grimeowkin

[grimeowkin]

Modern AU Varrigan Anthem

[grimeowkin]

RGU pmv- Sundial (pspsps go follow the link + watch it over on youtube)

[grimeowkin]

Varré wearing silly cat socks with toe beans printed on the bottom

[grimeowkin]

a knight so loyal that not even death could keep them from their royal. they fight their way through the freshly packed soil of their grave with necrotic fingers fused to rusting armor with clotted blood. they drag undead feet through the halls of the castle to greet a lover who thought they had fallen. they are unfazed by the horror in their eyes, confused by the surprise. was it any question that they would make their way back to their royals side? an oath was sworn, and it shall be kept.

[grimeowkin]

Put him in the ocean on wplace

[grimeowkin]

okay .. can we talk about what I see nobody talking about? a couple of characters in Date Everything! feel racist. Specifically Koa and Dasha.

Koa is the only Hawaiian character out of the cast, and he's the stereotypical exotic chill dude who just hangs different and appreciates the silence and relaxing etc. He's the only one out of 100 dateables to put a huge emphasis on his "culture". Every damn event has a line like "in couch culture, it's really important to sit in silence", "i'm glad to share my couch culture with you". Which I get, we're human and he's furniture — but why is there then no "window culture" for Wyndolyn and "vacuum culture" for Hoove, for example? Why is his whole plot educating us about his culture? It felt really weird and almost gross.

Dasha is the only explicitly Slavic character in the game, and she's basically Zarya from Overwatch. Thick fake Russian accent, random Russian words thrown in dialogue, the "strong woman" archetype, the balalaika blasting as background music..... I saw some people rightfully irked by devs putting an obvious joke-y Russian stereotype character in the game given the political climate, and then I saw some people defending her with "not all Russian(-speaking) people live in/support Russia!" Bitch please. Are you seriously gonna look at all the things I just listed and tell me that is a representation of an average post-soviet country citizen? That's... somehow worse!

[grimeowkin]

I got inspired by a post

[grimeowkin]

You’re my ride or die and our destination is hell

(Bonus sketches/slight nsfw under the cut)

[grimeowkin]

Collection of images and memes for anyone who doesn’t know what to draw

[grimeowkin]

OC ASK THING..... REMUS THE SON FATHER N HOLYSPIRIT 4, 6, 14

4. if you had to put this OC into an existing world, which one would it be?

I don't know what this means but I'm putting him in Hamilton

6. does your oc get injured often? How well did those wounds heal?

Aside from having his eye enucleated, not really. When the tension in the Lands Between calmed down after the Battle of Aeonia; Remus withdraws from his position as an offense and returns to be a Perfumer (as their initial roles as apothecaries)

I took liberties with how the wars played out, so it's not entirely true to canon

14. What makes your oc cry?

Morgott. Since Morgott has such a significant impact on Remus emotionally, they tend to clash frequently despite reconciling. They make promises and compensate, but it usually falls flat regardless. They struggle to re-evaluate their beliefs they're so stubbornly steadfast in, Morgott promises he'll do better and help those shunned by the Golden Order, yet everything falls flat. Despite Morgott's inability to fulfil his vows, Remus always returns, and it frustrates Remus the most

The most strained Remus had been was seeing Morgott emotionally neglect their daughter cause she was born an Omen

The dark fantasy equivalent of a toxic power gap situationship that somehow ends in marriage

[grimeowkin]

Bring back my favorite voice line please.

[grimeowkin]

OC QUESTIONS FOR MENMAA 🎍

13- what makes your oc laugh?

15- what is your oc favourite food?

17- what is your oc weapon of choice?

Putting a silly twist on this, inspired by Gecko :-)

13. What makes your OC laugh?

She's very light-hearted, most things will tug at the sides of her mouth but her closest friends are the ones who make her laugh effortlessly. Though her relationship with Morgott is strained, they have managed to share some laughs as Menma has gotten older.

15. What is your OCs favorite food?

She's a lousy cook, mainly because of her eagerness to stray from the recipe, but she has a refined interest in the culinary arts across the Lands Between. She attempted to make scorpion stew but her attempts were unsuccessful. With little help from the Crucible Godfrey knighted many years ago, they cooked together, switching the scorpion meat to something more easily attainable.

Menma, of course, loves anything Rowa just like her father. Either as a snack, garnish or baked into bread; she'd cross mountains for it.

17. What is your OCs weapon of choice?

She's a pacifist to her very marrow. Despite being born and raised in Leyndell, she cannot escape rich history imbued in the cracked, wax filled walls. The adorned memorabilia of Godfrey and times that once were, it is art crafted out of desperation through a frightening period.

