#maybe i'll render it better. who knows

[canis-goofus]

mark severance

[mu3las]

wasn't able to make an actual drawing for Nishiki's bday yesterday, but I have a bunch of sketches I've made of him, so I thought I'd share those at least (these are all class doodles :P)

[thornescalling]

continuing to try and make my art more dynamic by focusing exclusively on values and perspective/pose, but i can never get myself to sit down and do Just art studies, so have another Bryne for practice

[hard-core-super-star]

push me on the counter, call me princess [W.Maximoff; N.Romanoff]

pairing: dom!wanda maximoff x sub!reader x dom!natasha romanoff

summary: you and wanda develop a connection you definitely shouldn't have with someone in a relationship. unbeknowst to you, it's all part of their plan.

warnings: PURE SMUT, MINORS DO NO INTERACT -> mentions of cheating! [no actual cheating, though! wandanat have an agreement, R doesn't know about it until things get spicy]; mommy + daddy kink; nipple play; impact play; wanda using her powers to hold R down; fingering [R receiving]; oral [Nat receiving]; twinges of humiliation; degradation + praise; nat's a little mean but we love her for it; use of the term 'slut'; probably more but i forgot

wordcount: 3.3k

a/n: so...i'm technically not doing anything official for kinktober this year because school is kicking my butt already BUT i have a few ideas for some very filthy smut fics so i'll be posting them this month. i haven't written for wandanat in a minute so i hope i did them justice. please let me know your thoughts, i hope you enjoy <3

[part two | part three]

* * * * * * *

It was supposed to be a one time thing.

That's what you told Wanda when she pushed you against the farthest wall in some dingy, badly-lit, New York bar.

The two of you had come back from a long, draining, mission and, instead of staying at the Compound and actually resting, you decided to go out and get drunk to let off some steam. The mission had technically been a success, but it had also been a pain in the ass...and in the shoulder, thanks to the knife wound you'd received.

So, yeah, maybe going out wasn't the best idea in the first place.

In your defense, it was borderline impossible to say no to the witch. Mainly because she was very convincing when she wanted to be, but also because of your massive, and borderline ridiculous, crush on her.

To make matters worse, Wanda was pissed off at Natasha for...something and you ended up taking the place of a supportive partner.

It would have been fine had the drinks in your system not made your inhibitions lower significantly, which rendered you helpless against the green-eyed woman of your dreams. Then again, it's not like you were particularly against that idea in the first place.

Maybe that made you a horrible person.

Maybe that made Wanda a monster.

But how could she be one when she whispered the sweetest words in your ear while taking you over the edge and destroying you in the most pleasurable of ways? How could there be anything wrong about her soft caresses and gentle smiles?

A part of you knows the answer. It's wrong because the witch's heart isn't yours. Or worse, because someone else's heart belongs to the witch.

Because for all their problems and arguments, Wanda and Natasha love each other. At the very least, they tolerate each other enough to stay together.

And you don't fit into their relationship.

You shouldn't.

But Wanda isn't a person you can just ignore.

She makes that perfectly clear no less than a week after your little "mistake".

You're in the kitchen at the Compound, eating some leftovers and scrolling through your phone to keep yourself occupied, when Wanda walks in. You don't need to look at her to know she's pissed off. Her energy is way too heavy to mean anything else.

"Hey, Wands," you say, barely looking up from your phone out of fear of falling under her spell once more.

She walks over to you, leaning against the counter and silently watching you for a second. Her silence honestly scares you, but you don't question her yet. You know better than that.

"You've been avoiding me," she says, her voice soft yet not gentle. "Why is that?"

A shiver runs down your spine at the question. 

You know you can't lie to her, she's a freaking mind reader, but you can't exactly tell her the truth. You've both been trying to ignore it since the morning you woke up tangled together in her bed.

A bed she shares with someone who isn't you.

"I've been busy," you reply with a shrug. "Kate's been forcing me to train every day."

Clearly, that's the wrong answer, considering the tilt of her head.

Yup. You're fucked now.

"Is that so? I didn't realize you two were such good...friends."

Wanda pushes herself off the counter, taking slow, calculated, steps until she's standing behind you. If you weren't so focused on keeping your voice steady, you might have been able to guess what her plan in.

"Well, we both love annoying Clint and making Yelena mad."

She hums in response as her arms wrap themselves around you, pulling you back until you're firmly pressed against her. 

The action almost makes you fall off your stool. You somehow stay put, though, even as every fiber of your being tells you to leave. The harsh truth is that you don't want to leave.

You want her so badly that the consequences don't seem to matter.

Nothing matters but her.

Which is exactly what she wants.

"You should be careful with the little archer," she says, her hands not so subtly caressing your sides. "You know she's just going to use you then throw you away when she's bored."

The irony in her words isn't lost on you.

You open your mouth to let her know that when her hands move up and brush against your chest. It takes all your willpower to stop yourself from gasping.

"Wanda," you hiss. "We're in the middle of the kitchen."

"Relax, detka," she whispers into your ear, your body instantly obeying her words. "You know I won't let anyone see."

"Do I?" you reply. "Because it seems exactly like something you'd enjoy."

The witch chuckles despite herself. "That's true but you're not the only trying to keep things a secret."

You know her words should make you feel worse about this whole thing but right now, they only serve to turn you on. As messed up as it is, there's something exciting about the situation. 

About how much Wanda wants you.

So, even though you know you should push her away, you lean back against her, allowing her hands to explore your body however she wishes.

Your obedience (if you can even call it that) is instantly rewarded by the other woman. Her hands sneak their way under your shirt, her fingers drawing teasing shapes on your warm skin as she makes the journey upward.

"You're such a good girl for me, baby," she mumbles almost absent-mindedly. "Letting me use you like this. Letting me play with you whenever I want."

A part of you wants to put up a fight. To show her you have a bigger backbone than she realizes. That you're able to switch the tables on her whenever you want.

Unfortunately, that part of you goes quiet the second her fingers find your nipples. "Look at you, all ready for me, huh?"

"Shut up," you mumble as your cheeks heat up.

Your words of defiance earn you a sharp pinch to your already sensitive nipples. "Watch your mouth, sweetheart."

It's impossible to stop your back from arching as the leftover sting rushes through your system. You'd learned the hard way that Wanda could either be the sweetest or the most unforgivable lover. In a way, it made being with her all the more exciting...and unpredictable.

Then again, you can't pretend you don't like it. If you didn't, you would have never gotten mixed up with her in the first place.

"Sorry," you whisper, not sounding particularly sincere.

If Wanda notices, she doesn't point it out and instead goes right back to playing with your chest, squeezing and pinching your nipples as she pleases.

Her actions only serve to make you more and more desperate for her. It's almost embarrassing how good she is at reading you. At knowing exactly what buttons to push to turn you into a shaking, pleading mess.

A part of you knows it's thanks to her powers that she can read your desires so well, but you ignore the thought for now. You could beat yourself up over all this later, right now, you had a very important task ahead of you.

"You're eager today," she teases, her eyes zeroing in on the slight movement of your hips. "Did you miss me that much?"

You're not sure why you're in such a defiant mood today but your mouth moves way faster than your thoughts. "Yeah, Kate was too busy today."

You don't see the scarlet that begins to overtake her eyes since you have your back to her. You miss the warning signs until she uses her magic to bend you over the counter, keeping your hands behind your back.

"You're going to regret talking to me like that," she says, holding you down easily thanks to her magic.

It's obvious you should apologize and yet you remain as composed as you possibly can given the situation. As stupid as it is, you're still mad at her for putting you in this situation.

Out of the two of you, she was the one who was in the wrong. She was the one fucking up her relationship just because she was upset with her girlfriend. And she had the audacity to pull you down with her.

To make you like it.

You couldn't place all the blame on her and yet you did it anyway. As if that would somehow fix the entire situation.

Her hand comes down on your ass before you can make your predicament worse. The sudden sensation makes you jump, the leftover sting taking over your mind.

"Wanda." Your attempt to sound mad falls completely flat since your voice is far too breathless for it to be convincing.

She spanks you again. Once. Twice. Each time striking both harder and faster.

"Try again, detka," she tells you, her voice unforgiving. "And then maybe, I'll go easy on you."

She won't.

You know she won't. But the idea that she could is more than tantalizing enough.

Although, then again, it wasn't like you didn't enjoy calling her by her beloved title.

"Mommy," you whisper, your voice sounding way too loud in the empty kitchen.

You don't need to be looking at her to see the proud grin that takes over her features.

This is the real reason why she wants you. Why she likes being with you. Because she doesn't need to fight you to get you to submit to her every whim.

"Good girl." Wanda's hands toy with the waistband of your pants. "Tell me what you want."

You allow the silence to drag on for a second longer than necessary. You both know you won't deny her, you can't, but that doesn't mean you can't keep her guessing. 

Maybe then she'll grow tired of you and stop using you so carelessly.

"Want you to touch me...please, mommy."

You half expect her to drag the moment out until you can't hold yourself back from begging for more. For her.

She doesn't, though, because unbeknownst to you, she's playing a different kind of game with you today.

Wanda uses her powers to undress you, barely giving you a second to register just how vulnerable she's leaving you. You know no one will walk in on you two, she promised you that much, but that doesn't make it any less scary...and thrilling.

"Look at you," she coos, her fingers spreading your slick folds. "So wet and I've barely even touched you. Such a needy thing, aren't you, sweetheart?"

It's embarrassing how hard your walls clench around pure air from the mere tone of her voice. It's that intoxicating mix between degrading and sweet that you want everything she's willing to give you.

"Yes, mommy," you whimper.

"Oh, I know," she says, pushing the tip of her index finger into your tight cunt. "She's such a good girl, isn't she?"

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion but her powers hold you down and stop you from turning to look at her. Your question is answered before you can even ask it, though, as a certain pair of black boots make their way into your field of vision.

"I'm not sure." The sound of Natasha's voice sends a shiver down her spine. "She looks like a desperate slut to me."

Wanda stops you from answering, thanks to her powers. "Oh, come on, Nat, don't be mean. Look how eager she is to be played with."

The redhead rolls her eyes. "That just proves my point."

The witch laughs, taking the moment to sink her finger deeper into your pussy, relishing the wet sounds that fill the kitchen. You're more than a little humiliated, but there's nothing you can do to stop it. Worse, there's nothing you can do to deny how wet the situation is making you.

How desperate you are for more.

Wanda knows. Of course, she knows. It's partly because of her powers and partly because she knows your body far too well. And because she knows you so well, she gives you a chance to call the whole thing off before it even truly starts.

"What's your color, y/n?"

It would be so easy to say "red" and stop everything. You know there would be zero judgement. That despite whatever agreement they've come to, they'd both take a step back and make sure you were okay.

And yet...you can't seem to form the word.

Because, as much as you don't want to admit it...you want this.

"Green..." you whisper.

Wanda leans in, taking your mind off of Natasha's eyes on you, and peppers soft kisses across your back. The softness of her lips is a stark contrast to her previous demeanor and it helps calm down your speeding nerves.

The Russian steps forward, her hand cupping your face and gently tilting it backward until your eyes meet. "You want this, don't you, darling?"

You don't want to admit it but you can't bring yourself to lie to her. "Yes...I want this."

The sharpness in her eyes fades away slightly. There's still an edge of annoyance in her features but she looks almost as turned on as you feel. "Good girl."

Your walls clench around Wanda's finger and she chuckles before starting to move in and out of your tight heat. "I think she likes you, Nat."

"Shut up."

Wanda adds another finger into the mix, expertly stretching you out and drawing out a long moan from your parted lips. "That's it, just give in, sweetheart. Doesn't it feel better when you stop thinking so much?"

It's startling how right she is.

She doesn't wait for an answer this time, though, she simply speeds up her movements, curling her fingers in the way that drives you crazy. The pleasure slowly overwhelms your mind, removing all other thoughts until all you can focus on is how good it all feels. How much you like submitting to them like this.

"Mommy..." You whine, watching the way Natasha's eyes darken in response to your sounds. "Please...need more."

"Aw, are two fingers not enough for you, baby?" The fake pity in her tone turns you on more than it should. "Does your greedy pussy need more?"

You nod desperately, ignoring the humiliation that lingers in your every move.

All that earns you is another laugh from Wanda and an eye roll from Natasha.

The redhead steps back from you, causing you to whimper, before her hands move to her belt. Her eyes remain on yours as she starts removing her garments, slowly revealing the red strap-on resting between her legs.

Your lips part almost instantly once you catch sight of the full size of it and just how incredibly dominant it makes Natasha look. You shouldn't be surprised considering what everyone, including Wanda, always say about her. Then again, seeing is believing.

"So fucking eager, aren't you?" You know the Russian is technically making fun of you, but you can't help feeling a bit proud of yourself for the grin on her face.

She steps forward, her hands coming up to tangle in your hair and guide you forward. There's something weirdly soft about her movements, about the way she takes her time with you. Maybe, just maybe, she likes you more than she's let on.

You wrap your lips around the head of the dildo, your eyes glued to Natasha's face. You can see the flecks of pleasure spreading across her features, the way she clenches her jaw to stop herself from vocalizing it. It's like you're stuck in a far too arousing competition with her. Each of you trying your damn harderst to break the other.

Unfortunately for you, you also have Wanda working behind you, her fingers restlessly pumping in and out of your soaked entrance. She knows exactly how to wind you up. 

