time around as well, but next time I’ll let you come to me.“

Sylus laughs wetly and nods softly. “Yeah. That’s how we‘ll do it.“

Tears well up in his eyes as he remembered the moment of your death and his breath hitches. This time he let them fall freely and bawls into his hands.

Caleb:

This man is not doing okay. You died during the year in which he pretended to be dead. Naturally, he kept tabs on you, so when he heard rumours about you being dead, his world shattered. He flew over to Linkon, nothing else mattered anymore. He banged on your door.

“Pipsqueak, open the door. It’s me! I know, I know. It’s really me. It’s Caleb. Please, baby. Open the door for me, okay? I’ll explain everything inside. Please baby. Please, open the door for me. Please let me in.“ Caleb banged against the door desperately, his chest heaving up and down rapidly. Bile rose in his throat when you didn’t reply and he continued knocking against the door in a heavy rhythm.

“Baby… let me in. It’s me. I’m here. I’m here for you. I didn’t leave you. Open the door. Come on. Please.“

Caleb dropped to his knees and leaned against door with his forehead. At this point, he was still in denial, his hand was trembling heavily but he still banged against the door. Hoping for you to open the door. He hoped you’d let him come inside. He hoped you’d tear out his jugular. He hoped you’d beat the shit out of him. He hoped you’d let him get down on his knees and grovel for leaving you.

The door next to him opened and an old man stepped out and looked at him curiously. Caleb stared up at him with wet eyes.

“Young man, the owner of that apartment died recently. Have you not heard of it? Their funeral is tomorrow. I doubt anyone will show though, they’ve not had any visitors over during their stay here.“

Caleb stared at the old man, who looked at him in pity, and shook his head. “You’re lying to me. Why are you lying?“ Caleb asked, he couldn’t recognise the sound of his own voice. His voice was broken and grief- stricken. The old man sighed softly and closed his door.

Caleb stays there for a few hours without moving. He didn’t cry, he didn’t think. He just knelt there in front of the door with an aghast expression. After two hours, he stood up on wobbly knees and began walking. He pulled out his phone and texted your number.

'Pipsqueak, where are you? It’s me, Caleb.‘

'I will answer all of your questions.‘

'Should we meet at the café?‘

'Are you on a mission?‘

'Are you out with Tara?'

'Where are you?‘

'Tell me where you are, I’ll pick you up‘

'Can you respond to me, please?‘

'If you don’t want to talk, I totally understand. Just send me a thumbs up emoji.‘

'Baby, please.‘

'No, this is not real‘

Caleb numbly walked through the empty streets til morning. He visited the place of your funeral and numbly let it play out. There were a handful of people, not a lot. And none of them stayed for long. Except for Caleb. He watched all of the people pay their respects and then walk off happily. How could they be happy? Are these the only people that were around you during the past year? No wonder you recklessly went on that suicide mission. Caleb blinked sluggishly and watched as the funeral service came to its end.

Your funeral was a few weeks ago. Now, Caleb lays in his bed. His lips are bloody and cracked and he is starved down. His hair is greasy and bloody from not having showered and having ripped at his own hair. Nobody is there to see his deteriorating state, because nobody cares about him like you do. He blinks and stares at his phone as he eagerly waits for your message. You should really respond. He understands your frustration but you should still tell him yourself that you want to be left alone. He’s never liked when you gave him the silent treatment. He preferred it when you let him know how mad you are. He begins tipping yet again.

'Baby, should I cook you something? Your favourite meal, maybe? Will you then respond?‘

'Should I buy you something expensive? I’ll oblige, just send me the link.‘

'You went on that mission because I wasn’t there to stop you.‘

Caleb’s thumb freezes over the keyboard and hot tears pour out of his eyes and he throws his phone against the wall. He sobs loudly, hoping you’ll run into the room to comfort him. Maybe you’ll push his head into your warm and ample chest and let him listen to your heartbeat. He waits for a few seconds and sobs pathetically as dizziness caught up to him.

He had one job in life. To take care of you. And now you were dead. You thought he was dead as well when you died. The only comfort you probably had during those agony filled moments, was the fact that you’d reunite with him and even then he let you down. He let you down in every sense of the word. You would’ve never been as reckless with your life as you were, if he had been there. He would’ve made sure of it. It’s alright now. He‘ll remedy the betrayal you probably felt when he wasn’t there. He’ll let you chew him out now, happily. He’s made you wait for long enough.

[gothicfied]

Nam-gyu / Player 124 Headcanons

Pairing: Nam-gyu / Player 124 x fem!reader

Warnings: Mentions of death/dying, gunshots, drug use/heroin use (typical squid game stuff), other than that it's just fluff, not proof read (english isn't my first language)

જ⁀➴ Walking down these strangely colorful stairs, with the equally strange backgroud music being the only thing that filled the silence between all the surviving players, made you feel like throwing up. You just witnessed people literally die right in front of you, shot for the smallest movement. If it wasn't for the adrenalin pumping throughout your body, you sure as hell wouldn't have survived either.

Suddenly, you felt a hand on your shoulder, making you jolt. "Woah," Player 124, according to his jacket, stopped in his tracks when you did, too, holding up his hands in a defensive manner, "sorry. Didn't mean to startle you." While you just looked at him annoyed, a grin started to form on his lips: "What? Just wanted to know if you're okay. You scared or something?"

જ⁀➴ From then on Nam-gyu refused to leave you alone, constantly teasing you about your, very valid, fear and distress. No insults, no nothing made him stop - no - the purple haired junkie egged him on. After some time you just started to ignore him, or at least tried to. For whatever reason, Nam-gyu was very touchy with everybody, but especially you. He dragged, grabbed and shook you by your shoulders like a ragdoll when talking to you, sometimes weirdly rubbing over your back in an almost comforting way.

જ⁀➴ He'd purposefully walk past your bed to hush a quick "Good night." before lights out, often times observing you in the golden light of the piggy bank that was the only dim light source at night. Seeing you struggle to find some rest made him chuckle to himself, knowing that he had the same problem, too.

જ⁀➴ Before the first voting, he'd grab you by your arm, trying to charm you into voting in favor of the games. It was almost like he was able to sense that you wanted to quit, but it should've been blatantly obvious. Only someone with a death wish would want to continue this. Maybe he had one, after all. Once, you noticed from afar how he was nagging Thanos to give him one of those colored pills, drugs, pushing the sleeve of his right arm up to reveal the inside of his elbow. From your distance, you couldn't quite make out what he was showing him, but you assumed it were heroin marks. Well, now you kinda felt bad for him.