She would not wield a "weapon", she would bear a bow and arrow to pierce an apple at the crown of the tree; but she wouldn't turn it to her kin.

[grimeowkin]

♥︎🌹🌹 Happy Varré day 🌹🌹♥︎

@varreblogger came up with the idea and it’s an official holiday to me now

[grimeowkin]

Driving instructor Varré. I nearly crash the car because he put his hand on my thigh. Send tweet.

[grimeowkin]

Meguca 🎀⏳

[grimeowkin]

varrecinema.png

[grimeowkin]

Coated in red

Varré x f!reader, second pov.

warnings: MDNI, blood, usage of weapons, violence, masturbation, Varré.

“Lambkin…” He whispers, hands clutching hard on your hips and pinning them to his. In the dim light of the chamber, you could barely see the surroundings, which worked for his benefit. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and the faint, metallic tang of blood, which seemed to seep from the walls.

Your tongues danced over each other, bodies pressed together. Varré guided one of his hands to your head, holding it in place so he could deepen the kiss. 

You dragged yourself to the Mohgwyn Palace early in the evening, your body heavy with overstrain. Your feet could barely hold you up. It was much easier to fall victim to someone in these places—albinaurics, corpses, and white masks—none of whom you could expect to be friendly with. Stuck between the most recent site of grace and the unknown one, both far away, you could only choose to walk onward until you found the new one.

A cave entrance yawned before you, cold and dark, but you decided to make your way inside out of necessity. As you entered, your eyes eventually adjusted to the darkness. Deeper within, torchlight flickered weakly against the stone. No one was there, and the only thing you could hear was the sound of the water drops falling from the ceiling.

You felt safe. At least for now. 

“Oh, what do we have here?” A familiar voice has reached you through the emptiness of the room, and you quickly turned to the source. There he stood: the same porcelain smile, the same gloved hands folded. The White Mask’s hollow gaze bore into you, the tilt of his head almost playful. “A stray lamb, aren’t you? How… lost you seem, my dear.”

“What… What are you doing here, Varré? How did you—” 

“That is the question for you,” he interrupted, stepping closer and provoking you to back off. Your breath hitched. Safety was now but an illusion. Varrés warnings flashed in your mind. Wait to receive an invitation. 

“I… I- I didn’t know I would end up here. Really,” You said, stuttering slightly and feeling more tense each moment. Truth be told, you did not use the medal Varré gave you all those weeks ago, preferring to listen to his words. You traveled to Mountaintops and stumbled upon a teleporter. Needless to say, sometimes you just couldn’t deny your curiosity. 


The meeting must wait until the Mohgwyn dynasty commences.


“I wouldn’t lie about such things if I were you, my lambkin,” With the metal clink, he quickly took out the dagger and pointed it your way. “What are the chances?”

He sighs deeply, clearly disappointed in situation.

“And that poor white mask… My brother did not deserve to die by your hand.”

Ah, he was probably referring to the white mask that had ambushed you just as you entered the terrain. Did Varré follow you?

Varré lunged—no warning—just the glint of his misericorde aimed like a surgeon’s scalpel for the gap in your armor. Gathering the last strength you had, you barely drew your blade to counter his strike in time. You pivoted, boots scraping against stone as you twisted to unbalance him. But Varré moved faster, sidestepping with a dancer’s grace. You quickly started losing pace, fatigue dragged at your limbs, and your armor suddenly felt like a useless weight. He was toying with you, blade hitting you everywhere: thighs, arms, ribs, the side of your neck—every strike precise, but not deadly. Your skin stung, but the adrenaline kept you going.

“Tired already, dearest?” His blade stilled. He was mocking you; in his eyes you were but prey in your state. 

“I don’t want to fight you, Varré,” you pant. The cave's darkness pressed closer as you retreated, your back nearing the damp stone wall.

All along your travels in the Lands Between, Varré became a constant. He was insufferable in many ways: in his clear obsession with his lord, his devotion to spilling blood, and his astonishing ability to easily get under your skin and make you feel… things for him. Time and time again you found yourself drawn to the abandoned church in Liurnia. Sometimes you needed help getting patched up, that was how you learned: never joke with a man who holds your wounds in his hands. Not when he could easily make them worse. But there was something about the way his hands worked—methodically —that left you conflicted. The care he took was clinical and detached… And yet, when his fingers brushed your bare skin, you couldn’t help but wonder why your pulse quickened.

Other times you just couldn’t resist the pleasure of seeing him.