Exactly how to keep you on your toes yet wanting more.

Natasha guides you further down her cock, working the length deeper into your mouth. "You look so much better like this, malyshka."

"I told you," Wanda pipes up, choosing that exact moment to work another finger into your tight heat. "You just wanted to be a party pooper."

"Keep talking like that and you'll be next, Maximoff."

"You're no fun."

You've never heard Wanda like this. So pouty and borderline bratty. It's a stark contrast to the dominant woman you've grown so attached to. To the one that turns your brain to putty with just a few words.

"Don't get any ideas, sweetheart. Mommy's still in charge here."

You moan in response, the sound muffled by the dildo currently stuffing your mouth.

"If you're Mommy," Natasha says, starting to thrust into your mouth. "Does that make me Daddy?"

You try to voice your approval for the title but neither of the women pay attention to you. They just keep talking like you're not even there, like all you are is a toy for them to play with.

"I thought you didn't like being called that."

The redhead shrugs in response. "I don't but now I'm curious."

"I think our good girl would like it."

You wait for Natasha to complain and say something about how you aren't theirs. Maybe make fun of you again for even thinking they'd ever entertain that idea.

She doesn't, though.

All she does is double her efforts as she keeps thrusting into your mouth. 

The kitchen fills with the sounds of your pleasure as they both play with your needy holes.

You feel yourself growing closer and closer to the edge, the coil in your stomach getting tighter with each one of their well-timed thrusts. You're completely at their mercy and you love every second of their never-ending show of dominance.

Of control over you.

Wanda's movements speed up and you do your best to ask for permission to cum, knowing all too well the consequences that would await you if you forgot. It's practically impossible to speak, though, considering the way Natasha is still thrusting into your mouth, her hips grinding against the base of the dildo each time she slips the length back inside.

"I know, baby," the witch reassures you. "You want to cum so bad, don't you?"

All she gets is a muffled whine in response, your body jerking forward when her thumb teases your swollen clit.

"Go ahead, darling," Natasha speaks up, her voice practically a low growl. "Cum all over Mommy's fingers for me."

You're not used to receiving such a command from the redhead and yet your body reacts immediatly to her tone. Your whole body seems to come alive as you fall over the edge, Wanda's fingers never ceasing in their movements. She expertly draws out your pleasure until you're left shaking and panting. 

The ringing in your ears doesn't allow you to hear the string of moans that leave Natasha's mouth as she watches the scene. The sight of you coming undone so violently causes her to fall apart, her fingers tightening in your hair until you're sputtering for air.

Thankfully, Wanda knows your limits well.

No words are exchanged as she uses her magic on you again. You're barely coherent, your mind still too muddled by pure pleasure and the cotton-filled haze of submission.

She gently sets you down on the couch, wiping down your soaked skin with a wet cloth, making sure to look you over in case their rough movements bruised you up.

"You okay, darling?" The witch asks as she settles down next to you.

You nod in response, shifting a little until your head rests in her lap. "Yeah...just tired."

"You should get some rest, detka. We have a lot to talk about."

Her words make you laugh. "That's an understament, Wands."

"Whatever." She moves her hand down to run her fingers through your hair, gently scratching your scalp as sleep overcomes you.

There's a lot you don't understand, a lot you really figure out, but you feel safe with the knowledge that you haven't ruined anything. That you're not an intruder in their relationship. If anything, you're a welcome addition.

[hivemuthur]

Anon because I am a coward lmao, but a request nonetheless if you want/have the time! Been thinking about a classic!Viktor (because him in that uniform is just so scrumptious) x f!reader in an established relationship where they have a bet going that they can't last a week without sex. They take turns over those 7 days mercilessly teasing the other and trying to make each other lose the bet (errant touches here and there, lingering kisses/looks, etc., and one of those could maybe be a heated up-against-the-wall makeout). Up to you whether they make it to day 7 or not! 🤭 And we stan a soft!dom!Viktor of course

I saw some folks picking anon emoji so I'll pick ✨️Anon if that's okay! Thanks for your time whether this makes it or not, I sincerely love everything you write! ❤️

Guess what. They didn't make it :x

All is Fair in Love and War

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! a lot of teasing + (unsafe) desk sex, if you squint diligently there is some dom!Viktor but he's so whipped he doesn't even have it in him, and there is some maybe a little bit OOC Viktor and love confessions too. Sap, remember?

word count: 5,8K (sorry it got out of hand)

author's note: Nothing, just Happy Freakday :v

—

It is funny, the human nature and the way you leap at the chance to bend and break it whenever an opportunity to prove a point arises. Often against your better judgement, hurting yourself in the process—yet the reward, the being right, you deem worth it. Whether it is or isn’t, you still don’t know. No scientific data on the matter; you'd have to somehow double yourself and join both the control and the treatment group.

It’s also infuriating how once something is forbidden or simply out of reach, it becomes instantly more desirable—damn near essential to your survival.

And it’s not that you lack self-control or are some savage animal. No. Quite the opposite—composed, focused when it matters, dedicated when it’s required, passionate when you allow yourself to be. And most of the time, that last one comes easily, naturally, around Viktor.

You don’t even remember how it started. He said something along the lines of, “Is that so?” in that tone—the one that has your head tilting and your hand bracing your hip, the one that forecasts trouble—and you responded with something like, “Why don’t we find out?” fully aware that the challenge at hand was going to inch dangerously close to impossible.

It is now day four of your ridiculous, point-proving, let’s-see-who-folds, I-can-outlast-you-with-my-finger-in-(insert an offensive body part) bet—for lack of a better name—and you really can’t remember why you picked up that stinking glove in the first place.

Day one was relatively easy. That was back when your tactic was simply to stay docile and survive. Got you all cocky, how simple it was, just to brace through a day filled with mundane tasks—a list long enough you didn’t even see Viktor for more than a minute.

Day two got harder. Viktor, the snarky bastard, had already started playing unfairly—cravat loosened at the neck, top button undone, revealing his Adam’s apple, one of your many weak spots. Another, also shamelessly flaunted: the mole on the side of his throat. One of your favourite places to press your mouth to. It glared at you all day every time Viktor craned his neck or leaned beside you to read something over your shoulder. It became painfully clear then: without proper artillery, this battle would see you utterly, thoroughly obliterated.

As if the sight itself weren’t enough, Viktor was clearly ready to have you rendered stupid and wanting right there in the lab on that second day. Pretending to be engrossed in your notes, he traced his long finger down your handwriting, occasionally tapping, humming—soft and low in his throat. The air from his nose fanned your cheek mercilessly, steady and warm. And then, the wretched scoundrel, brushed his hand against yours. The touch was barely there, a whisper of skin, designed with surgical precision to twist the knife further. To finish the kill, he leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead in a sign of loving approbation, murmuring, “Impressive work, lásko.”

“T-thank you,” you stammered, blinking blindly—trying desperately to blink away the feel of his hot lips on your skin, to scrub the sound of his voice from your brain. The praise had bled right into the spot you had prayed would remain numb. The urge to shake out your hand, to run it under cold water, to splash your face for good measure—you managed to resist. The burn on your cheeks, however, had no such mercy.

Viktor only smiled. The smirk he wore was unmistakable: a shit-eating, obscenely smug thing that sat crooked on his mouth, gleaming with unsaid victory. You could almost hear the remark hanging off the tip of his tongue—something close to, “That’s what I thought,” or, “As expected.” But he had the mercy, that day, to keep it to himself.

As he walked away, leaving you sighing in premature relief, he paused. Turned. Tipped his head, cane idly drawing slow circles across the stone floor.

“What would you say to raising the stakes?” he asked, like it was a casual thing, like it wasn’t a hand grenade tossed over his shoulder.

Impossible, you thought. Absolutely not. I’m barely hanging on, was the reasonable choice. Which, naturally, meant that instead of saying any of those sensible things, your stupid competitive mind stepped forward first.

“What do you have in mind?” you asked, voice already on the brink of cracking.

“Well,” Viktor began, adjusting his grip on the cane, feigning neutrality with such theatrics you wanted to hit him, “if we want this test to deliver true results…” A beat.

“Perhaps we should both refrain from seeking relief by our own hands.” He gave a gracious little tilt of his head, the kind that almost passed for innocence. “Unless, of course, that would be too much for you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you implying that I have no self-control?”

“Not at all, my darling,” he replied smoothly. “I’m merely implying that I have more self-control than you do.”

A scoff—hot, sharp, and angered—left your mouth as you stood and closed the distance between you. Against reason, despite the suffering you’d already struggled to endure, you came so close that the air he breathed out, you could breathe in. You whispered, low and sinister, “Bring. It. On.”

“Very well,” Viktor muttered, leaning in to your ear. “Hands where I can see them, sweet thing.”

“Likewise,” you hummed into the hollow of his neck, and noticed—not without a sickening sense of triumph—that goosebumps rose where your breath had licked his skin. A faint pink bloomed upward from beneath his collar as well.

Sleeping that night? Nearly impossible, of course. Another thing added to the growing realm of forbidden comforts that had suddenly become this much more attractive to you. And you would be a liar if you said your hands didn’t itch. Sleep became another casualty in this battle, but somehow, you managed to stand your ground.

Naturally, you had to brace yourself with tactics of your own. Day three began with a strategy. You'd woken up taut and fraying, sheets tangled between your legs and thighs pressed too tight together. Your fingers stayed loyal to the pact—barely. But if you couldn’t touch yourself, then you’d just have to make him want to.

So you dressed with a mind to war: the cravat from your uniform was nowhere to be found—lost to the laundry or sabotage, you weren't sure, and frankly didn’t care. Instead of a replacement, you simply didn’t wear one. With the first few buttons of your shirt left artfully undone, the slight gap revealed the delicate valley of your cleavage whenever you leaned forward, bent over something, or stretched, as one does.

Then the skirt. It sat a little too low, so you wrapped the waistband twice and pinned it beneath your belt, hiking the hem high enough that your garters whispered suggestively with every step.

You walked into the lab like a provocation made flesh and Viktor noticed immediately—of course he did. He always notices everything. But this time, he said nothing. Just paused, mid-motion with a wrench in his hand, and blinked slowly, like he’d just been struck by something quiet and lethal. His gaze dropped once, flicked back up, and then he returned to his work with all the casualness of a man pretending not to drown.

That should’ve been your victory. Except that twenty minutes later, while you stood at the central workbench, bent over a set of schematics with a pencil tapping idly between your fingers, Viktor came up behind you. Not touching, never touching. But his voice, cool and rich, curled over your shoulder like silk.

“Did your cravat fall victim to a tragic accident?” he asked, as if genuinely curious.

You glanced back at him with a sugar-sweet smile. “Laundry’s fault. Terrible service. Think I’ll lodge a formal complaint.”

He hummed, low in his throat. “Yes, you should. It would be a shame if such... structural integrity failed in more critical areas of your attire.”

You turned, just slightly, letting him see the way your shirt shifted open with the movement. “If you’re concerned, I’m sure you could help reinforce it.”

“I could,” he said, his mouth twitching, his eyes lingering for one heartbeat too long. “But I wouldn’t want to overstep.”

And with that, he walked off. But his limp was tighter than usual, jaw clenched, and his cane struck the tile floor with a touch too much force to be casual. You counted that as a small, simmering win—and an idea, for later.

An idea which, before, you’d deemed a last resort, now begins to seem more and more essential to your survival, because Viktor is utterly fucking shameless.

It is day four, and you are inching toward your wits' end, disbelieving how a mere four days of deprivation have indeed left you nearly drooling over his body—slouched on the couch in what appears to be an innocent nap. But the sighs and groans that leave his mouth are a little too loud, a bit too breathy, and his legs are too far apart, the slope of his groin staring at you with obscene entitlement from where you are curled up on the couch next to him. Not touching, of course.

His chest rises and falls in slow, rhythmic pulls, the fabric of his shirt straining just faintly each time he inhales. You watch the subtle shift of muscle beneath it, the barely-there flutter of his lashes against his cheek, and the way his throat bobs every so often, like his body is caught somewhere between rest and need. His lips, slightly parted, glisten with the faint sheen of sleep, and it would be so easy—criminally easy—to lean in and steal the air right from his mouth.

You shouldn't be looking, you know that. But your eyes drag down the ridges of his ribs, the soft dip of his waist, the hand resting slack against his thigh—long fingers splayed in a mockery of carelessness. You can’t even pretend to read anymore. The words on the page blur while he lays there like a temptation wrought by some divine punishment, entirely unbothered, until—

He shifts. Just a little. One eye cracks open, and the barest hint of a smile twitches on his lips. Then, hoarse and low, without even bothering to fully open his eyes, he rasps, “Seeing anything you like?”

You have enough common sense not to startle. The instinctive reaction would be to deny, deny, deny. But then, a thought strikes you—why would you? The bet entails simply not fucking, not pretending as if you don’t want to. In a swift pivot, your new tactic slides into place like a dagger in silk.

“Very much so,” you say, voice smooth, a soft smile playing across your lips while your eyes narrow. You don’t even try to hide the way you’re ogling him, letting your gaze drag with intention—chest, throat, lips, hips—then slowly back up again to meet his.

“Oh?” he murmurs, finally opening both eyes. One brow lifts lazily. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Oh, Viktor,” you sigh with feigned exasperation, tilting your head. Your tone is syrupy and sharp all at once. “Are you trying to orchestrate my downfall or yours?”