જ⁀➴ You weren't quite sure what to think of him. Nam-gyu would often bite around his fingernails, tug his sleeves over his hands, since this place was deathly cold sometimes, and stress over many things you also stressed about. Noticing you two weren't all that different after all, you warmed up to the idea of interacting with him.

જ⁀➴ Obviously, it couldn't all go the way you wanted it to. Not being affiliated with anyone around here proved itself to be a much greater problem during the mingle.

As soon as the spinning platform everyone tried to balance themselves on stopped along the music, the female announced the number: "Ten!". Immediately players started to scramble and hurry to find themselves a group, a group of men almost running you over. Fear, stress, anxiety, dread - You felt all of it at once. The clock was ticking down and all you could is stand there and look around you, already accepting your fate. But, apparently, the universe said no: A hand quickly grabbed you by your arm, forcefully pulling you with them. You were slammed against the wall of one of the small rooms as the door shut behind you, the timer reaching zero almost directly after. "What the fuck were you thinking? Seriously? Why did you just stand there?" it was Nam-gyu who was yelling at you, keeping you pinned against the wall by your shoulders. "Do you wanna get yourself killed?" You stared up at him, with a kind of offended expression, and he just stared back. In fact, all other eight players were staring at you two. Noticing the deafening silence, Nam-gyu turned his head around to Thanos, who just raised an eyebrow. "What? We need more people to vote 'O' anyway."

જ⁀➴ You felt like you owed him something now. Picking away at some of the kimbap you couldn't bring your to eat anymore, you scanned the dorm area for Nam-gyu. He was surprisingly alone for a moment, Thanos being off to bother someone else with whatever problem he came up with now.

Hesitantly, you took quick steps towards Nam-gyu's bed, coming to a halt right in front of it. He saved your life, the least you could do was give him some of your food that was being handed out to you players pretty sparsely. Feeling your presence behind him, he tucked a few strands of his hair behind his ears, not even needing to turn around to know it was you. "What is it?" Perhaps he was a bit embarrassed because of that moment after all. You sat down next to him on the, pretty uncomfortable mattress, handing him the rest of your food you wrapped back up in the aluminum foil. Just a quick moment of eye contact was enough for him to understand that you were really grateful for what he did back there.

જ⁀➴ If the guards wouldn't let you use the bathroom, claiming this late at night no one would be able to, Nam-gyu would be the one to come over to the door, hammering against the glass and demand that they let you in. "Come on, she's a woman," he'd exclaim, "have some decency." And when the door finally opened, you'd give him a smile. An actual, honest one.

જ⁀➴ It's as if Nam-gyu lived for that. Your smile, your small acts of gratefulness after he saved your life. You've grown on him - he'd even understand it if you'd continue to vote against resuming the games. Thinking about you being able to live your life to the fullest made him happy, even if he didn't understand that feeling quite yet.

[choochooboss]

Sketch dump! Vol. 5

September 2022 (Part 1/2)

The first piece on top summarised my cosplay rush for Tracon 2022! The second is an old idea for a charm.

"SURPRISE!!"

Back in 2022 I hosted an art raffle for reaching 777 followers on Twitter! The winner would get their submas themed idea realised (which was their friends throwing a surprise party for the twins!). I wanted to make a little comic and have the bosses walk in their office where depot agents, Elesa, Drayden, Skyla, Clay etc. would be waiting with decorations and treats and games.

Emmet is all smiles of course while Ingo gets so emotional he could only whisper a "super bravo".

Not really headcanons anymore but still funny ideas.

1. Emmet gets clumsy when off-rhythm! He starts walking in curves if there is nobody else around to match his rhythm with.

2. Emmet spaces out/forgets to say things aloud when someone speaks too long or when things go off-script! His thinking gets interrupted easily.

3. Ingo sometimes bumps into doors because he is too used to automatic doors!

4. When things go off-script Ingo speaks too much and rushes in straight lines"

Also my little inexpensive sketchbook & my trusty tools! Mechanical pencil and eraser pen are life when scribbling my skrimblos smaller than a postage stamp!

More Ingo~ I utilise a wide range of sources for references, including CSP's poseable 3D models, they can come really handy with perspectives and proportions!

The second piece is my very first attempt at cosplay in Tracon 2022: Blingo! I walked in with a sequin hat, leather jacket, leather pants and high heel patent leather boots.

The hardest part of cosplaying Ingo is remembering NOT to smile ahaha!

Some hairstyle tests

I drew these for a huge submas art collaboration over Twitter hosted by @/mimizukeii!! It was technically my first art collab before I started arranging them myself with Aggie/Magma.

While looking for train related songs I found this cute nursery rhyme to go with the marching:

"Over the mountains,

Over the plains,

Over the rivers,

Here come the trains.

Carrying passengers,

Carrying mail,

Bringing their precious loads In without fail"

I wanted to compare these silly twins, planning to do something more silly with them later. Also a sketch of @/fukurow's butler designs I never finished.. The capes compliment them so well, I love them!!

Prequel to this piece! Emmet is so confident in himself he thinks Pierce wants to learn from him but is invited for a duet on the stage instead!!

Emmet has really great voice actors in Pokemas! I especially love how his english VA gives him that bri'ish/posh/sophisticated vibe while also soft and melodic! I know for SURE this VA/Emmet can sing, I can show you later!

One of my favourite sketches!! I wanted to add a bunch of characters in the BG reacting to this sonic blast of emotion over a performance!

Heyyy it's the smile buddies comic!! I really hope Ingo gets to interact with Marnie in Pokemas one day!!

I feel Ingo's eyes in the mirror panel is a little off in the final comic, I meant to keep it softer like in the sketch!

It's Nimbasa trio!! Idea inspired by submas EX uniform colors. Might continue this later!

Some BG tests for this piece! Compositing is hard but absolutely worth the effort, it can make a huge difference in the appeal of your piece!!

Practise piece drawing over a photo I thought was cool! I want to get more experimental with lighting and perspective!

'How's it hanging bro?' Who hung him up there anyway??

Sketch for this arguing scene! Something REALLY BAD needs to happen for them to end up that tense! Even if I want to present them close to the canon material I still want to put them in really challenging situations to see how far I can push their emotions!

Thank you so much for coming all the way down here!! This set was pretty loaded, I hope you enjoyed scrolling through all this ahah!

Previous posts:

Sketch dump Vol. 1: April-June 2022

Sketch dump Vol. 2: July 2022

Sketch dump Vol. 3: August 2022

Sketch dump Vol. 4: July 2022 Part 2

[aurumalatus]

𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒, 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇

pairing. kinich x fem!reader wc. 1.4k genre/warnings. harbinger!kinich, knight!kinich, assassin!kinich, mentions of killing/blood/violence, hurt/comfort summary. the ways kinich comforts you across different universes. author's note. this blog is the fucking kinich multiverse LMAO. all au sources will be linked! enjoy <3 unedited my b it's 2am reblogs/interaction highly appreciated!