Varré pushed you to the wall, your back against it, and reached for his dagger. You could feel him dragging it down the straps of your upper armor, cutting them. The edge kisses your skin, causing a sharp sting followed by the flow of blood. Your mind feverishly raced, heart hammered in your chest, and you felt heat building up in your abdomen. He broke the kiss, leaving you breathless. Before you could even open your eyes, a rough cloth was already being tied over them efficiently. Immediately you felt dampness on your eyes, and your nose was struck with an iron smell—the cloth was stained in blood. The realization should’ve strained you, but all you could think about was his touch on your skin. 

His lips trailed down your neck, his stubble brushing your skin. You'd never have imagined he'd have it. Instinctively, your hands lifted to touch him—only for Varré to skilfully grab them and pull them behind your back. You struggled against him, trying to fight for your freedom—all to no avail. A low, mocking hum vibrated against your throat. 

“You don’t get to touch, lambkin,” he murmured, his words a warning. “Keep your hands here unless you want it to become a lesson for you.” 

You obeyed, fingers twisting together behind you. A gasp falls from your lips as you feel his hands come roaming your body—stopping at your chest and massaging it, slowly tracing your nipples through your blouse, and applying pressure to your aching, wounded sides. You melt into his touch, head spinning in bliss — the contrasting feeling of pain and caressing pleasure was intoxicating. You were hungry for him like you have never been before — craving for his touch, his attention.

When he paused, you heard fabrics shifting, and then his bare, cold fingers were slipping under your waistband. The skin-on-skin contact made you shiver in anticipation, leaving you to imagine what Varré could look like without his clothes and mask on. That was a mystery you were forever eager to uncover.

He stopped his wrist right before reaching where you wanted him the most. 

“Tell me what you need, my dear,” Varré tells you, his lips brushing your ear. His chest was pressed to yours, fresh blood leaking from you and staining clothes. Both of you were such a mess, but no one seemed to care.

“Please, Varré—” 

“No, that won’t work.” Misericorde’s sharp edge grazed your jugular. “Be precise.” 

You swallowed. Knowing Varré's antics, you guessed that he can and will wait however long it needs for you to crack and spill every lewd desire you had on your mind. Your need for him outweighed your shame. 

“I want your hands on me. I… I-I want you to make me feel good. I need your fingers inside me.”

“Goodness gracious, you are desperate, my lambkin!” 

The dagger point trailed down from your neck to your collarbones, parting your skin in thin lines with surgical precision and slicing your blouse with indifference. Your blood spilled in tiny drops, drawing a beautiful pattern. Varré’s breath hitched—the only sign of his own arousal—and he couldn’t deny himself swiping his tongue over the cuts, tasting them. Your mouth fell open, a moan escaping your lips. He knew what he was doing, driving you mad with need. 

One second of stillness and you can’t suppress the cry—his fingers slipped in your underwear, parting your lower lips and caressing your slickness, his touch featherlight, barely present. Your hips jerk towards his hand on their own, unable to stay still. You want him to press harder, to draw more blood from you—your overheated mind cannot decide what you desire more.

Control shatters. Your hands fly from behind your back, fingers clutching onto his shoulders. You hug him impossibly close, careless of the blade that was still on your skin. 

“Greedy lowborn,” he mutters, “I warned you.” 

His hand that held the dagger made a hard, sharp strike, cutting your skin across your chest and belly. You screamed in pain, nails digging hard into his clothes. As you were about to shout curses at him, a metal clattered against the ground, and then came a long-awaited feeling of his fingers pressing hard on your clit. With his now free hand, he clutched your throat, stealing your oxygen. 

“Must you always ignore what I tell you?”

Every word Varré has punctuated with a roll of his skilled fingers. His pace differed—from slow to fast to agonizingly light—but oh, how good he was at doing this. He played you like a beautiful instrument. You trembled, getting closer to your release second by second, hips now moving frantically to meet his touch. Your muscles were on the edge of giving up, and you clung to Varré as if you were about to drown. His hot breath caressed your ear and then he trailed lower, sucking your skin into his mouth with a groan. You felt so embarrassingly good under his touch that tears started pricking in your eyes. They immediately dried under the blindfold. With quick and sensual motions, Varré drove you just to the edge of your orgasm…

Only to retract his fingers from you right before you climaxed.

He loosened his grip on you abruptly, your head clearing from dizziness.

“No, please— Varré, please, I beg you!” 

“Ah-ah. The surgeon shall not rush the procedure, hm?” He mocks you, voice full of amusement. His hand traced over your deep wound torturously slowly, collecting your blood and sweat. He withdrew completely, your hands slipped from his shoulders, fingers shaking from exhaustion and denial, trying to blindly reach for him in a desperate plea. If only he continued for a moment longer…

He licks his bloodstained hand, tasting you once more. 

“M-m, such a sweet taste. You look exquisite coated in red.”


You whine, never getting your release. 

“The reward comes to the patient ones. Never forget this lesson, my lovely lambkin.”