“Not at all,” he hums, pleased. “I’m simply curious about what’s happening in that pretty head of yours.”

“Very well,” you whisper, fingers ghosting over his wrist as your smile deepens. You cradle it like something precious, your thumb brushing across the knuckles—each one a peak, scarred and calloused with work, each line like a story. He watches you with curious eyes, a tension winding through his jaw, but he lets you guide him. Your lips part. You press them to the tips of his fingers in something that almost resembles devotion—until your tongue peeks out and you drag it, slow and warm, along the pad of his index.

“I’ve been thinking about this hand,” you whisper, eyes locked on his as you press a kiss into his fingertip, “in here.” You take the finger fully into your mouth then, slow and obscene, hollowing your cheeks just slightly.

A hiss leaves him, barely restrained, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He leans forward on instinct, like you’ve hooked a string behind his ribs and pulled. His gaze drops, fixated, almost pained with it.

“And then possibly…” you release his finger with a soft pop, teasing, “somewhere else.”

Viktor makes a sound low in his throat, something between a warning and a plea. He shifts closer, drawn in despite himself, and his eyes flick to your mouth again—wet and gleaming. “This,” he mutters, voice hoarse and fraying where he doesn’t intend it to, “is not fair play.”

You smile, teeth flashing, all wicked delight. “All’s fair in love and war,” you hum. “And as this is both, I’d say it’s more than fitting. Besides—” you lean in, brushing your nose along his jaw, “you know exactly what you’d have to do to end this… torture. All these layers in the way…”

His breath stutters. And then a smile curls on his lips—not soft, not sweet, but predatory. The kind of smile that promises you’ve stepped too close to the fire, and you’re about to feel the burn.

“Oh?” he says, gaze raking over you, slow and thorough, like he’s peeling you open with just a glance. “And how many layers do you think exactly part us?”

You still. Stare. He cannot possibly be serious. But then, with the ease of someone who knows precisely what they’re doing, Viktor shifts back and stretches—arms above his head, spine arching, muscles pulling taut under the fabric. The hem of his shirt untucks from his trousers in the process, rising just high enough to tease at the flat plane of his stomach.

Your mouth parts, uselessly, because the trousers dip. Just a fraction. But a fraction is enough. Low, low enough that where you expect to see the band of his underwear, there is—nothing. Just skin. A sliver of the sharp cut of his pelvis, and below that, the dangerous promise of more. Had the trousers slid even a breath lower—or not been cinched by his belt—you’d have been treated to the base of his cock.

Your heart stumbles over itself. Breath caught halfway between outrage and awe, you stare. Incredulous.

“Viktor,” you scold, voice choked with disbelief. “You slut.”

He chuckles darkly at that, low and pleased, the sound laced with unrepentant menace. “What was that?” he murmurs. “All is fair, something along those lines?”

His hand lifts, fingers trailing up to your cheek with mock-gentle reverence. “Seems you haven’t measured your opponent properly,” he says, almost fond. “A mistake. Might cost you.”

Your lips twitch upward, unwillingly impressed. “We’ll see about that,” you whisper, eyes narrowing with intent.

Because now—now you know. That little move? That wasn’t confidence. That was desperation. Calculated, yes, but desperate all the same. Viktor, flashing skin like a weapon, throwing everything short of actual cock at the problem—it’s telling. And oh, you were saving your last resort. But now you know—he’s already playing his.

And it’s only day four.

It’s unbearable to keep your part of the deal that night. To say that your hands crawl with ants is an understatement, and to say that you’ve slept is an overstatement, since all you’ve done is toss and turn. And in the morning, there is no laundry mishap, no sabotage to blame for what you’re about to do.

With your skirt’s waistband rolled up and your ass outright bare underneath, you walk through the corridors, the air licking at your thighs. You pray, sincerely and repeatedly, that you won’t run into Heimerdinger at any juncture—and as ludicrous as that prayer might seem, you suddenly understand why all the skirts of the Academy uniforms are the length you once deemed too prudish to ever stir Viktor into action.

The source of your frustration is already in his usual spot, scribbling the day’s tasks onto the blackboard. You can read the smile from the back of his head the moment you step in through the door, but instead of focusing on that, your gaze drops lower—to his thighs—trying to assess whether he’s fallen twice, whether yesterday’s stunt has repeated itself today.

Sadly, you can’t tell. So with gathered-up determination, you bid him hello and muster all your innocence as you sit at your workbench, thighs pressed close together, the chair biting cold into your skin.

It’s maddeningly civil throughout the first few hours—so much so that your head snaps up each time an audible sigh leaves his mouth, only to realise it’s not about you at all. Just something work-related, some frustration that has him hunched over and his brows all knitted.

After a while it becomes clear that Viktor is struggling. It begins subtly—grunts of frustration under his breath, the occasional mutter in a tone too low to catch, followed by the sharp squeak of chalk against slate. Again and again, he scribbles something onto the board, only to wipe it away with increasing irritation. The lines start to look like arguments more than equations. Whatever he’s writing, he hates it.

Curiosity gets the better of you. You rise and make your way over, and the moment you’re close—close enough to see the tension in his shoulders and the crease between his brows—it thickens in the space between you, the air charged and humming. He doesn't look at you, not at first.

"What’s the matter?" you ask gently, keeping your voice light.

He scoffs under his breath and waves you off. “Nothing.”

But his eyes betray him. They flick, just briefly, downward. Toward your thighs. Then snap away again, his jaw tightening. Oh, poor thing.

You almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But then you remember yesterday—the stretch, the lazy way his shirt had untucked. Desperation wrapped in smugness. No. This is fair game.

“Want to bounce ideas?” you offer, brushing your fingers lightly along his forearm. He stiffens. Your hand drifts higher, skimming over his shirt, the lean plane of his stomach beneath. Purely helpful. Entirely professional.

He exhales, smiling with a certain defeated amusement. “Sure.”

“Good,” you chirp, turning your head just enough for your breath to graze his neck. “Because you seem distracted.”

His eyes cut to you, dark and narrowed. “If you really want to help,” he says, slow and dry, “start writing from the top.”

You follow his gaze upward, and ah—if you’re not the universe’s favourite today, you don’t know what. You grab the usual board stool, the seat worn out and scraped from shoe soles constantly grinding into it anytime either of you wants to make full use of the black surface. You climb onto it gracefully and, as if it’s nothing, await instructions.

He doesn’t say a word, just steps aside, still holding the chalk in his fingers. His expression is unreadable, but his pulse is visible at his throat.

You hold out your hand. “Chalk.”

He gives it to you wordlessly, his gaze fixed. You begin to write.

“Ready,” you say sweetly.

He opens his mouth, begins to dictate something—but the moment his eyes trace down your back, catch the bare expanse of skin beneath the hem of your skirt, his voice falters.

“Start with—” he begins, and stops. Silence.

You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

He stares at you, mouth slightly parted. His throat works around a swallow. You smile, victorious, as the realisation dawns in his eyes. And Viktor doesn’t speak—at least not right away.

Just stands there, stunned. Caught mid-breath, as though something vital has short-circuited behind his eyes. And then you see it—the unmistakable flicker of calculation. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head, trying to solve this, trying to survive it. But he won’t.

Instead, he takes a slow step forward. Then another. The soft tap of his cane echoes once, then again, before he stops just beside you.

Something shifts, and you feel the motion before you see it—cool wood slipping beneath the hem of your skirt. The cane lifts gently, teasingly, fabric peeling upward, making your breath still.

Viktor exhales like a man broken. “You are so wicked,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, brazen. “This is cruel,” comes next, as pained as his expression.

You smile over your shoulder, saccharine-sweet. “My love. You dug your own grave yesterday.”

A low sound escapes him—somewhere between a laugh and a curse—and then he’s moving with purpose. He hooks the cane over the wing of the board to keep it out of the way, and his hands find your legs. His palms are warm, strong, sliding slowly upward. A sweep over your calves, the backs of your thighs, fingers tightening with every inch until he’s cupping you fully, squeezing your ass like it’s his only hope.

His face presses in, breath hot against where your thighs meet, his nose brushing skin. He breathes in deep, his exhale shuddering out against you.

“I surrender,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, as if anything louder would undo him completely. “Please get down from that chair so I can fuck you or I’ll go mad.”

You exhale a startled laugh—part shock, part triumph, part sheer disbelief that you've actually won—and barely stop yourself from huffing out finally as you hop off the stool.

Your landing is clumsy, the soles of your shoes slipping on the floor, but you barely find your footing before Viktor is on you.

His hands are already on your face, in your hair, his mouth glueing into yours, starving and rough. The kiss is all teeth and heat, his breath ragged, his hips pressing you back into the board as if he means to pin you there permanently.

"You’re a menace," he mutters between kisses, voice low, cracked. "Bože můj, you’ll make me lose my mind one day—"

You gasp against him, laughter catching on your tongue, but he swallows it down. Then he takes your wrist, firm and careful, and brings your hand to the front of his trousers, where he is hot and hard and straining.

“Look what you’ve done to me,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours, words trembling with restraint, rage, want—all of it. "Four days," he grits, biting your bottom lip gently before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

"Four days of you teasing me, torturing me—strutting around with those fucking lips and thighs and now this? No underwear?" He kisses you through it—messy, hungry, relentless. His lips smother yours again and again, every breath you try to take stolen from your mouth. His hands don’t know where to settle, roaming from your hips to your waist to your face like he’s desperate to feel everything at once, make up for the time lost.

You stumble backwards, and he follows, half draped over you as he walks you toward the nearest workbench, his hips grinding against yours with every step.

Breathless, you manage to smile again—still daring, still cocky, even now. "You reap what you sow."

“Cruel creature,” he growls into your mouth, words lost in the kiss. “You’ve won. Are you happy now?”

“So happy,” you gasp, catching his lower lip between your teeth. “It was unbearable. And you’re no better,” you add, voice low and accusing, “I hope you got burns from yesterday’s stunt.”

“I did,” he rasps, and his voice is a beautiful wreck of need. “And you’re going to lick me back to health.” Then, a pause. He pulls back just far enough to look at you properly, eyes half-lidded and wild, a grin curling his lips.

“But first,” he says, voice dark and deep, “get on that desk.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You haul yourself onto the workbench with a kind of grace that borders on indecent, your skirt bunching at your hips, legs parting. Viktor slots himself between them without hesitation, hands gripping your thighs like he’ll die if he doesn’t touch you, mouth dragging over your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, buttons of your shirt snapping open.

“Fuck,” he mutters with effort, as you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. His hands slide beneath you, guiding your hips to grind into him, keeping you right where he wants you. One arm braces against the bench beside your hips; the other curls around your back, holding you steady as his lips find yours again.

Again, a lot of teeth, even more tongue, but you don’t care—you’ve missed those teeth and that tongue like an addict. You’ve missed the feeling of his hair between your fingers, his smell, the subtle scent of him that only reveals itself when you're this close. His hands, too, shaped as if they were made to cradle your body.

And then he’s fumbling with his belt, his breath fanning your cheek. And then—oh—you don’t even know when it happens, don’t even see if he’s bare under those pants, too busy staring at his lips, but he’s free and hard and leaking against you, resting at your entrance, his mouth breathing heavily. You twitch to meet him, but he holds you still, hips fixed in place like a statue, only his chest rising and falling.

His forehead presses to yours, jaw slack, eyes fluttering shut as he begins to sink in—deeper and deeper—stretching you out inch by inch. His breath trembles out of him in ragged exhales, mouth open in a silent moan until it finally breaks into sound—helpless and guttural.

“Oh, miláčku,” he breathes. “You feel—fuck—I’ve missed you.”

You’re clinging to him, nails digging into the fabric at his back, your head falling against his shoulder. It’s almost too much—he fills you completely, and still, he’s not all the way in.

And Viktor—Viktor looks undone already. His brow pinches at first, a flicker of pain or restraint, but it vanishes in the next breath. His face goes slack, lax. A visible, physical relief settles in his body the moment he bottoms out, hips flush to yours. He moans, long and loud, like this is the only thing that’s made him feel alive in days.

Your breath is nearly non-existent, lungs almost giving out, air caught somewhere in between them. It’s not just the stretch, though that alone is close to being too much, the sharp pull giving way to a fullness that borders on unbearable. It’s the heat of him, the weight, the press of his body. The air seems thicker now, like the room is holding its breath with you.

Your hands tremble as you clutch at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself, but there’s nothing grounding about this. Your nerves are alight, every inch of you humming with sensation—burning where he fills you, tingling where his chest brushes yours, where his breath ghosts across your skin.

You feel split wide open, every part of you drawn taut around him, and he hasn’t even moved yet.

“Gods,” you whisper, almost to yourself. “I almost forgot how much…”

Viktor lifts his head, his nose nudging yours, the smile he gives you helpless, crooked, all teeth and tenderness. “How much what?” he rasps.

You try to answer but it comes out as a gasp instead, the words dissolving as your body clenches around him. You feel the tremor run through him—see it, too, in the flicker of his lashes and the flex of his jaw.

He’s holding on, yet barely. You feel it in his grip, the way his fingers press into your skin, in the quiver of restraint in his thighs. And somehow, that makes it worse. Hotter. More intimate.