BRIGHELLA, THE HELLRAISER [HARBINGER!KINICH]

The Tenth Harbinger is a busy man.

He doesn’t like to waste time, doesn’t bother with subtleties and anything he deems uneconomical. There are few issues that are worthwhile to a man of his stature—with the wealth of power at his fingertips, minor concerns can become mere memories.

And still, despite it all, he cancels the rest of his appointments for the day when he finds you alone, sobbing into your shirt. 

There’s no hesitation. He simply turns to the closest Fatui agent, tells them to clear his schedule, and orders them to leave. Nothing excessive, nothing unnecessary. It’s how he always is.

The bed dips shallowly when he sits down next to you, a newfound warmth introduced at your side. For a few minutes, it’s quiet. Only your stuttering sobs fill the air, and Kinich just listens.

“I don’t like when you cry,” he finally sighs, smoothing down your hair. 

“I know,” you murmur in reply, tucking yourself closer to him. The inky fur at his collar brushes your cheek. “I’m sorry.”

And really, you are. This kind of soft weakness isn’t accepted in the Fatui, at least not where you’ve seen.

He hums, the vibration making you shiver. “Don’t be.”

Kinich’s warmth disappears abruptly from beneath you, your eyes flying open in surprise.

He’s leaving?

“Wh—where are you going?” you ask, watching as he rises swiftly to his feet. The darkened silhouette of a long, spiked tail slithers beneath the shadow of his cloak. 

There’s a note of something grim in his expression, a nightmarish aura drifting from his seemingly calm figure. Most wouldn’t notice it until it was too late, but you know.

You know the monstrous things he is capable of. You witness them every day.

Kinich glances back at you distantly. 

You can never quite describe the way that his eyes rake over you, a chilling affection in his gaze. It makes you feel protected, but not warm. Loved, but caged.

“Tell me who made you cry,” he urges quietly, a single gloved finger tracing your jaw. The corner of his lip quirks up when your eyes widen. “And I’ll take care of it for you.”

PIXELPRINCESS!AU [KNIGHT!KINICH]

Royals raise their heads high before their people.

It’s one of the rules that you’ve learned since you were a child, so foundational that it’s been etched deeply into your brain. It’s the structure of your perfect posture, the chin-up smile that graces your face as you walk the halls of the castle. To underperform would be to disappoint your people and ignore what your role requires of you.

That’s why you only cry during the night. 

No one usually catches you—the maids are long gone, and you should be fast asleep by now. But sometimes, the weight grows so overwhelming that it squeezes the sobs from your chest. Even despite your best efforts to remain quiet, the sounds echo from the tall ceilings of your room.

The door creaks open.

You know who it is without looking up. It couldn’t be anyone else, wouldn’t be anyone else, at least not at this hour. 

There’s only one person who would check on you at this time.

“Princess?”

Kinich takes a few quick strides across the room, urgency written with every step. He’s faster than you expected, and before you can blink he’s already standing before you.

Without delay, he drops to his knees, discarding his blade at his side. The sight sobers you, if only for a moment—he usually treats it with the utmost care.

“Tell me where it hurts,” he urges, voice laced with subdued desperation, like he’s trying to stay calm for your sake. 

But his fingers betray him, and they quiver as they sweep over your arms and hands, searching for signs of injury. You finally manage to shake your head, and Kinich’s gaze snaps up to your face instantly.

“What’s wrong, Princess? Please tell me.���

His tone is so gentle, with a firmness that is very suitable for the Captain of the Guard. But you’ve never heard him use such niceties with anyone else. You take quiet pride in that, deep in your heart—the unknown aspects of himself that Kinich solely saves for you.

The molten gold of his eyes makes a heat sprout in your chest. You look away.

You can’t manage to answer him, and he doesn’t demand more of you after that. He busies himself with looking you over, absolutely thorough in checking for even a millimeter of damage to your skin. You allow it, accepting the weightlessness of his touch.

A delicate thread of silence unfurls between you, the mutual understanding and comfort lulling your tears away. 

You don’t go to sleep that night. Kinich doesn’t leave either. 

You know that if you told him to, you would. You know if you told him to forget he saw anything, he would. You know that if you told him to go to the far lands and eliminate whatever sorry source was making you cry, he would.

But you don’t.

So, instead, you let the warm, familiar grip of Kinich’s hands in yours dry the tears on your cheeks.

THE BLOOD IN OUR SHADOWS [ASSASSIN!KINICH]

The family meetings are really such a drag.

If it wasn’t required of you, you wouldn’t step foot on this estate ever again. In fact, you would much prefer it that way. Because maybe then, you wouldn’t be forced to interact with your dreadful siblings every damn day of your life—

“I don’t know why you keep attending these, if not because you like being humiliated.”

At your side, Kinich freezes mid-step, prickling. You sigh in irritation, already expecting the sweet smile on the face of your older sister.

Amane. The Lovers.

“Even your acolyte is subpar,” your sister laughs, a thin, tinny sound that makes your ears ring and head ache. Your face scrunches in displeasure. She’s always been so vexing to interact with. “It’s no wonder that father doesn’t bother with you. That, or your whore of a mother.”

Her acolyte, Childe, chuckles at her side. 

You bite your lip—you’ve grown soft, you think bitterly. Maybe too much time away from home has made you this way, but her words sting more than you remember.

The quiet hiss of Kinich’s katana leaving its sheath draws your attention, and your mouth barely has time to fall open before his blade is at your sister’s throat.

Her eyes are wide-open in silent shock. It’s probably a sick, vile thought, but you welcome the sight of anything but that ugly smile on her face.

At her neck, a thin, ruby-red line of blood blooms over her pale skin, slowly dripping toward the seams of her kimono. Childe had already reacted just as quickly, his dagger digging at Kinich’s jaw. Your partner doesn’t seem to mind, teeth gritted in rage and stare zeroed in on your sister’s face.

You would recognize that expression anywhere—he’s prepared to kill.

You sigh, weighing your options. As much as you hate Amane, you don’t think your father would take kindly to you killing his favorite daughter, especially not during such a precarious time.

“Kinich.”

His gaze flickers to you through his dark lashes, instantly warming as if there is no knife at his throat. “My Lady.”

If you gave him the go-ahead, you’re quite sure he would cut your sister down, or at least he would try. But Childe watches you with a sinister smile, as if daring you to urge Kinich’s hand. 

“We should go,” you say, and his hand and sword immediately return to his sheath.