“You feel like—” you choke out, panting. “You feel like you’re everywhere.”

A low sound tears from his throat, somewhere between a groan and a plea. “That’s what I want,” he murmurs. “I want to be everywhere. I want to leave no room for anything else.” His hips roll—just once, shallow—and your mouth falls open, no sound coming out.

“Tell me,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek, your temple, the shell of your ear. “Say you missed this. Say you missed me.”

You nod before you can form a word, tears prickling at your lashes from the intensity. “I missed you,” you gasp. “I missed everything. Please, let’s not do that again.”

His mouth finds yours again, fully desperate now, and finally—finally—he begins to move. And it’s deep, grinding in slow, restrained thrusts that have your breath stuttering with each pass. It’s all pressure and heat, dragging friction and stretch, every slide of his hips drawing out a gasp you can’t swallow, it just stumbles out.

His lips are on your neck, your jaw, your shoulder as his drool dampens your shirt, mouth panting hot between murmurs—fragments of words, your name, curses in Czech that sound like a praise.

“God,” he rasps, sweat slicking his forehead as he pulls out and sinks back in, slow, careful, so careful. “You’re so—tight, fuck—I can’t, I won’t—”

He cuts himself off with a grunt, hips shuddering against yours. The sound of him sliding inside you, wet and obscene, fills the small space between you. Each thrust makes it louder, harder to keep up.

“You’re not making this easy,” he growls against your ear, pressing in so deep your spine arches. “If you want me to last—touch yourself.”

You let out a shaky breath, not trusting your voice. But your hand slips between you, fingers working tight, trembling circles against your clit. And Viktor—Viktor moans when he sees it. His head drops to your shoulder, teeth scraping your skin through the fabric, sweat dripping from his brow, sinking into your clothes, as he starts to move again, even deeper this time, harder.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he hisses, watching you, wild-eyed. “Just like that—look at you.”

You shift, needing more, angling your hips, one foot propped up on the table’s edge for leverage, other leg hugging his side. It opens you wider, gives him more room, and he uses it—hips snapping forward, the slap of skin on skin filling the lab, occasionally knocking your hand off course.

The workbench creaks beneath you. His arm trembles where it braces beside your hip. His other hand is cupping your thigh, holding it high and tight, your body drawn up taut around his like a bowstring straining at the edge of release.

And still he doesn’t stop yapping—your name, praises, filth, words that blur together into a stream of breath and groans. “So wet for me,” he pants, thrusting deep enough to have you momentarily mute. You melt around him, every time he pulls out it’s like you’re begging him not to.

His eyes meet yours, glassy and undone, and you see it—that tight coil in his gut winding ever higher. His hips stammer, breath breaks, and he’s so, so close. And you are right there with him.

Shaking—hips bucking into your hand, legs trembling where the muscles can’t hold up any longer, every part of you stretched thin and burning. He’s not faring any better. His pace has lost its rhythm, faltering now, every thrust hitting deep but messy, like he’s chasing the edge and barely hanging in there.

“I’m—” you start, breath interrupting. “I’m close—almost—”

A sound breaks from him, torn from his chest. “Thank God,” he groans. “I’m so fucking close—baby, come for me.” A breath, and a pleading hand comes to cradle your neck. “Please,” he swallows, “be a good girl—”

And it’s that. That voice, those words, the begging, cracked raw and full of want—that shatters you into pieces. Your body clenches hard around him, every muscle tightening in a violent rush of release when you cum, mouth loud, nails biting into his back, forehead pressed to his as the string stretches and snaps, ripping you apart in a way only he can undo you.

And Viktor follows immediately—unable to hold back any longer. A hoarse sound like gravel, tears from his throat, and he thrusts once more, buried to the hilt as he spills inside you in hot, thick pulses of cum. His whole body shakes with it, his nose bumping into yours, mouth catching on your moan as he answers with one of his own.

Then, neither of you moves. You’re pressed together, heaving for air, clinging to each other like the world narrowed to this—slick skin, damp clothes, soft gasps, and the slow, sticky pulse of overstimulation setting in.

“Gods,” he mutters, voice barely there against your cheek. “You’re going to kill me.”

You laugh, breathless, threading your fingers through his damp hair. “Like-fucking-wise.”

A beat. Then, with a reluctant groan, Viktor draws back—slowly, carefully—pulling out of you with a hiss. The wet sound makes your stomach flip, and his eyes flutter at the loss of contact, still caught in that delicate haze of aftershock.

“You alright?” you ask, light and shaky. Your hand lifts to brush aside the hair clinging to his temple.

Viktor nods and swallows, clearly spent—tired but blissful. He leans in again, still softening, cock resting against your thigh as he presses back between your legs to kiss you. It’s a grateful kiss, deep and languid, like he doesn’t quite know what he’s thankful for—your body, your presence, or that the torment is finally over.

“You are so horrible,” he whispers fondly against your mouth. Then, quieter, more fragile, “I love you so fucking much.”

“Again, likewise,” you murmur, letting your legs slump off the table, heels swinging lazily against the backs of his calves. “You’re no warmonger though,” you hum, fingertips tracing the slope of his cheek, the swell of his bottom lip.

“No,” Viktor agrees with a tired smirk. “Death by my own sword. How ignominious.”

You grin. “I’m impressed with your tactics, though. You almost had me yesterday.”

“Shut up,” he groans, and cackles—rich and golden and still a little breathless. The sound is honey in your ears.  “You shouldn’t kick a dying man.”

“Not kicking,” you say, mock-innocent. “Just poking. And I died a little too, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Viktor says, smirking into the curve of your throat. “I’m tempted to make you die like that again, but I fear for my own sanity.”

“Me too.” You kiss his temple, your heart still thudding somewhere under your ribs. “I am completely and utterly mad about you.”

“Likewise,” Viktor breathes against your lips, smiling without shame, pleased beyond dignity. And you are so, so glad the war is finally over.

[darqx]

HEEEY MACARENA (ALRIGHT!)

Here's some long overdue BP and HH asks :) I tend to combine the two since there's not as many as the RADs, so this starts with BP and then moves into HH/Gen qs.

BP

MUAH ~ (I actually doodled this some time last year for fun and whimsy, based on those long mouth kiss meme pics XD)

A very quick overview of these types!

Vescordem: Maneaters/cannibals, excessively tall and strong.

Aleores: Minor dealmakers (goods and services). Jaw can unhinge and has venomous bite.

Sollicio: Major dealmakers - soul stealing ability. Often very good looking, has ichor powers.

Voxter: Ability to project 'thoughts' into someone else's mind - you ever have an intrusive thought? Same concept. All have a unique mark across the top part of their face.

Caumacies: Maneaters/cannibals, very strong. Has a third eye which sees only in heat vision - rarely opened simultaneously with normal eyes.

Hmm M or MA15 i think 🤔

You know, i actually have an idea for a game that has nothing to do with anything I'm currently doing XD One day i'll actually have time to make it, maybe. But anyway currently my actual project is i'm planning on making a comic \o/

I AM PLEASED TO ANNOUNCE that i have thumbnailed like 70 pages of this bloody thing and i'm still only in the first quarter of the planned chapters lol OTL Once i finish thumbing the chapter I'm on I plan to go back and render the pages properly before starting to post them :D

...which should hopefully give me a buffer as i repeat the process for the next chapters |D

You know, the concept of my characs being comfort characs for someone will never get old for me. It just tickles me pink ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ This answer will have two levels to it.

It's fine to RP or ask blog with Rire - he's one of my more "known" characs thanks to BTD so as long as credit is given (and it's made clear I'm not running the blog so it's not canon) then it's cool.

I'd prefer if no ask/RP blogs are created for any of my other BP or HH characs, as they are not as known yet. This may be revisited once i actually get the BP comic out but for now it's a no, sorry! (Though, if you are RPing in like...a private Discord with other friends who know who the characs are then I'm a bit more lenient with that.)

The reason for the BP/HH level is that ages ago when I had started establishing my own characs more, I randomly happened to find a forum where someone was RPing as Izm and .D but no one else knew who the characs were and so they clearly thought the RPer was the original artist and creator. Said RPer was not dissuading anyone of that notion. That has stuck with me for forever because at the time i never anticipated that someone would...actually try and do that with an OC. Like, bro srsly?!

One pet peeve for everyone:

.D: Willfully stupid people

Izm: .D smoking. He could care less if anyone else smokes but .D is not allowed on his watch

Marcus: Having decisions made for him without his input

Zeke: "How's the weather up there?"

Wei Ren: When people think he can't understand English cos he has an accent and so they deliberately speak slower and louder

Geez Caleb why are you damn RUDE

Here's one i prepared earlier! 😌

I'm not sure why you included Marcus as a demon, he's a human lol.

HH/More Gen

There are clubs which are created by students but need approval from the adults to exist.

HH is one of the better boarding schools which generally turn out successful alumni. The "obvious problems" we see are not actually obvious lol.

He doesn't need such manipulations.

Thanks! I hope you are inspired to go forth and create stuff! :D

One of the only perks of being a prefect at HH, really :d

Absolutely not lol

↓

4. These types of qs are always amusing to me only because you guys expect me to know but i absolutely do not XDD. Do normal people actually have a fave animal?? I dont even have a fave animal!! Anyway offshoot aside sorry that i can't even randomly assign anything, but if you are interested here is what they might be AS animals lol.

They actually don't have names because they were randomly designed NPCs i drew as like, placeholders |D;

Not including Rire or Nurse Isla:

.D is asexual, Izm is bisexual, and everyone else is straight probably. Caleb and Desmond are violently straight (as in Des is like very 90s stoner bro adamantly vocal about being straight and Caleb will actually try and break your neck for insinuating anything).

I have some female characs but I dont draw them that often as they are more side characs in BP and HH. The ones ive's drawn at least once are Isla (who looks like this, also doodled above), Tish (Des's sister) and Kenzie and Kelly (Zeke's sisters).

Every once in a blue moon i get an ask saying this but whenever i go to check nothing is wrong, so...nothing is wrong they do work |D; As the age old tech saying goes have you tried turning it off and on again? :d

Aren't those kind of things supposed to be...based on yourself??

[teeztruthers24]

in every lifetime, I would still choose this life with you

PAIRINGS: geto x gojo x reader (satosugu x reader)

WARNINGS: pregnancy (sorry if this icks you out...but for Geto and Gojo...i'll do this every time) + anxious thoughts + reader's water breaks at the end, hurt/comfort (idk why I can't write pure angst)

Reader is heavily implied as afab + is pregnant but other than that, there are no other defining features described

(this just made me wish satoru and suguru were real ... because they would be amazing husbands (sobs))

SUMMARY:

Heart pounding, oncoming headache, belly aching, anxiety raising; that's how Satoru and Suguru left you when you were at home and they were on missions.

Maybe a heart-to-heart conversation would help them realise you just needed your husbands to be safe out in the world - knowing when they were coming home, it wasn't just to you...but a very special little someone as well!

START:

The warmth of the early morning sun is what awoke you this morning, which is strange because usually, it’s your large man-child of a husband who wakes you up by peppering a bunch of silly kisses across your face and hair, making you giggle and push him away. If that didn’t wake you up, Satoru would then bring in the big guns – Suguru, who would kiss you whilst tickling you to silence your raucous laughter. 

What a wonderful way to start each morning. 

Except this morning, although the sun was warm on your face, your hands could only feel the cold sheets beneath them as you mindlessly searched for your husbands with your eyes closed. 

Irritated that you couldn’t find them in bed, you opened your eyes to find yourself in your empty bedroom. Silence. The silence was…quite well-welcomed considering Satoru always managed to fill the quiet. And the silence was even more appreciated considering in a few months, you and your husbands would soon wake up to the shrill cry of your newborn. 

But after getting out of bed and finishing washing up in your bathroom, you found the silence starting to become unsettling. Where was the sound of Satoru laughing at that terrible reality TV show he insists you all watch during movie night or the sound of Suguru in the kitchen making breakfast?

Feeling slightly unnerved, you walked out of your bedroom and found the living room also empty. You decide to head into the nursery, a room that, recently, has been a source of comfort when the thoughts of impending motherhood rendered you full of anxiety and worry for your future. 

Being a jujutsu sorcerer in a world like the one you and your husbands lived in was, for lack of a better word, incredibly distressing. Luckily, now that you were nearing the end of your pregnancy, you weren’t asked to go on missions (and therefore didn’t have to deal with those awful old higher-ups) but the same couldn’t be said for Satoru and Suguru. They were still asked to go on missions that you always considered dangerous due to the special grade curses you knew they would encounter. The same missions that would have your heart pounding from the moment they left home to when they entered through the front door again, and your stomach clenching with anxiety (although, as of late, you couldn’t distinguish if that was anxiety or your baby). 

Shaking your head as if to clear your thoughts, you walk into the nursery and find Satoru and Suguru…building the crib…that they were supposed to build three weeks ago. Biting back a smile you walked, or waddled rather, further into the room and cleared your throat, making your presence known. 

Satoru and Suguru’s hands paused in their work and they both slowly turned their head up to look at you with nervous smiles on their beautiful faces. They knew they were busted…they should’ve just listened when you asked them to build the crib the day they bought it. 

Letting go of the leg piece he was holding, Suguru stood up, wiped his hands and leaned down to give you a gentle hug. 

Rubbing his hand up and down your sore back, he whispered, “Good morning my love.” The adoring smile on his face when he looked at you could melt all the ice in the world. 

Trying to seem assertive in front of your husbands, you huffed in reply and turned your head to the side, choosing to look at the beautiful mural Shoko and Utahime painted (more Utahime than Shoko) on your baby’s nursery wall. Maybe ignoring Suguru’s greeting, as sweet as he was, would send your (dim) husbands that you finally caught them in their punishment of not listening to you. 

Instead, your act had the complete opposite effect on Suguru and Satoru, who looked at each other with a knowing smile and then turned to you with an endearing look in their eyes and wrapped you in the warmest, tightest (being mindful of your bump) hug that had you wanting to go back to sleep again. 

“Did you sleep well, sweetcheeks? Hope we didn’t wake you up with our noise…and if we did then it was all Suguru’s fault!” Satoru said cheerfully. 

Turning to face him, you pinched his cheeks and savoured his whining before replying, “The only reason I slept well was my two body pillows that did not move at all during the night…thank you. But I did not ,” you emphasise, “appreciate waking up all alone. The bed got cold,” you whined at the end, hoping your pouty lips would make your husbands feel bad about leaving you all alone in bed. 

“Oh my love we’re so sorry! We just wanted to let you sleep in and get to work on the crib…though…we had hoped it would be finished before you woke up,” Suguru said with a dejected tone. 

Almost immediately, you softened and grabbed their hands before stating, “It’s okay my loves. At least you’re working on it now, no? As long as it’s done before the baby comes, do not stress. Now, I am incredibly hungry…are you going to just stand here or go to the kitchen and make breakfast for the mother of your child,” you asked cheekily, brow raised in question.

Your boys leant down to peck your cheeks before scrambling to the kitchen to get started on breakfast. Laughing softly to yourself, you followed them and leaned against the doorway, watching as your husbands clumsily moved around each other in your small kitchen. 

After watching them for some time, you voiced out if they needed any help and Satoru and Suguru shook their heads in disagreement so hard and fast you worried they would get whiplash. 

“No my dear, you just sit and rest your feet. Let us serve you food, okay love? Don’t you worry about a single thing,” Suguru walked towards you, arms opened, and moved you to sit on the comfy chair in the dining room. “We’ll be done soon and you focus on eating well love,” he said before placing a kiss on your forehead and bending down to kiss the soft swell of your belly. 

With a large smile on his gorgeous face, he left for the kitchen and all you could hear was the clinging of pans and the smell of delicious breakfast being made for you. 

Soon enough, out walked Satoru carrying your food and Suguru carrying a portion for him and Satoru to eat. Placing the food on the table in front of you, Satoru leaned over to kiss you, and you found yourself wanting to deepen the feeling of your lips against his plush soft ones. 

Hearing a soft clearing of the throat stopped the two of you, however, and you leaned back with a chuckle. Looking at Suguru, you took his hand in your right, Satoru’s in your left, and said cheerfully, “Let’s eat!” 

Luckily neither of your husbands had any missions so you all stayed at home and rested whilst they fixed the crib and checked off their to-do lists for the nursery.

Later that evening when you all were getting ready for bed, you in the bathroom and Satoru and Suguru already getting comfortable in bed, you could hear their conversation about their upcoming mission; special grade curses were released near an elementary school in Roppongi. Hearing what Satoru and Suguru were saying, you went rigid and panic took over you; this mission sounded incredibly dangerous…and of course it was sent by the higher-ups. 

You could hear the worry in Suguru’s voice when he told Satoru he wished they didn’t have to go because “I hate leaving our girl all alone… and pregnant. I mean, the useless old geezers at the top know that we have a kid on the way and they send us on these missions that send our darling spiralling waiting for us…” he broke off, biting his lip in distress. 

Before Satoru could calm him down, you walked out of the bathroom, eyes focused on the ground. Your husbands shot their heads to look at you and you didn’t have to express your concerns because your boys knew too well, judging from your hunched shoulders and hand caressing your belly, about the extreme anxiety coursing your veins. 

They knew all too well about your nightmares and restless sleep that was a result of overthinking about all the darkness you all faced in this world, sorcerer or not…and raising kids in this dangerous world seemed too frightening. 

They understood perfectly because they too had these same nightmares; missions were no longer an easy ‘get it done and go home’ job but rather involved a stomach-turning, panic-inducing state where the boys couldn’t stop imagining their soon-to-be baby as the victim of the curses. They couldn’t stop waking up startled, sweat dripping down their backs, at the thought of you defeating a curse yet never making it home to them and your baby. They worried more than they let on – because you were already stressed and who were they to add to your plate? They had to be strong…they are the strongest sorcerers in the world for a reason, right?

Seeing you so upset made their hearts ache, and they couldn’t have you so distressed before bed. Suguru reached a hand out, and when he found yours slipping into his hold, he helped you onto the bed and into his arms. Satoru gently pressed against your front, placing soft kisses across your belly. 

“I’m worried about your mission. I’m worried you…you won’t come back to me…” you whispered, lips trembling, eyes glistening with tears.

You heard a sharp intake before Suguru leaned down to whisper softly but loud enough for you all to hear, “Oh my love,” he grips you tighter, “Please don’t worry. This mission will be like every other mission okay? 

“Yeah, Suguru’s right doll! The mission can’t fail because we’re the strongest, remember?” Satoru asked, aiming the last part at Suguru with wide eyes, hoping Suguru would help him console you. 

Suguru nodded his head and agreed, “Exactly darling! We’re sorry we can’t do anything to stop you from panicking when we leave for missions, but you have to remember how much we love you, sweetheart. When we leave for those horrendous missions, the only thing keeping us going is knowing you’re waiting at home for us, and soon enough, we’ll be coming home to our lovely wife and our wonderful baby.” He paused to stroke your hair and press kisses into your hairline, before continuing, “It cannot get any better than that my darling.”

Your chest felt a little bit lighter, your breathing more mellowed out. 

“Once again, Suguru’s right sweetcheeks!” Satoru exclaimed. His hand raised to delicately stroke your cheek before basically engulfing your face with his much larger hand. His eyes softened and his voice lowered to an almost whisper, “I know it’s scary carrying a child and then raising them in this world that is dangerous for anyone who isn’t like us. But you’ve got us doll…you won’t have to ever worry about raising this baby,” he caressed your belly with a smile, “alone. You won’t ever have to worry about being the sole protector of our family, because my sweetcheeks, that’s what Suguru and I are here for. You have to remember my love, despite how scary this world is, the love you put out with all your heart will find its way back to you. In this case, it's our beautiful child you’re so strongly carrying.”

Your heart melted. Your husbands always managed to calm you down with their gentle touches and soft words, even Satoru, who strived to shower you and Suguru with physical affection of kisses and hugs and cuddles. 

“I thought I’d never say it love, but…Satoru’s right,” Suguru joked before Satoru interjected with a loud, “Hey!” Tender laughs erupted from the three of you and filled the room with happiness, clearing the murky misery in the room. 

You sniffled, and before you could reach over Satoru to your nightstand to grab a tissue, Satoru and Suguru blotted your tears off your face with their sleeve, their touch so soft you felt like wanting to cry all over again – though this time with a much clearer and lighter heart than before. 

You started scooting off the bed, ignoring Satoru and Suguru’s questioning gaze and moved to grab your hospital go-bag off the floor. Turning to face your husbands with a huge smile, you exclaimed with delight, “Thank you for that my loves, I truly needed to hear that. Now…get your asses off the bed and help me to the hospital – this baby is coming!” 

Suguru and Satoru shot off the bed and started fluttering around you nervously, yet excitedly. Before they could start their fluster of “What?” and “Oh lord dear why didn’t you say something sooner”, you said, “I didn’t want to interrupt you before, but my water broke in the bathroom before and my contractions are starting…we need to go to the hospital now!” 

Looking your husbands in their eyes, hoping to see any sign of apprehension, all you could see was adoration and eager anticipation to get you to the hospital and have this baby. Slowly, they held you and the bag as you all walked towards the car. 

Walking down the stairs, you turned to look at both your husbands, and smiled at them, getting back smiles that were larger than life and tears glistening in their eyes. Oh, how excited they were to see this baby; hold this baby; love this baby. Oh, how excited they were to love you even more than they already did (if that was even possible).

[yandere-sins]

Ooh okay I apologize in advance for rambling but how about a yandere and a darling who are both trained fighters of some sort. Always at each other's throats, evenly matched. Despite the yandere's flirtatious behavior during fights, the darling doesn't put much stock in it because some people are just... like that lol. But they finally lose. Collapsed on the ground, arms and fingers twitching as they try to muster the energy to grab their weapon. They think they might be about to die, but the yan is absolutely giddy with excitement, telling them how well they did, how much fun they've been having and not to feel bad. They'll take care of them until they get better- and maybe they'll even let them fight again if they're good while they recover.

Thanks for the cute idea! I hope I was able to convey it like you were thinking ♥

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

Not everyone has the chance in life to call someone else their "arch-nemesis". But you did. That jerk that was always on your butt, chasing after your achievements as if it was an Olympic sport. If you did great on an assignment, so did he. If you did extra reps while training, he had to do them twice as much. You wanted to spar? He'd be the one volunteering to be your training partner.

He was insufferable.

With that bright, goofy smile and the happy hops he did after being chosen as your sparing partner (not your fault you were too good so that most of the other people in the unit didn't want to try fighting you), he was absolutely obnoxious. He was swift on his feet, that much you had to give him, but his swings were too wide, easily to avoid. And you, stupidly nice as you were, told him that many times, and he still didn't learn. He was your personal pain in the asshole, and you sighed in frustration as you watched him plummet to the ground after you swept his leg.

Only for him to recover quickly and bring you down, too.

In a matter of seconds, your enemy was on top of you, holding you down and rendering you immobile. You struggled, groaning from the strain when you managed to free your foot, kicking your leg up and into his stomach. Just as quickly as he had, you had rolled both of you over, straddling him down. However, in stark contrast to him, you learned from your mistake, applying all the right weight to hold down all his limbs.

You two were breathing heavily when you noticed the otherwise silent gym. Only the hand-to-hand combat mat was still lit up, everything else already in the dark. You couldn't spend too much thought on it as your enemy kept struggling, trying to free himself before he finally breathed out the tension of his body, groaning, "I give up!"

Immediately, you got off him, standing back up and wiping the sweat from your face. Both of you needed a minute to calm your pulse, and you noticed that you had been right; everybody had left you two. Wasn't it too early for them to stop their training, though? The clock on the wall revealed the time to already be late in the night, and you groaned inwardly, realizing you had spent all evening again with that jerk.

He really brought out the worst traits in you.

"Ah, fuck," you mumbled, remembering the fresh ingredients you had bought to make for dinner tonight. Another spoiled meal just because you had to wrestle with that idiot.

"That was awesome!" he cheered behind you, still lying on the ground, staring straight into the ceiling light above him. "Nothing can beat our fight! You are so amazing!"

With that, he rolled to the side, propping his head on his hand as he grinned at you, eyebrows wiggling. "Imagine how good the sex would be."

With a disgusted sound, you rolled your eyes, knowing about his repertoire of dirty and inappropriate jokes much too well. There was no rule against peer relationships, but even if you had to, he would be the last you'd choose as a partner. "I'll pass," you snarked, and he laughed loudly as if you had just told a funny joke.

"Come on, let's do one more round!" your enemy prompted, jumping up from the mat and bouncing over to you like a ball. He was just like that, so full of energy and life, no matter how many times you threw him down. You two never had to work on an assignment together before. Still, you couldn't imagine him taking anything seriously or putting actual work into what he was assigned to do with his attitude.

But it was already late, and instead of a lavish meal, you'd probably just have some instant noodles instead. Might as well try to break his ego once more. "Okay," you agreed, fastening the straps of your gloves again.

"Yippih!" he exclaimed, and if you weren't so done with the dude, it was almost adorable how excited he was. You got caught up in his carefree demeanor momentarily when he suddenly threw a punch you barely dodged. You hadn't seen it coming at all, perplexed for a moment that he could pull off something like that.

"Did that surprise you? I trained just for you! Just so I could beat you!"

"You psycho," you chided him, but your heart beat wildly after the unexpected blow. You could still feel the rubber burn on your skin where it had connected with his gloved hand, making you gulp.

"Hah! Try dodging this!"

What followed was a serious showdown of skill, every punch harder to dodge and block than the one before. You still felt powerful enough to win this fight, but you had never noticed this skill in him before. He fought like a kangaroo but lighter on his feet, avoiding the few stray punches you sent his way easily. Had he waited for a chance to show off? What made this day so special?

You two rang for the upper hand in this—supposedly training—fight, but you slowly realized that without a real chance to counterattack, none of your skills would help you. Your enemy didn't fall for the classical sweep with the leg and didn't stay still long enough to keep himself open for a hit in the stomach, followed by a flurry of punches to bring him down. For the first time since you two met, you felt actually threatened by him as an opponent.

Before, you had mostly ignored him. His overeager attitude, continuous unwanted flirting, and the way he tried to insert himself into your life almost desperately. He wanted to be noticed by you, so you didn't give him the time of day until you two had passed your training and had to deal with each other, no matter what you thought about him. But it got annoying quickly, and your spats became the entertainment for the whole unit. You didn't mind shutting him up in a match, but somehow, this one was different than all the other fights you had before.