Despite the rage that you can feel boiling at your side, you offer a placating smile to your sibling, who seems overjoyed at your submission. 

“Oh, look how sweet,” Amane sighs, a mocking hand pressed to her chest. She turns to Childe, snapping her fan open and whispering behind it conspiratorily. “If she tries for one-hundred more years, she might just be as charming as me.”

She suddenly doesn’t seem bothered by the blood that stains her neck. If anything, she seems even happier than she was before. It makes you feel ill.

You don’t dignify her with a response, opting to simply step past her as Kinich follows. His expression darkens when he walks past.

“Your life rests in My Lady’s hands,” he mutters dimly, eyes flashing. Amane flinches. “I’ll be gifting your head to her when the time comes.”

[starsintheskyandtheeye]

Respect for the Dead

By Lois Lane and Clark Kent

1,436 words

By now most of the world has been shaken by the news.

Ghosts are real! And ghosts are in danger! The original publication written by Lois Lane can be found here but we are not here to follow that well trodden avenue of discussion.

Here at the Daily Planet we have elected to focus on speaking to the ghosts themselves, rather than debate their existence alongside our fellow papers. During the hunt for the new source of Kryptonite that sparked this discovery Lois Lane made contact with one Danny Phantom. Originally he chose to anonymous but since the outpouring of support from much of the world he has since chosen to come forward publicly.

Given that the ghostly teenager is operating as a hero similar to our own Superman much of his personal history could not be shared. What was safe to share however was very different from what this reporting team had been expecting.

We had gone in prepared to hear the story of what caused a ghost that looks like a schoolboy to lead a life of ghostly vigilantism.

What we got was sweetly sarcastic individual giving us amusing anecdotes of his start as a hero, descriptions of the stranger habits he's gained since his death, and many many tips on how to politely interact with a ghost. At our confusion (who knew there were so many different types of ghost!) Phantom went on to explain and correct several common misconceptions about ghosts. So without further ado; here are the highlights of that discussion.

We begin with what was given to us as the number one rule of human/ghost etiquette. Never ask the individual, be they glowing werewolf, ghostly lunch-lady, or undead rock star, about the circumstances of their death.

It seems simple does it not? A matter of everyday politeness, and yet that is the number one reason for communication breakdowns between ectoplasmic entities and still living humans. Fortunately for the health of the interview this reporting team did not make that mistake. Phantom did not explain the nature of the offense but did not need to. It was clear that the, until then, friendly conversation would have ended abruptly if we had gone any farther down that path.

What we were encouraged (and warned) to talk to a ghost about was their obsession. As Phantom explained, "It's what drives a ghost, why we are still here, or why we formed at all."

When asked about his own obsession Phantom laughed a bit and said, "I'm a bit young for a ghost, so I don't really have one yet, I bounce around a lot. My doctor, he's a yeti, says it's normal for me though! The options are all over the place though. I know one ghost that haunts the high school to prevent bullying, a really nice guy. Another just wants to have her music heard by the world. Unfortunately her music brainwashes people to love her so we aren't super close. Or another that is all about granting wishes, but not in a singing blue genie way, in a fairy tale way, it's a mess whenever she gets over here."

That seems to be a common theme in ghostly/human interaction. Ghosts largely mean no harm but the pursuit of their own obsessions can have devastating effects on any that stand between them and their goal. Something to keep in mind if you're ordering pizza when the Box Ghost is at large.

Hoping it wouldn't cross into the realm of ghostly faux pas we went on to ask how old Phantom is. Once again Phantom seemed somewhat awkward although no more than what seemed to be his baseline when talking to (self claimed) famous reporters, saying only, "Time works differently in the realms. It can be really weird sometimes, you'll be talking to someone that looks like a toddler only to learn that they were last in a human world during the 1400s or something."

As Phantom continued to share however, the everlasting aspect seemed to be the least interesting part of the Infinite Realms, or the Ghost Zone as the Doctors Fenton, previously mentioned as ghostly experts here, call the place where the vast majority of ghosts dwell.

Ghostly yetis practicing medicine, while certainly not the least of the inhabitants were just the start. Phantom went on to share with us a sampling of the being he has encountered in his travels, medieval women moonlighting as temperamental dragons, the very concept of time, a warden of any ghosts that cross his path, and of course the ubiquitous creepy toddler so often featured on the silver screen.

According to Phantom up until extremely recently (whether by ghostly or human terms we were unable to determine) the Infinite Realms was closed off from our own home except for the occasional haunting. Which was explained to us by the telling of what was, to Phantom, a very funny joke about pop culture influencing ghost culture as people died and brought it over with them. From this we can glean several things. That the realms of the living and the dead have never been so far apart as it would have seemed to the living. That the near future will hold many changes as major religions, governments, and the common people hear what the dead have to say as they weigh in on what respect for the dead really means. And that while many things do translate, ghostly humor is not one of them.

Although of course that may be that, despite his real age being possibly many times our own - combined, Phantom is still eternally a teenager. And a teenagers jokes are often incomprehensible to any who do not share that state.

When asked about the sudden ghostly interest in our own living Earth Phantom had this to say, "Lots of ghosts want to go to the lands of the living. Especially anyone that used to be alive themselves. And anyone that didn't is curious what the fuss is about. Earth is so different from the ghost zone but it's still where a lot of us came from. If someone gets a chance to hop through the portal they'll go, to see how things have changed, or to keep things from changing, or just to stretch their obsessions. Really it's a chance to go home, just for a little while," he said, reminding us that for all they look like aliens ghosts are just as human as you or I.

With a few caveats.

The portal Phantom spoke of is an invention by the Doctors Fenton, Ectobiologists. Up until recently Jack and Maddie Fenton had been the worlds foremost ghostly experts, building a portal to the "Ghost Zone" in order to study what up until recently had been considered to be a non-sentient classification of emotional ectoplasmic imprintation.

We spoke to the researchers after our interview with Phantom, at his request. Despite the recent evidence come to light the couple remain the foremost (living) human scientists in the field. When asked about the setback to their work they had this to say, "We were devastated of course. To learn that we won't be able to study spooks -" Jack Fenton broke off there, at an extremely well executed elbow jab from Maddie Fenton who then said. "We got an extreme tunnel vision, a hazard of obsessive science. We were told we were wrong about the existence of ghosts for so long that we forgot to check that we were correct about their nature. We look forward to pivoting to ghostly anthropology and human/ghost interaction technology."

Ultimately we did not learn any groundbreaking secrets, but then if a ghost willing to go on record ( a written record at least, our recorded transcript of the conversation was near unusable due to static) you sit down and listen. We can never anticipate what a reader will take from an article but if we could make a suggestion? In this reporting teams opinion, the balance of ghost and human realms is not unlike the inversion of a mirror. We are reflections of one another. Opposite, yes, and dangerous to one another for it, but ultimately we are all the same. After all what is a ghost but emotion and ectoplasm (according to current science)? And for all that we try to rise above it, what is a human but emotion and flesh?

Fin.

Coming Soon!

Keep an eye out for top ten tips on ghostly interaction and interviews with the Justice League on diplomatic efforts with GHOSTLY ROYALTY!!

[banamine-bananime]

Growing up I lived in an area with a lot of cattle farming and I was very scared of the cows. Do you have any cool facts that will make me either more or less afraid of cows?

oh hmm let me think on that!

facts related to how to interact with cows so all parties feel and stay safe:

they have a very prey herd animal mentality. they want to move with their herdmates. they want to watch any potential threats like people and move away from them. they don't like loud or unfamiliar noises (they're sensitive souls. sometimes if i visit a dairy wearing waterproof coveralls where the cows are only used to people wearing cotton coveralls, just the whisper of waterproof pants rubbing against each other can spook them) or abrupt movements or going into areas they can't see well (and they have difficulty with depth perception due to their wide-set eyes for 300 degree vision, and with high-contrast, so going from sun into shade or vice versa can look like stepping into a white or black void for them and they don't like it)

based on this, we know the keys to low-stress cattle handling are consistency in how you interact with them, calmness (small movements, quiet words to let them know you're there), moving cows in groups big enough to have friends but small enough you can control the whole group without them milling around or the ones in front stopping and causing a traffic jam, and slowly moving them by just barely getting in their "bubble" of "whoa, you're a little too close for comfort, i'm going to move in the other direction" without ever getting into their "YIKES RUN AWAY FROM THIS THING" bubble

the last point involves understanding pressure and flight zones and point of balance:

from Mississippi State University Extension:

from grandin.com (highly recommend as a source of information about animal behaviour and welfare!!! temple grandin my idol since i was like nine i love her so. and i tear up when i think about how much she's done for millions of animals ;_; she's a genius and no lie revolutionized low-stress handling):

pet cows that get doted on enough to bond with people may not see people as a threat so the normal ways we use pressure zones to iinteract with cows don't necessarily do anything for them. you would lead them more like a horse, using a halter. or lure them with treats.

beef cows typically have little contact with people, often just processing (vaccines, preg checks, quick exam for any health problems) a couple times a year, so they can be very wild. doesn't mean they're aggressive, the overwhelming majority are non-aggressive but they have very large flight zones, so if you don't recognize that and approach too quickly, getting deep in their flight zone, that can get you into a dangerous situation where they get aggressive as a last resort. that said, they do usually still choose flight unless their calf is with them. "never get between mom and baby" applies as it does with any species

dairy cows are in between beef cows and pet cows. they interact with people regularly, several times per day, and it's respectful but not doting. kind of a business relationship with their handlers. they're not terrified of people by any means, but they haven't been, like, hand-fed treats to get over their instinctive wariness of potential-predator-like animals, and they know sometimes handling results in unpleasant experiences like medical treatment or pregnancy checks, so they avoid touch and have a flight zone, though it's small (and sometimes they'll calmly let you walk right up to them unrestrained, or approach you and lick you out of curiosity). very very rare to have an aggressive dairy cow (as in, one that attacks you instead of moving away when you're bothering them a little. really bothering them and ignoring body language when they can't move away is much more likely to get you kicked)

bulls are not docile. not every bull will be aggressive, but you should assume that every bull has the capacity to become aggressive with little provocation, and always keep a respectful distance and know your escape route if you have to be in a pen or field with them

cows love exploring with their tongues. any time you're in a dairy barn there's gonna be at least one friendly girl mlem mlem mlemming who won't leave you alone

adding on to the above, there is a slight caveat that you still have to be a LITTLE wary of friendly cows. 99% of the time they're just friendly but sometimes cows in heat will try to mount people. you don't have to be scared of friendly cows but if they're right next to you just keep them in your line of sight so you can move away if they make like they're going to mount. again, not common, never happened to me, but something to be aware of

signs of a happy, relaxed cow: lying down, chewing cud or eating, tail hanging down relaxed, moving slowly with her herd

signs of a slightly wary cow (you have entered the "pressure zone"): standing still/stopping what she's doing, turning towards you, ears turning towards you (watching the ears is a very good way of knowing what she's paying attention to), tail swishing or raised a bit away from body

signs of a distressed cow: vocalizing (they also moo for other reasons though), tail swishing, fidgeting/pawing/looking like she wants to move but doesn't know where to, freezing up and intermittently making erratic movements (back away a little)

signs of an aggressive cow: head down with attention on you, pawing ground, turning to show you their broad side. (turn sideways and calmly but swiftly walk away diagonally)

[racheldrawsthis]

Even if Dead plate wasn’t queerbaiting, it was DEFINITELY shipbaiting. The dialogue option about whether Rody is jealous of Vince’s possible gf, the hair drying scene, the way he stops correcting Rody about not calling him Vince… u guys r tumblr girlies, you knew damn well what you were doing LMAO. There’s nothing wrong w that lol - it makes for a fun dynamic - but don’t claim that queerbaiting never came into it pffft

My co-developer and composer who worked on the game are both men, calling us "tumblr girlies" is a bit condescending and disrespectful.

To queerbait or shipbait, it means we were taking advantage of possible queer characters and relationships as a means to appeal to queer audiences while maintaining ambiguity about the characters' sexualities. We don't believe the game was baiting anyone since again not only the sexualities of the characters aren't ambiguous as it was fully stated they were written as queer the moment they were designed way before the game was even developed, we've expressed multiple times that while the game does have themes of queerness and cannibalism the main plot and intention behind the source game was always intended to heavily focus on exploring the horror that comes from toxic and unhealthy obsessions and mindsets and how far one is willing to go for them (Rody's self-sacrificial and desperate love for Manon, Vince's selfish obsession for perfection, Rody and taste, etc). The game is about a waiter seeking out and realizing what happened to his ex-girlfriend, that's always been the main plot, Dead Plate is a game in the thriller/horror genre and there was not a single mention of the game having any possible romance in it nor the queer identities and interactions of the characters were used to promote the game in any of the official game pages or promotional material to draw in more audiences, so hearing that you're watering the game down just as some kind of shallow bait is a bit disheartening.