You had never lost a fight before until that night.

Your head hit the mat with more force than you ever thought possible. It actually made you blackout for a moment. Luckily, you came to quickly, only to be confronted by the pain and dizziness you felt. But there was no time to regain your composure as a hand hit the mat right next to your face, and you heard the cracking of bones as the air hit you like a much more gentle punch.

"I won," he panted, the smile slowly spreading wider and wider on his face as he hovered above you. "I finally did it!"

"Get over yourself," you heaved dryly, your lungs utterly void of air. More and more pains erupted in your body, on the outside of your forearms, face, shoulder, and hips. You groaned as your muscles spasmed, drawing in to relieve the pain. But in doing so, they caused another body part to hurt, and an endless cycle of bruises and wounds occurred.

But the second his palm cupped your face, you stilled, his thumb brushing your lower lip.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered as if he was afraid that a loud sound would shatter you. "Your lips swollen like that, all because of me."

Your enemy giggled, and you felt appalled by the gleam in his eyes as he watched you flinch from his touch. Something was seriously wrong with that fellow, you had always known it. "Just get off," you complained, turning your head away and struggling to get up with your bashed body.

"Might want to have a look at your hand, too. That crack didn't sound healthy."

However, his hand quickly grabbed your shoulder, pushing you back down with much more strength than required. For what felt like a small eternity condensed in a few seconds, you two stared motionlessly at each other. You, trying to understand something about him which was nearly impossible. And he, interpreting this situation much differently than you.

Because the next thing you knew, his lips crushed yours, enticing a pained howl to erupt from your throat and crashing into his mouth. Lips open, he pushed his tongue in, a suffocating feeling as it roamed around, spit mingling. Finally, you had enough, forcing your body to obey as you grabbed him by the shirt, pushing him back and away from you.

"What is wrong with you!" you gasped, disgusted by the kiss you had just been assaulted with.

"That was so much fun, oh my god," your enemy merely replied, not even honoring you with an answer. "You're such a good fighter, I can't believe I finally won! Isn't that feeling amazing? My heart is racing! How about yours?"

"No!" you declared firmly, struggling against him as you tried to get out from under his body. It was a tangled mess of limbs, your struggles continuously bouncing back as he wanted to keep you as you were. You really didn't understand him, resorting to a tirade of insults as he canceled out your efforts.

"Look at you go! You still have so much energy even after our sparring. As if it was nothing for you! I know you were the one for me! The only one who can keep me on my toes! It's always been you!"

"I'm not yours! Get off me, you freak!"

"Well, ouch. That's enough."

Your breath was caught in your throat as your head hit the mat again for the second time that night. For the very first time when fighting him, however, you felt a hint of panic as he applied more and more strength to your wrists, pinning you down. Just minutes before, you had been able to slip out easily, making him lose in a matter of milliseconds. But this time, his grip and position were iron-tight, leaving no room for a surprise to overtake him.

"You're already hurt enough, baby. We can have another go once you recover."

"If you could just get off me, I could take care of my wounds myself, baby," you spat right back in his face. But instead of noticing the sarcasm in your voice, he only grinned wider, shaking his head as he laughed softly.

"Now, why would you do that? That's what you have me for. I'll make sure you get taken care of. Gonna patch you up real good, my little fighter."

"He- Hey!" you protested as he suddenly stood up, too quickly for you to react. Next thing you knew, you, too, were back on your feet and lifted into the air, slung over your enemy's shoulder. He had pulled you up so swiftly that not even the air could give any resistance, but you two needed a moment to balance it out before you were right back to kicking and punching him.

"Now, be good," he warned you before a slap on your butt made you stop all movements, too surprised and shocked that he'd dare to make such an inappropriate gesture with you.

"We can see if you get to fight again once you're fully healed. Until then, you got to be good for me, alright?"

"We'll do no such thing! Who do you think you are--"

"It's not about me," your enemy suddenly revealed, and you raised a brow, looking at the back of his head with more questions that were left unanswered than you wanted them to. Everything about this was wrong; what the hell happened to him that night? Did you push the wrong buttons for once? But that still didn't explain his behavior in the slightest.

"It never has."

"Then what is it about?" you asked, trying to kick him again, only for your leg to be captured by his free hand, thigh pressing against his chest while his palm massaged the tense muscles on the back. He was completely out of his mind if he thought he could just take you as a prize for winning one puny training match! As if you needed him to patch up the wounds he inflicted! That was definitely not the kind of relationship you two had, one where he could disregard every bit of manners he had and do what he wanted!

"You," he replied firmly, his voice unwavering.

"It has always been about you."

[redslug]

Helping Neuroslug help me

Admittedly it took me an embarrassing amount of time to figure out and start using inpainting, but now that I've had a taste of it my head is spinning with possibilities. And so I'm making this post to show the process and maybe encourage more artists to try their hand at generating stuff. It really can can be an amazing teammate when you know how to apply it. For those who didn't see my first post on this, I've trained an AI on my artworks, because base Stable Diffusion doesn't understand what anthropomorphic insects are. That out of the way, here we go:

I noticed that a primarily character focused LoRA often botches backgrounds (probably because few images of the dataset have them) so I went with generating a background separately and roughly blocking out a character over it in Procreate. Since it was a first experiment I got really generous with proper shading and even textures. Unsurprisingly, SD did it's job quite well without much struggle.

Basically masked out separate parts such as fluff, skirt, watering can, etc. and changed the prompt to focus on that specific object to add detail. There were some bloopers too. She's projecting her inner spider.

Of course it ate the hands. Not inpainting those, it's the one thing I'll render correctly faster than the AI does. Some manual touchups to finish it off and voila:

The detail that would have taken me hours is done in 10-20 minutes of iterating through various generations. And nothing significant got lost in translation from the block out, much recommend. But that was easy mode, my rough sketch could be passed off as finished on one of my lazier days, not hard to complete something like that. Lets' try rough rough.

I got way fewer chuckles out of this than I expected, it took only 4-5 iterations for the bot to offer me something close to the sketch.

>:C It ate the belly. I demand the belly back. Scribble it in...

Much better. Can do that with any bit actually, very nice for iterating a character design.

Opal eyes maybe?

Lol

Okay, no, it's kind of unsettling. Back to red ones. Now, let's give her thigh highs because why not?

It should be fancier. Give me a lace trim.

Now we're talking. Since we've started playing dress-up anyway, why not try a dress too. Please don't render my scribble like a trash bag. I know you want to.

Phew

I crave more details.

Cute. Perhaps I'll clean it up later. ... .. . SHRIMP DRESS

[wandixx]

You know what? I'm on my "M’gann and Danny should be friends/lovers" kick again and I have thoughts about them in general.

I think both deserve to have some level of gender fuckery.

And here, bear with me because I'm as cis as they make us, so I may spew some absolute bullshit. Feel free to yell at me if I do, I'll try my best to do better.

I've seen a lot of genderqueer ideas about Danny, and these are all beautiful, valid takes. I love them.

But I think M'gann needs some, too. She comes from society that, if it does gender, has a really different way of handling it, of expressing and all that (I know it's not canon but also look me in the eyes, look at the species of shapeshifters, who can become whoever they want, not even looking like someone they saw or something, look me in the eyes again and tell me they can't shapeshift genitals, rendering this way of separating genders even more baseless than it is to humans and tell me they'd still have same or similar gender norms as Western culture circle on Earth). She escaped this society, and in efforts to fit in a new environment, she became almost stereotypically feminine and found comfort in it. It could be in part just because he found people who accepted her no matter what, and her form was tied to her comfort character because she wanted to feel like all of her problems could be solved in just 20 minutes too, but idk. I just feel like even if feminity was just part of her mask, just another way to cut Megan Morse on Earth from M’gann M'orzz on Mars, I want to see her kinda finding... well, part of herself in being a girl.

I have no clue if it makes any sense, I just kinda want to see M’gann as transfem with her asigned at birth gender as alien something.

Also, I kinda want to see girls from the Team or Danny's friends teaching her how to do make-up or how to style her hair or other "girly" stuff even though she could just shapeshift it on, and M’gann enjoying it, maybe even finds it soothing. I kinda want to see them both learning what it means to be whatever gender they're going for at the same time. Maybe have M’gann trying out Danny's pre-transition outfits (from photos, most likely) because she thought they looked cute and Danny having whatever reaction would be appropriate.

I kinda want to see M’gann shapeshifting into Danny's transition goals and then him possessing her to get feel of his dream body/help him on really bad dysphoria days.

I don't think I'm a good person to write that, but if it's anything, do with it what you want

[privateanxieties]

these final hours

Summary: When your job becomes too overwhelming, Frank decides enough is enough. A brief conversation reveals that things run deeper than he thought.

----------------------------------------

His verdict comes down one Sunday evening, breaking you from the melancholic stupor you're well into traversing.

"Alright, that's it."

There's a part of you that wants to protest immediately. It's always the first one to make itself known, because it's the one that feels the most fear. No, you cannot just quit your job, no matter the toll it's taking on you. No matter how many people tell you it's making you fade. No matter how little you stand to gain from keeping it up. Because if you do, then - then -

"Don't look at me like that. I said that's enough. You ain't going tomorrow."

There is, however, another part of you: the one that could cry out in sheer relief just by being presented with an out.

You don't even know what it is, exactly. Everyone has to work who was not born fortunate. People have much harder jobs than you do, and they get paid even less. So many struggle to make ends meet. You have neither the long, nor the short straw. The work is completely average, though perhaps below your capabilities. Definitely below your studies - God knows you're not justifying any of those student loans, save for maybe lots of jobs requiring some kind of degree these days. No, you can't quite grasp where all this melancholia with regard to your job originates.

When you really look at your situation, you have to abstain from getting carried away by overwhelming disappointment over how unjustified all this grief seems. Things could be a hell of a lot worse. People go through things at work that render them suicidal, and here you are, on a Sunday night, sad that you have to wake up for your commute.

"Sweetheart, you gotta talk to me. Alright? Can't handle seein' you like this. Nothin's worth it, you hear me? Ain't a goddamn thing in this world worth what this shit does to you."

Frank's hand on your knee makes you immediately tense up. It's instantaneous sensory overload from a simple touch and you can't explain it. It bothers you that you can't explain because it's another thing that's wrong with you. Another overreaction to an inoffensive event.

Before you can move away or even just barely take a breath, the warmth of his skin disappears. You hate the relief that washes over you. Who feels better when someone they love stops being affectionate? You, apparently. Always against the grain.

"You know I'm not making you do anything. Yeah? Need to hear that you know that."

A nod is what you manage, but eye contact has yet to happen. You theorize that if it were to happen, if you were to see him in this moment of wild vulnerability, you'd probably want to run from him and all else in the world.

"You don't have shit to prove to anyone. You included. Can't try to beat yourself into a mold if that mold's just gonna take away all the best parts of you."

Your chest rattles, and you try to keep your breath from becoming a pained gasp.

"You know, just 'cause I read doesn't mean I'm good with words. That's all you. But I'll say whatever I gotta say to get through. I ain't losin' the woman I love to a fucking job. And I sure as shit ain't letting her believe she's gotta do what the world says she's gotta do. Break herself as many times as she has to just to get approval. Can't do shit with approval, I'll tell you that."

Against all odds, words tumble out of you like a knocked over pot of crayons. Sharpness everywhere.

"I fail at - at everything. I haven't done one thing right my whole life. I quit everything I start. Everything - Frank, I can't st-"

An involuntary sob rips straight from your heart.

"I can't stand myself. I'm tired of being tired. I'm tired of my days not belonging to me. I'm tired of getting nowhere. I'm tired of not having any good reason to be like this. Every day I have to know, I have to wake up and go to sleep and never stop knowing that I am the way that I am. And I wish something would just happen so I don't have to keep-"

It stops. The flow of words you've never said out loud, even to yourself, stops dead. The silence floods the remaining space without delay but it, too, does so fruitlessly.

Frank has heard enough. Enough to know exactly what you've sworn you would protect him from.

"Will you look at me?"

The softest plea. You don't think you've ever witnessed it.

"Need to see it. Yeah? I need to see it in your eyes, what you just said. And then we'll figure it out. But I need to know, sweetheart. Because if I gotta protect you from your own mind, Imma be honest with you - I need different gear."

It's a weak attempt at humor, but not completely unsuccessful. Mostly you just know that Frank means every word. And you know, as your gaze meets his at last, that the part of you that always resists outside help has lost some strength. You're not too far gone to be able to admit that your thoughts have been getting bleaker. It's a newness that scares even you, who's been down this path before. Somewhere, it seems a turn arrived that even you weren't aware you'd taken.

But Frank is nothing if not relentless. There is no road he won't track you down on and no path inaccessible to someone of his determination. You can see it in his eyes, along with the subtlest glimmer. You're making him worry, and when Frank worries, he plans. Ten, maybe twenty steps ahead - which is why he locks away your phone with his guns for the night. It's safe to say you won't have an alarm for tomorrow, and the relief that fact brings isn't unaccompanied by guilt. Frank soothes it with promises and his unique brand of realism - you'll get through everything together, as long as you're honest. No more hiding, no more detours.

You're not sure how good you'll be at it, and when you voice the thought to him, Frank doubles down as he pulls the covers back from the bed and you both slip under them.

"You know what being good at therapy looks like?"