Sometimes characters just happen to be queer, and not all media with queer characters are strictly about romance. Their relationship is still up for audience interpretation and people can take them as whatever they like if they want to enjoy them like that as long as they aren't hurting anyone but we never meant to intentionally bait anyone into trying out the game using their queerness, and that as queer writers ourselves we've expressed time and time again how we wished people to check out the game for the overall narrative and message it has rather than for people to only focus and view the game as shipping material since we believe the game offers a lot more than that.

[liedownquisition]

Every time someone, whether in-universe or in meta tries to say that Jason's a "loner" I think about two things:

First of all, the fact that Bruce is frequently referred to as a loner, both in universe and out, as if he doesn't literally constantly have his emotional support child and a rotating cast of lovers (sometimes multiple in any given story at once). In this instance, it's used to try and make Bruce seem "cool," which whatever ig.

Batman #359, which, is so fucking funny to me because this is before Batgirl and Talia showed up in this story. Catwoman too. It was a real fucking ensemble. He's berating himself for snapping at Dick, and sending some civilians (The Todds btw) to die, against Dick's advice, because he's being bitchy about Catwoman. Like, my man, you have a mental breakdown every time you're truly alone. You're not a loner but maybe you should be.

Secondly, is Jason a loner or is he just always alone and isolated? Is he a loner or does he just not know how to be any other way? Jason consistently through both pre- and post-crisis express a lot of desire to be around other people/build connections, as well as referencing factors that isolate him from them. (I'm not sourcing every incident here but here's Jay trying to bond with Bruce right after he gets taken in, and some stuff wrt Jason at school)

Detective #527 (Pre-Crisis)

Batman#395 (Pre-Crisis. This is him being jealous of Catwoman, sure, but given how often in this arc it's referenced that he's isolated from the other kids in school- despite being on some kind of presumably sports team. I think it's baseball? I'm trying to find the exact issue that it actually SHOWS him on said team but it is referenced in the issues leading up to when they switch over the histories.)

Batman Annual #12 (This is Post-Crisis)

In Brothers in Blood Jason's trying to reach out to Dick. I'm not saying he did it the right way or that Dick was wrong for rejecting that, but he did literally expressly say that he was trying to reach out to him. in his brief period that he worked with the Titans, it's explicitly stated that he'd had to sneak out from under Batman's nose to join up with them. Jason has a sparse few interactions with mostly adult heroes in Pre-Crisis and the only hero his age he gets to meet is Kid Devil/Eddie Bloomberg and that's nebulously canon or not since Pre/Post-Crisis was a soft, slowly rolled out reboot where they changed a lot of things in retrospect but also implicitly kept others. (N52 was also like this but I get the impression Crisis was marginally more organized.)

UtH was Jason reaching out to Bruce for connection. Again, not really the right way to go about it but he pretty obviously/expressly wanted affirmation that his relationship with Bruce DID matter to someone other than himself because he felt it had been stripped from him and false.

Someone who keeps reaching out to other people, but gets rejected because they did it wrong, is not a loner.

When those attempts fail and he reaches out less and less, that's not loner behavior, that's lonely behavior, maybe even a dash of self-loathing. When he starts sabotaging his relationships further he thinks they're already fucked, that's not loner behavior, that's bad coping mechanisms for childhood trauma. I don't care that they state it exactly that he's some kind of "loner," his actions don't agree with that statement.

Is his status something of a self-fulfilling prophecy at this point? Yeah. I keep seeing people refer to him this way and, jesus. y'all wanna ostracize him so badly sometimes. You don't want him here you don't want him there. You use the "loner" rhetoric to enforce the idea that his isolation is a good thing that he wants. They use it IN UNIVERSE from the mouths of characters who have biased views about him.

If he's such a loner why does he keep going back? Why does he answer every call? Like a beaten, but unfortunately faithful dog that can't help but return to their abusive master.

[lrithill]

NSFW ARTphabet Headcanon: The Sacred Clown Porn Manuscript (A-I)

Welcome, faithful deviant, to the Sacred Manuscript of Underground Clown Porn.

This isn’t just any alphabet.

This is a ritual.

A love letter to the character.

A deep, filthy, sensual, and brutal exploration of the soul—and body—of Art the Clown.

Letter by letter, orgasm by orgasm, cumshot by cumshot.

In this chapter, you'll find tenderness, obsessions, bed monsters, cum (lots of it), dirty little secrets, dumb luck, emotional damage, genital torture, period blood, clown-level goofiness, Christmas lights… and yes—even Jesus makes a guest appearance.

Here you got the second part (J-Q):

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/780916090799783936/nsfw-artphabet-headcanon-the-sacred-clown-porn?source=share

And the third part (R-Z):

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/781563844942249984/nsfw-artphabet-headcanon-the-sacred-clown-porn?source=share

Enjoy, my doomed and blessed soul.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Sometimes, after the act, he just lies there—completely still, watching you. With those empty eyes that somehow, still say too much. You’re never sure if he’s processing what just happened… or deciding whether he should smother you with the pillow. After all, he’s deeply antisocial, and the idea of affection is something he doesn’t quite get.

But instead of leaving, he clumsily moves closer to you. The only thing he understands is that he likes the warmth of your body next to his, the feeling of skin against skin… it’s something entirely new to him.

It’s not a learned gesture, not romantic: it’s instinctual. Like an animal who doesn’t understand what he feels, but lets it guide him anyway.

All of this confuses and overwhelms him. Since he has no idea how to express emotion, he simply does what his body tells him to do—which is usually to bask in this strange sensation that makes him feel something, close to... peace?

In those moments, you might notice a slight tremble in his hands. Not out of fear, but from sheer sensory overload. It’s all too much. Too much heat. Too much closeness. Too much you. And yet, he stays.

And somehow, he’s warm. Shockingly so. He curls up beside you and pulls you tight against him, like he’s trying to fit two puzzle pieces together—pieces that don’t seem like they should fit, and yet… they do.

Until one day… he just doesn’t stay. Those emotions frighten him, wound him—like an arrow straight to the heart. It hits too hard, and all he wants is to flee back to the cold safety of his solitude (for his sake, and for yours).

But he always comes back—with heart still beating in his hands. As if to say:

“I don’t know how to love… but the idea of losing you scares me more than love ever could”.

B = Body Part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Your hands. No doubt about it.

He adores your hands. Since he’s mute, he needs to interact with you in the most physical way possible—and that leads him to constantly reach for your hands.

He kisses them like a gentleman kisses a lady, in a gesture heavy with intention.

He takes your hand to lead you places; he likes walking hand in hand with you everywhere.

Even when you sleep together, his fingers search for yours in the dark—especially when you’re spooning.

Before you shared a bed, he used to sleep in the most unexpected places.

One of his favorites: under your bed.

Many times, you’d see his hand timidly crawling up to the edge of the mattress, climbing like a snake... just so you’d grab it.