You hum your curiosity.

"Not needing relief anymore. Promise to let me know when we get there. Yeah?"

You press your fragile promise into the skin of his cheek, tucking your head below his chin and wrapping as much of your body around him as possible and, for the first time in weeks, drifting off instead of fighting to sleep.

.

.

.

-fin-

A/N: just a short piece that I hope brings you some comfort if you need it.

[acotarspritz]

Medals and Misunderstandings - Part 2

azriel x swimmer!reader - Olympics AU

Blurb : You run into Azriel in the Olympic village and he can't seem to get you off his mind, but when you see him again you are convinced the handsome guy with amber eyes doesn't like you, so you go out of your way to avoid him. (Part 2)

Word count : 1.6k (sorry it's short but i'm having issues and hopefully i write the rest soon!)

Author's Note: so ummmmm... i kind of died sorry. Uni is kicking my ass physically, and men are kicking my ass emotionnally so i have not been able to write for ages, so yeah sorry about that. but hopefully i'm backkkk.

warnings : english is not my first language so please excuse any/all grammar errors, not entirely proofread, swearing, and i think that's it honestly

lemme know if I missed any and I'll add them ! hope it's okay and that you enjoyyyy !

-~~-

Azriel didn’t understand. One minute you were smiling and waving at him, and the next you were avoiding him. It had started a few days ago, on the day he had bumped into you for the first time.

When he had looked around the cafeteria to see where Amren had gone, the last thing he had expected was to see her sitting at what he assumed was your table. He was convinced the odds had been in his favor for once, because what were the odds of him seeing you again after that morning, considering the number of athletes and volunteers? Azriel would never admit this to anyone, especially Amren, but he was glad she was seeing her Varian, considering it allowed him to figure out who you were. 

You were wearing your Olympic team colors this time, and he recognized the different shades of teal, blue, and white as belonging to Summer. He still didn’t know what sport you competed in, or even your name, but he would. Somehow he would find out.

You had turned to see what everyone at your table was talking about, and your eyes had met his, and he swore he was drowning in them. You looked so innocent compared to him and his mangled hands, and when you smiled at him, something tightened in his stomach. Although he was drawn to you, Azriel was certain nothing could ever happen between the two of you. 

He had watched as you waved hello, and he had felt himself grow flustered. You were most likely just trying to be polite, but he had wanted it to mean something, and he still wanted it to mean something. You had clearly waved hello to him, and not to the whole table, or maybe he was imagining things. Before he could even think of smiling back, you had turned back to your table, and away from him. Gods he was stupid. Of course you were just being polite by saying hello. You probably hadn’t even thought twice about running into him that morning, yet he couldn’t get you out of his mind.

He felt someone slap him on the back, and he snapped out of his daydream. 

“Well I’ll be damned, has a girl truly rendered our Shadow speechless? Our little Az is all grown up.” He turned to Cassian as he heard him speak, and watched as he wiped away a fake tear and wrapped his arms around him. 

“I’m older than you asshole,” he tried to push the man’s arms off him but it was no use. He felt his cheeks grow red as the whole table joined in on the teasing.

“Awh look he’s blushing, isn’t that cute!”

“Nesta I swear to the Mother you better sleep with one eye open tonight.” Gods why wouldn’t they leave him alone? 

He felt Rhys reach to pinch his cheeks, and he finally broke out of Cassian’s hold to swat his hand away, “Can you all fuck off?”

Azriel looked back toward you as his table broke into laughter, and he saw you quickly glance back at him before quickly turning back to your table. 

Nesta, Mor, and Feyre, whose backs had originally been facing towards you, had all turned around to see exactly who they had been talking about and had very clearly seen you glance at them, at him. 

Mor gave him a small smirk, “Well isn’t she pretty? If you won’t talk to her Az, I will.” She made a move to stand up, and he shot out of his seat, “Mor…”

His tone said enough, and all his friends began laughing again, before Cass pushed him, “Well go on loverboy, we’re watching you.”

He started walking towards your table, at least to get away from his friends, but he had no idea what he was doing. What did he say? Did he apologize for running into you this morning? Or just hello? Why were you making him so nervous?

Before he could even think about what to say, he watched you get up and say something to your table and walk away, not sparing a single glance back at them, or him. 

-~~-

That had been days ago, and he still had no idea who you were. He had barely seen you in the cafeteria since. Every time they walked in, you were quick to finish your meal and walk out, and he hadn’t run into you again. It was driving him mad, and his friends had all noticed. 

He had wanted to ask Amren about you because clearly she knew you, or at least knew your name, but he didn’t want to do it in front of everyone. Even if they could see something was bothering him, he didn’t want to admit that it was a girl.

Nothing had ever destabilized him like this before. Azriel was known for being calm, controlled, and never letting his emotions take control or make him act rashly. Even on the field, people always said they could see that he was always analyzing, and plotting whatever moves the team should be making

But now, he was distracted, even at practice. Why were you always on his mind and why did he not want you to leave his mind, even if you were throwing him off his center?

He swore luck was on his side for once when he entered the cafeteria for breakfast and saw Amren sitting alone at a table. She looked up and raised an eyebrow as she saw him approach slowly and sit in front of her.

“Sooo, Amren. How are you this morning?” He hoped she was in a good mood, or at least a good enough mood so that he could finally get some answers.

“What do you want, batboy?”

“What? Nothing! I just wanted to know how you were doing.” The stare he received in response told him she absolutely did not believe him, and with a sigh, he asked “Who is she?”

“Who is who?”

“Amren.”

“Azriel.”

He sighed again, “The girl from Summer, you know the one who sits at your table every time you eat with Varian.”

He saw her smirk and Azriel knew he was never going to hear the end of this. “Oh, you mean Y/n? You should have been more specific from the start.” She knew exactly who he had been talking about, of course, but it was a rare occasion to be able to tease Azriel, let alone about a girl, so, of course, she had to take it.

“Yes yes okay, so, Y/n? Tell me about her.”

“Why?”

“Amren please.”

“Wow, begging? This is a new look for you.”

Before Azriel could even think of a response, he heard Cassian’s laughter, and knew his friends were about to join them, prompting him to throw Amren a look that clearly said ‘Don’t mention this.’ All he got in response was a smirk.

-~~-

You’d never been this stressed before. You were lucky enough to qualify to compete in multiple events, but that meant you had multiple heats to go through. You really wanted to at least make it to the finals, to at least have a chance to compete for the win, but that meant having the best scores in the heat round, in the semi-finals, and then ideally in the finals, which technically was only three things, but that didn’t make it any easier. 

You had two events today, women’s 400m freestyle heat, and then the final tonight if you ranked high enough this morning, and you truly hoped you did well as it would set the pace for the rest of your competitions.

You had walked into the cafeteria to grab a quick breakfast before going back to the pool, going over your coach’s latest comments in your mind, when you heard someone call out your name, and recognized the voice as Amren. Turning around to find her, you saw her sitting at an empty table. Well almost empty, save the man you had been avoiding for days. She waved you over, and you didn’t want to seem impolite, so you grabbed your apple and cup of tea before heading over to where they were sat.

“Hey, Amren, how are you?” You plastered on a small smile, hoping you would be able to go as soon as possible because as much as you appreciated Amren, you hadn’t spent days avoiding the man sitting in front of her and convincing yourself you didn’t care about him and his friends laughing at you just to fall back in again and start caring. 

“I’m great, have you met Azriel before? He’s on the rugby sevens team for Velaris,” she spoke while raising a hand towards the man, prompting you to look at him. You did, and found him already staring at you. 

You gave him a small smile and a small nod in greeting, “Nice to meet you Azriel,” you looked back at Amren, “Look, it was nice to see you, but I kind of have to-”

“You should join us! We almost never talk at dinner,” she shooed Azriel, “Az move over so she can sit. Come on Y/n, sit.” The look she gave you didn’t really give you the option to disagree, so you gave a small sigh and sat down next to the man, Azriel she had said, and prayed to the Mother you were not about to go through the most awkward breakfast of your life.

[another-lost-mc]

I come to share an idea with you in case luck is on my side and you interested to expand it-

I can't stop thinking about the MC who has a crush on Lucifer but somehow ends up moaning his name while making out with Mephisto 🤔🫢 (I don't think MC and Mephisto have a romantic relationship yet, maybe it's more like ons or something similar???)

To be honest, your name somehow popped to my mind when I thought of this idea 😆 Maybe because I read your smut fic too much lol—

Anyway, thanks for reading and I hope you have a fantastic day 🤍

give me time, I'll change your mind

pairing: mephistopheles x gn!reader

content: nsfw. smut. friends (frenemies?) with benefits. jealousy, teasing, cursing, degradation, slut-shaming. reader has unresolved feelings for lucifer (one-sided).

word count: 1.3k

Groans and whimpered curses spill effortlessly from your lips as long, dexterous fingers graze the spot inside you that makes you tremble. Your body feels like a livewire, overwhelmed by the barest touch of leather against your bare skin and little nips of teeth against your throat. He nudges your head back for better access and you tip your head back with a sigh. It feels so good and your mind is lost in a blissful daze of his creation.

You don't realize something is wrong until there's a sharp intake of breath, and the gloved hand stretching you open suddenly grows still. Mephisto lifts his head from where he was trailing kisses along the curve of your neck, and he narrows his eyes angrily at you.

"I'm knuckle-deep inside your greedy little hole and you can't remember my name, pet?"

Your mouth falls open in mortification when you realize what you've done.

This isn't the first time you've gone to him for relief. He accepted your casual physical arrangement and you both agreed discretion was best. He obliged when you were in the mood, even though more often lately he was the one that initiated first.

He was always careful about coming up with flimsy excuses for you to stay behind after class and help him with the school paper. He fucked you across any available surface in the newspaper club office—bent over the arm of the sofa, against the door, flat on your back against his desk. He was generous with his attention without asking why you chose him, and maybe that was his mistake.

What would you tell him if he did? That he was a handsome distraction, someone to satisfy your needs while you tried to unravel your complicated feelings for the Avatar of Pride?

"I'm sorry, I—I don't know why..."

You're a terrible liar, and he doesn't fall for your blubbering excuses. His expression is cold, calculating, and he's piecing together the little secrets you've kept from him all this time.

"How many others do you turn to for a quick fuck because you can't have your precious Lucifer?" He practically spits his name like a curse as he pulls his fingers from your body with an obscene squelch. He continues stoking around your entrance lazily, taunting you so you don't forget that you were nearly begging for him to fuck your brains out—until you ruined it, that is.

His tongue is sharp and his words drip with scorn. He's trying to hurt you for hurting him. "Tell me, little human. Was I the only one willing to touch you? Was I your last resort, pet? Lucky me." He chuckles but it's a bitter sound, and he bares his fangs when his lips curl into a cold smile.

You're rendered speechless, mouth opening and closing uselessly when you struggle to think of something to say.

How could you be so stupid?

Stray tears trickle from the corner of your eyes when you blink. You can't even imagine how pathetic you must look in his eyes: your lips quivering pitifully as more tears threaten to fall, your legs spread wide on the desk where he stands between them, your pants and underwear tugged down to your ankles from earlier when he was too eager to undress you properly.

He startles you when his fingers press against your entrance and slide back in effortlessly. He adds another and begins stretching you again around his fingers, but it's different now than it was before. His movements are faster now, roughened by his frustration and some primal instinct to claim you. He had you first. Perhaps he just needs to remind you of what you can have with him instead of whatever fantasy you've imagined with Lucifer, that pompous prick—he doesn't deserve you.

Desire pools deep in your belly and you bite your lip to stifle your moans as he strokes you in all the right places. It feels wrong to enjoy this when you insulted him so cruelly. You feel guilty because you still want him—no one's ever touched you the way he has. You have a feeling that he knows that too, even if you won't admit it.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth; he licks at a stray tear clinging to your cheek before he pulls away. "Don't worry, pet. I'll still take care of you, even if no one else will."

There's a soft zip and a metallic clink as he undoes his belt with his free hand. Once he frees his cock, he moves lightning quick—his fingers slip from your body so he can grip your waist with both his hands. He drags you forward until the only thing keeping you from falling off the edge of the desk is his hips pressed against yours.

You barely manage to grip the edge of the desk to brace yourself before he thrusts inside you with one deep stroke. He gives you a moment to adjust to the stretch, panting lightly while he watches you squirm on his cock. His hair falls carelessly over his face and sticks to the light sheen of sweat trickling down his temples.

It feels like the calm before the storm: he looks fierce but determined. "Let's see if you can still moan his name by the time I'm done with you," he sneers, groaning deep in his chest when he pulls back, teasing your entrance with the fat tip of his cock. He slams back inside, fucking you like he's trying to tear you asunder with the rough, punishing pace of his thrusts. His filthy praise about how well you take him and how perfect you feel around his cock puts you back together again.

The desk rattles underneath you and the desperate, feral noises you're both making can probably be heard down the hall, but he doesn't stop until you come on his cock with a broken cry. He fucks you through your release and hisses when you clench around him, and he finally grunts as he empties himself into you.

After he catches his breath, he groans quietly as his softening cock slips from your body. He tucks himself away, fastening his belt while he stares at the tantalizing sight of his cum trickling from your hole. Usually he fetches a damp cloth for you to clean yourself with, but he doesn't do that tonight. He helps you off the desk and slides your clothes back into place. His hands are surprisingly gentle and you realize he's not trying to mock you—there's something possessive in his gaze instead. Your underwear and pants are sticky from the mess he's made of you, and he can already see little wet spots forming where it soaks into the fabric.

By the time he leads you outside where his chauffeur is waiting, it's as if nothing unusual happened between you tonight. His car pulls up at the House of Lamentation to drop you off, and like all the times before, watches to make sure you make it inside safely. You feel the weight of his gaze on your back until you close the door behind you.

The others must be busy because no one comes to your room to bother you, and you're grateful that you don't have to make excuses for your wrinkled appearance and musky smell. You take a warm bath before bed to soothe the dull ache between your legs. The lingering scent of his sweat and cologne on your skin has faded by the time you put on your pajamas, and you leave your D.D.D. on your desk so you're not tempted to call him. You toss and turn, mind racing with memories of what happened tonight and the fleeting sense of uncertainty and anticipation about what to expect when you see him tomorrow.

Eventually you fall into a restless sleep, but the crimson eyes you normally dream about are murky-green instead.

read more: mephistopheles masterlist | obey me! masterlist

[atoltia]

As the wind blows, remember that I'll come home to you.

started listening to "No Choice" by Fly By Midnight and this happened :')

March x Gender Neutral Adventurer/Farmer

-0-

You had to leave.

You didn't want to, of course you didn't, but you had to.

You were an adventurer first before you became a farmer, before you decided it was time to leave the thrill of adventure. To let your body rest, to abandon the horrors that you've seen in your years on the road and settle into this little town.

The life you had built here was nice, far nicer than you ever expected it would. You made friends, you found community. You were settling down.

But you, of all people, knew it wasn't going to last.

The missive arrived days after the last snowfall of spring. You thought it was another mail from Adeline or another letter from Errol asking to meet you and Eiland at the museum. Or maybe it was from March - you hoped it was - telling you that your ass better be at the inn that night.

A chill ran down your spine when you opened the mailbox. A single envelope sat inside, snug, the golden filigree emblazoned over the plush red on the quality paper glinted once the sunlight You didn't have to see the seal, didn't have to see the signature. Didn't have to see to know the colors of your guild.

But you were retired, right? You made sure of that. Made sure that you were off the ledgers, made sure that you would no longer be contacted.

And yet here it was, the ghosts of your past sitting prettily in the mailbox on the land that you so carefully tended.

There was a punch in your gut, a deep clutch at the pit of your stomach. You didn't want to open the envelope. Felt you already know what it said. But you did. You had to.

And felt your heart ice over.

Aldaria was at war. Every soldier, every adventurer within the central kingdom's guilds, every able combatant, retired or otherwise, are required to go to the frontlines.

No one is exempted.

Those who are to run will be deemed as traitors to the Crown and will be put to death.

Fuck.

-0-

The grief of it hit you quickly.

So much that you sat at the stone bench, one that you placed by Caldarus. You didn't think you could talk, didn't think you could form any of the words. Caldarus didn't pry. You thought he could sense what it was, anyway.

You didn't know how much time passed by. Didn't care. Not even hunger, not even the rain.

You had to leave. Immediately.

Adeline and Eiland were horrified. Elsie was rendered speechless. All of you were in tears.

You packed up quickly. It wasn't as if you had a lot of belongings, anyway, even though you've already spent several months here in Mistria. It had to be quick, it had to be soon, as your heart couldn't take it anymore.

The goodbyes were the most difficult of it. More tears, more fear. Hugs, promises to come back.

But you couldn't quite look at everyone in the eye. One person, at the back of the inn, just staring. Dark, dark eyes devoid of emotion. You noticed that his drink remained untouched, his food already cold. You didn't want to say goodbye, not to him. But you needed to.

You took him aside late into the night. His body was rigid, his eyes ice cold.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, tried for a weak smile. "I guess you're right. I didn't even reach winter."

"Don't." His voice was hard, shaky. "Don't fucking blame yourself for this."

"March, I-"

He grabbed your shoulders, hard, looked directly into your eyes. "Don't die,' he murmured. "And come back when this is all done. Are we clear?"

The silence descended upon both of you as you stared at each other. Sighed. Weakly smiled.

"Clear."

And you knew, neither of you wanted to think of that promise being broken.

-0-

The day you left was a particularly rainy day.

Mistria was quiet, as if the joyous energy that usually engulfed the town was washed clean.

People tried to resume their routines, their normal, but watching you leave on horseback, alone while getting soaked, was one of the most difficult sights most of them had in recent years. And yet life has to move on. Days, weeks, months had to pass.

March was not handling it well.

He managed to easily slide back into routine. Being a tradesman, the work was never-ending, especially since he decided to expand their enterprise by accepting orders from the other surrounding towns.

It made sense to expand, especially since Mistria already rose up the ranks quickly in the months the farmer was here. Wartime was an opportunity for more profits. Times were changing and he had to catch up.

(And it wasn't because he just wanted the work to keep his mind off of you.)

Every hit of the hammer to the anvil was a second that he wasn't thinking about you.

Every nail, every screw, every project was something to keep your smile, the crinkle of delight in your eye when you give him another gift, the way the sunlight streaked your hair, out of his mind.

He didn't want to smell your scent the moment he picks up the blanket you made him. He didn't want to think about you when he eats something that you liked. He didn't want to remember the feeling of you, all the curves and angles of your body, the callouses of your hands, the scars that littered your body. He didn't want to see even the barest of glimpses of you in his dreams.

And yet he couldn't escape it. Couldn't escape the way his heart weighed him down. Couldn't escape the dull thrum of longing at the back of his head.

So he worked.

And worked.

And worked no matter how much Olric told him to take a break. No matter how much his body screamed at him to stop. Not even when Valen put her foot down and demanded he rest.

Because his hand shook when he struck that hammer. His breath hitched when he stepped away from the anvil. Because his eyes teared up when his back hit against the wall when the entirety of you consumed him, assaulted his senses, his memory.

"Fuck!"

He threw his hammer down as he crumpled to the ground, shoving his head into his lap as he breathed in the way you showed him how.

When were you coming back? He just wanted you back.

-0-

They were keeping up with the current events, of course.

It was slow all around, as messengers didn't always come or the roads were blocked off. But Balor, through his contacts, made sure that Mistria got the news as soon as possible.

The North Everett Garrison fell to the enemy a week ago and proved a heavy blow to the kingdom. Massive body counts on both sides. No news yet on those who fell.

They hoped, prayed, that you weren't there. That you weren't one of the ones who died. That you were still alive and well.

It's been over a year since you left and they still hoped.

It was three weeks after the news that another messenger arrived.

March snarled when the knock on the door came. The shop was closed, goddammit. Why can't people just leave him the fuck alone? He shoved open the door, stopped when Adeline and Eiland stood outside.

Dread pooled at the base of his stomach, his body crumbling into a cold sweat. In Adeline's hand was a familiar helmet. The perfect, silver helmet that he made for you over a year ago.

-0-

They said they couldn't find you.

When the garrison fell, it was immediately reclaimed by the arriving forces. For days, the soldiers and holy people recovered and identified the dead.

But there was nothing else that they could find of you. They only found the helmet, damaged and bloody, with March's trademark on it. By the time the forces managed to collect as much as they could, you were listed as one of the missing, potentially (probably) dead.

It was enough to send him into a spiral.

March hasn't left his room in days. The meals Olric left by his door barely touched. For days he held the helmet, his hands raw from keeping it close and tight to his chest.

His usual proud eyes were dull, the shine of it diminishing slowly ever since you left. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. This was supposed to be your start at a new life, a new beginning. He saw the grief in your eyes when you first moved in. He saw the twitchiness. He saw the strain. And he saw the way you let the shadows of your past eventually fall.

Only to be thrown back again against your will.

He couldn't feel anything. Just that steady throbbing, the heavy pulling of his heart down, down, to the depths of his despair. Couldn't feel the sunlight that streamed through his window. Couldn't feel the cold of the stone floor. Could barely feel the weight of the helmet on his lap.

Time didn't exist anymore. Every single breath he took was like inhaling shattered glass. The world seemed to have lost all color.

"March?"

"Go away, Olric."

"It's not Olric."

He whipped his head back, confusion marring itself on his face. With effort, he hauled himself off of the ground.

Opened the door.

It's been a while since you've seen him.

He's a bit thinner, a little gaunt, which worried you. A shadow of a beard rested on his face as he stood there, wide eyed, as he held your helmet in his hands.

He was just as handsome as you remembered him to be. You smiled.

"Hey, March."

He had you in his arms not one second later. You felt the shudder run through his body as his strong hands pulled you tight into his embrace. This was something that you dreamed off, the one thing that pushed you through, pushed you to survive. The thought of coming back to him was the light in your darkest days.

"March-"

"Quiet."

He took his time with you. Embracing you. Taking in your scent, memorizing your body once again. You had new scars, new injuries. But he doesn't care.

You were here and that's what mattered.

"March," you murmured as you buried you face into his shoulder, your bandaged hands digging into him like a vice. "I'm home."

He breathed in, sobbed out a sigh. Smiled.

"Welcome home, farmer."

-0-

hello, if you like my stuff i have more on my masterlist! :DD

also feel free to send some requests. I'm currently in a March headspace rn but I'm willing to try other characters too o: (might take a while to get to them tho since I'm gonna be in a convention crunch time qwq)

[1-marigold-1]

Today's the last day of 2024 and I just wanted to say few things

I made this blog a year ago (on 28.12.2023) mostly to look at the life series and hermitcraft fanart, and sometimes maybe share my own doodles and art pieces, I never really thought I'll get these many notes under my posts or that I'll meet so many cool people but here we are !!

people like Lew @liloinkoink, whose lamplight au pulled me out of my artblock and inspired me to create more art, he's also a really cool person to talk with and to listen to (their aus and storytimes being one of my many inspirations to draw and make animatics)

or Anpan @anpanbun, who always has cool ideas and is a really nice person who appreciates people around her, I love talking about Epic the musical or other things with her

and so many other people I met in the lamplight discord server or the treebarkzine server, genuinely so many of you have made my day better without probably even knowing about it, by commenting on my art, by talking with me, I really appreciate it.

I feel like I also improved as an artist a lot this year, I'm finally happy with my art and the creation process of it, it doesn't feel like something that has to be perfect anymore, if I don't feel like fully rendering it I should just leave it as a sketch, if it's not working I should just try again differently instead of trying to do a perfect 1:1 to the first idea that popped into my head. That need for perfection was one of many things that led me to my artblock at the start of the year, and I'm happy that I could free myself from it!

I just wanted to thank everyone, I wish you all a happy 2025!!!

[thewertsearch]

Just as it's up to you to face the decision to claim immortality before you enter your creation.

A classic perk of godhood - and one I considered to be an Ultimate Reward candidate, back in Act 4.

Hopefully it's a flavor of immortality that still lets you age. If Vriska's to be believed, then Sburb wants to be played by adolescents - but they don't need to be kids forever, do they?

TT: Are you saying I will? No. […] TT: Maybe this question will suit you better. TT: Is it probable? That's a strange question to ask someone who is omniscient and therefore knows outcomes with one hundred percent certainty. […] You have exactly a fifty percent chance of ascending to the god tier.

A non-binary probability? From an omniscient being?

That doesn't... that makes no....

Alright, screw it. I'll nerd-snipe myself on this one.

First of all - is Scratch taking doomed timelines into account? Because one way to interpret this statement is that exactly 50% of all timelines will feature Rose's God Tier ascension. If so, this is a functionally useless statement, as we don't know which category the Alpha Timeline falls into.

Another, more interesting interpretation arises if we assume Scratch is only referring to the Alpha Timeline - or, more accurately, the Alpha Timelines.

The whole point of the Scratch is to create another instance of the kids' session - one which can't be doomed, because that would render the whole endeavor pointless. Therefore, there's about to be a second non-doomed timeline in play, with a second Rose Lalonde.

If there are two Alpha Roses, and if 'Alpha Rose' has a 50% chance of ascending, then it sounds like only one Rose will ascend. Either our Rose will become a god, or the next Rose will.

Because, much like the decisions you must face to complete your dual suicide missions, you have two ways of achieving godhood to choose from. […] TT: By dying on the Quest Bed on my planet, and some other way? Yes. TT: Is there another Quest Bed somewhere? Yes. Good guess, Seer.

Aradia’s Time Slab, in Derse, functioned as a backup Quest Cocoon. Her ascension raised a lot of questions, and hopefully we're about to get some answers.

Notably, the Time Slab was able to ascend Aradia's dream self, long after her original body was lost. Can it only solo-ascend dream selves, or could Jade use one to ascend without Jadesprite? Could Rose use one, even after her dream self is consumed by the Tumor?

Also, why is this mechanic hidden from the Players? Is it even an intended feature of the game? I have to assume you're not supposed to learn about it from a corrupted First Guardian. The trolls completed the entire game, and none of them seemed aware of it - so when do you learn about it? What's it for?

TT: Where? What difference does it make? You already know where the first one is. You have the choice to go there right now and take your own life.

You have the choice, but it’s obviously not that simple.

'Logically', every player 'should' God Tier as soon as they learn it's possible - but we're dealing with people here, not ratfic protagonists. It’s not easy to go through with something like this, even when you know it’s exclusively beneficial.