Even if he was down there.

And you were up here.

(Art: the monster under your bed who just wants to hold your hand.)

And when you make love... feeling your hands clawing down his back while he loses himself in your body, your nails leaving red trails on his pale skin—that melts him.

And don’t even get started on when you go down on him: your hands take him straight to heaven. Stroking his length up and down, massaging his balls, touching his abdomen, pressing into him, squeezing— his eyes roll back in ecstasy. 

He can’t help but close them and moan, mouth hanging open in wordless pleasure, submissive under your touch.

(Bonus points if your nails are painted.)

As for the part of his own body he likes the most: His smile—or better yet, his whole mouth.

He’s fascinated by how many emotions he can express with it without saying a single word: cruelty, mockery, satisfaction, sarcasm, affection...

He has a blast doing his makeup. He’s an artist, and when he sees his masterpiece take shape in the mirror—in the worst way possible—he can’t help but grin even wider. He’s a simple, happy man. Just eager to go out and spread some fear.

He loves pulling faces at you, watching your every reaction. Most of the time it’s to make you laugh, but sometimes... he likes to scare you.

He doesn’t want you to get too comfortable—he likes reminding you who he is… and that you’re never completely safe around him.

But above all, he loves playing with his victims: laughing maniacally as they bleed out on the floor, begging for help in vain. Watching them freeze when he opens his eyes wide and shows all his teeth… He knows exactly what kind of nightmare his face is.

Though to you, it’s a dream.

(And needless to say… he’s very skilled with it. Every inch of your body can confirm.)

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Hot, thick, and absolutely obscene in volume.

He cums with force—shooting white ribbons of pleasure with abandon throughout his orgasm —which, by the way, is far from brief—, painting the walls of your pussy as you milk him dry.

He loves cumming deep inside you. At the height of climax, he presses his body against yours with desperate intensity, like he wants to fuse with you—like he wants to slam through your cervix and spill straight into your womb.

It’s his way of claiming you—because he’s going to be the first and last man you ever fuck—and he’ll make damn sure to own you in every possible way.

Of course, cumming inside isn’t the only way he marks you.

When you’re going down on him, he’s not letting you off easy. You’re going to swallow everything.

He’ll hold your head in place, press your face against his pelvis, savoring the way your throat tightens and gags around his throbbing cock as he unloads down your throat.

He’ll fuck you until you say stop.

Until his balls ache.

Until his cum turns almost clear…

And eventually, the only thing coming out of his cock sounds like a cry for help—if you listened closely, you might hear it whisper: “Help me…”

The only reason you’re not pregnant is because his sperm are so violent, they probably kill each other while still inside his balls.

But beware: if one of them does reach your egg… it’s only because it murdered all the others.

And whatever creature you give birth to… will definitely be worse than its father.

D = Dirty Secret (pretty self-explanatory—a dirty secret of theirs)

Total submission.

Art is dominant. Possessive. Aggressive.

Sometimes he acts submissive—like when you ride him or suck him off—but he’s always in control. He can put you in your place at any moment, and you know it.

But there’s a part of him—buried deep inside—that craves losing control. Completely.

He fantasizes about you tying him up. Wrists and ankles, bound and helpless. His mouth gagged. His eyes blindfolded. Whether it’s in bed or strapped to a chair—handcuffs, duct tape, rope… whatever it takes to keep him from touching you—or touching himself.

So obedient.

He’s obsessed with the idea of ruined orgasm:

You riding him, stroking him, sucking him—bringing him to the very edge and then… stopping.

Leaving him panting.

Twitching.

Desperate for a friction that never comes.

Dragging him back down from climax, again and again, for hours, until he’s nothing more than a trembling mess of nerves, aching for release.

And when you finally let him cum… it doesn’t end there.

You keep going.

Jerking him off without a second of rest. Not letting him breathe, not giving him his refractory period.

You punish him past the orgasm—milking him to the limit.

Chasing as many orgasms as his body can take, one after another, until he doesn’t know whether it’s pain or pleasure anymore.

And just to top it off: a Venus 2000 locked tightly onto his limp cock—sucking him relentlessly, with no mercy, no rest, no purpose but to break him.

Not for pleasure.

But simply to ruin him.

He imagines you using all kinds of toys on him.

Because that’s the other thing: secretly, he wants you to fuck him.

He wants you to peg him.

You, in a strap-on, setting the rhythm—pounding his prostate—while you jerk him off… or maybe not even that.

A chastity cage would be perfect too. Tight. Uncomfortable.

Making him feel… nothing.

His skin bristles just thinking about it. His cock leaks precum, twitching with each forbidden fantasy, trembling for a touch that never comes.

Sometimes, when you’re asleep, he watches you.

And he imagines what it would be like if you tied him to the bed.

If you said: “I’m going to turn you into a slut.”

And he hates it.

And he loves it.

And he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with any of it.

Just once… to be the tortured, instead of the torturer.

But then he gets up. Frustrated.

And digs his nails into his skin—punishing himself for having such weak thoughts.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He has no experience at all—at least, not with living human beings.

He was taught not to see people as potential partners.

Literally, when he saw an “attractive” woman—say, one with big tits—his first thought wasn’t “I’d fuck her.”

It was: “I want to rip those off and hang them on a clothesline.”

Like someone might hang a bra.

He’s always seen people as meat. As toys for his amusement. As prey.

“Can a wolf feel sexual attraction toward a rabbit?” That’s what it felt like for him.

But then you came along.

And no—it wasn’t love at first sight.

There was no miraculous, romantic awakening. Not even close.

You just had the dumb luck to cross paths with him at a moment when he was too weak to kill you.

Normally, he wouldn’t have hesitated: He would’ve sliced you open and eaten your body from the inside out.

But you got lucky.

And that, combined with the fact that you never asked questions, never challenged him… meant he started to tolerate you.

To use you for his own benefit.

And yet…

Turns out he did eat you after all—face buried between your thighs, not your organs.

F = Favorite Position (this goes without saying)

Art is very flexible when it comes to positions.

Literally—he can do them all.

He even invents new ones, like the inverted scarecrow (see under 'O'), his personal signature.

But he has a favorite.

Fucking you from behind.

(And no—we’re not necessarily talking about anal… though that’s certainly on the table.)

Whether it’s in bed, standing, bent over a counter, on all fours, against the wall— he doesn’t care, as long as he gets you like that.

And if there’s a mirror in front of you? Even better—watching your whole body as he takes you is an art form.

And if you’re on your period…

That’s the cherry on top.

Seeing your blood drip down your thighs, smearing it across your body like he’s painting his favorite canvas… it drives him insane.

From this position, he can do everything that unhinges him:

—Bite your neck, your shoulders, your back…

—Yank your hair back to expose your throat, watching your veins pulse beneath your skin.

—Grab you wherever he wants: hips, tits, neck, ass…

—Pin your wrists behind your back—or chain them above your head, anchored to the ceiling.

—Spread your legs open, sometimes with a spreader-bar.

—Stimulate your clit with his fingers and your G-spot with his cock at the same time.

—Kiss you and swallow the way your moans break against his mouth.

Sometimes it’s brutal.

Sometimes it’s slow and devastating.

And sometimes… he just wraps around you.

Like he doesn’t want anything in the world to touch you—except him.

It’s a simple position. Primal. Possessive. Intimate…

Because from behind, he can hold you. Push into you. Devour you.

And make you feel that—even when you can’t see him— he’s always there.

And that’s the most revealing part.

You can’t see his face.

You can’t witness the kind of pleasure that undoes him. The kind that shakes him from the inside out.

The kind that leaves him trembling.

The kind that doesn’t match the image of the irredeemable monster he wants you to believe in.

Because if you did see him— If you really saw his face when he moans, when he cums, when he softens with love he didn’t ask for…

He might lose some of his power.

Or worse: You might actually love him.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Art is a clown.

And not just a clown. A professional one—he never breaks character.

So yes… expect him to be goofy in bed.

The horn is coming into the bedroom—whether you want it or not.

Since he can’t moan out loud, he uses it to simulate moans, perfectly timed to his thrusts.

Honk! Honk! Honk!

He’ll also bring in every kind of toy imaginable to recreate every sound possible—Art will make you question if stepping into that pet store was ever a good idea.

And of course, it always makes you laugh.

When he strips for you, he gives you a full-blown striptease.

He encourages you to play music—just don’t let him pick the playlist, unless you want a bizarre remix of crying babies and static noises.

He’s shameless when it comes to playing with “sexy outfits.”

“Is that a wig, Art?” you ask, barely able to breathe from laughing.

He shakes his finger at you, pops it in his mouth, then winks— while still doing the helicopter (with full sound effects).

Let’s just say: Art’s not a fan of synthetic hair. He likes it… natural.

He’s obsessed with roleplay.

So get ready for full theatrical productions between the sheets.

Since he got that Santa suit, you’ve already played an elf, a reindeer, a snowman, an angel, a bow-wrapped gift, a cookie (remember that scene with Lord Farquaard?), even Jesus (he literally wanted Jesus to suck his dick.)

And who knows what comes next…

Of course, you love every second of it.

You two joke about going to Broadway someday— maybe you’ll win a Tony… or kidnap one.

Either way works.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He has no body hair at all. Just a fine layer of pale fuzz, almost imperceptible—after all, his body is still human.

(He used to have hair on his head, too… until he died.)

Any other man might feel insecure about that. Might think it makes him look too feminine.

But he doesn’t care.

In fact, he likes it that way.

Hair would itch. It would get in the way. He’d have to shave constantly, and that would be a pain in the ass.

He doesn’t have time to worry about things like that.

He has more important things to do…

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

There’s an invisible line Art never crosses.

And while he loves pushing you to the edge—making you tremble, cry, scream his name like you’re about to shatter—he never actually breaks you.

He’s the kind of man who can drag you to the cliff’s edge… but he never pushes.

Not because he couldn’t.

But because he won’t.

Art wants you in a way he wants no one else: vibrant, happy, alive.

He wants you laughing between moans, begging him to stop and not stop at the same time.

He’s obsessed with watching you suffer from pleasure—and he knows that for every rough moment, he’ll make up for it with the best orgasms of your life.

But if the suffering stops being pleasure—if it ever becomes true pain—he stops.

He watches you with a terrifying level of focus.

Even when he seems distracted.

Even when he’s laughing.

Even when he’s completely absorbed in stuffing a 1000-watt string of Christmas lights up your ass so he can light you from the inside and turn you into a disco ball possessed by the spirit of holiday cheer…

He knows.

Your breath.

Your eyes.

Your pulse.

Your voice.

And when something changes—when the spark in your pupils flickers for even a second (yes, even with the lights inside you—it’s hard to see, but he sees it)—he stops.

He caresses you.

He kisses you.

He holds his personal holiday decoration abomination like it’s something sacred.

And he looks at you, with sincere tenderness and a crooked smile, as if asking:

“Am I still your worst best decision?”

If you say yes, he finishes decorating you with a star on top of your head.

If you say no, he takes the lights out.

He makes you laugh.

He makes you a post-sex milkshake.

Or he cleans you with a damp cloth, absurdly gentle—like you’re a marble statue.

Because at the end of the day, beyond the chaos, the sadism, the prop addiction… Art adores you.

And everything he does is to watch you enjoy yourself.

To hear you laugh.

To make you shine (literally).

Like you’re his favorite performance.

His light.

And when it comes to sex, there are days when Art gets unexpectedly soft—so sweet it takes you off guard.

You never know if he’s about to ask you to do something deplorable—like kidnapping children, fattening them up, and cooking them for next Thanksgiving—or if, by some miracle, he’s become the most romantic, domestic man on Earth.

He takes you in missionary.

Because he loves your mouth.

Because he loves kissing you while he fucks you like a desperate lover.

His arms wrap around you completely.

Your bodies melt together.

There’s no telling where one ends and the other begins.

You can hear him panting in your ear, breath wild—a faint whisper, almost imperceptible, that still says so much.

You can’t help but touch him the whole time—his scarred back, his soft arms, his beautiful face…

And you look into his eyes.

And he looks back.

And he doesn’t need words to tell you he loves you—in his way—but he does.

He doesn’t need words to thank you.

Thank you for surviving him.

Thank you for surviving his love.

Thank you for reading all the way to the end. I hope I made you blush, laugh, horny, suffer, or scream to the sky.

I'd love to know if you'd like to see any of these letters developed into future fanfics.

Would you like to see Santa Art spanking someone dressed as a reindeer, as if urging his sleigh forward?

Would you like to live out Art’s total submission fantasy?

Would you like Art to shove Christmas lights up your ass and turn you into his human Christmas tree?

I'm open to all kinds of requests, of course. Though I seriously doubt anything you suggest will top what’s already here… (and we still have a whopping 17 letters to go).

For those who just can’t wait, the full alphabet is already up on AO3. You’ll recognize it when you see it.

Here you got the second part (J-Q):

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/780916090799783936/nsfw-artphabet-headcanon-the-sacred-clown-porn?source=share

And the third part (R-Z)

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/781563844942249984/nsfw-artphabet-headcanon-the-sacred-clown-porn?source=share