let-sarastro-cook

[let-sarastro-cook]

i love you my ferris wheel enjoying king

another

[let-sarastro-cook]

[let-sarastro-cook]

obsession w/ sunday

inspired by @yandere-romanticaa's fic! Tehee your works are so eye opening 0.0 <333 I licherally haven't created a yandere content for such a looong time lolol let's see if I can still pull this off lmao

WARNING/S: Yandere, Obsessive Behavior

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[let-sarastro-cook]

cyndaquil's trip through time

(bonus comic below i may or may not render idk)

[let-sarastro-cook]

dude.

...excuse me what?

[let-sarastro-cook]

THEUS MY BOYYY

プロメテくんの顔だけの落書き、Tumblrに上げ忘れてたものがあったのでまとめ直します。

2020/05/21～06/30

[let-sarastro-cook]

Sunday x Reader (Drabble?)

Sunday’s only regret was you. 

He’d tried his best to suppress any feelings he had for you, smothering them within him, keeping them tucked secretly away behind his breast pocket, in the innermost reaches of his heart. 

Of course, he would not spare you from the sweet dream. Only he needed to suffer, for everyone else to partake in the sweetest of dreams, cocooned and safe from the harsh realities of the monotonous drudgery of life. He’d alone remain strong, so all the weak could indulge and live life as they wished. 

He presided over these dreams, but he did not know the ins and outs of them all, did not know what each individual person wished for, nor what they lived out in the comfort of safety. 

And he couldn’t stop his curiosity, you, his sweet little secret respite; what life did you truly wish for above all else? 

With the promise he’d never invade the sanctity of your dream again, he peered down, seeking you out amongst a sea of others. 

Only to be met with his own visage. 

In your dream, you were with him. Laughter and sweet nothings spilled between you, love curled into your forms as if you’d always been together, as if you’d always loved him. As if you needed no other. 

With a heavy heart, what if’s and what could have been on the tip of his tongue, he pulled away from the comfort of your dream, bitter on his palate like medicine. 

He returned to his gilded cage, hoping for you to remain peacefully asleep in the safety of your dreams.

[let-sarastro-cook]

this has me feeling all fuzzy

LOGOS ESPECIALLY LOOKS SO GOOD

feathery bois

[let-sarastro-cook]

Happy Vita day!

[let-sarastro-cook]

THE RECENT TB CONTINUANCE!!!

I love love love the idea of Boothill being the type to confidently dish out compliments, call his girl beautiful, sexy, cute, you name it. And then, him just.....stuttering and blushing when you give him a compliment in return. When you get your hands on him, taking the initiative. He'd probably even smile about it in a cute, awkward and almost boyish way with his cheeks flushed. Maybe he'll even attempt to turn the heat around on you, but when you stop him - because you're well familiar with this tactic or his - he just gets more flustered....

[let-sarastro-cook]

ok hold on

mr reca fic where he’s suffering a creative slump due to the lack of good scripts (by his standards) from various screenwriters. he feels himself going positively insane with every script he’s given.

it’s too dull. it’s too predictable. this one has no creative flair whatsoever!! that one just doesn’t spark enough imagination!!!

it’s troublesome, really. some think he’s really going through it, while others believe the scripts he’s been given won’t bring him enough money. but really, who cares about monetary value when it is he who cannot even begin to picture himself enjoying the process that comes with each script?

and so that is how he finds himself wandering around aimlessly. sometimes the outdoors is necessary for the mind, and who knows? perhaps he really will find something that will give him a spark. hmm, those trees are looking a little dull. the sky overhead is too cloudy. hm? did he just hear thunder��

something collides into his chest, a choked “oof!” following soon after. he stumbles backwards a little, papers flying through the air around him. he blinks once, twice, at the sight of you on the ground, muttering something under your breath before a sharp gasp escapes you, hastily scrambling to gather the papers fluttering and strewn around.

one such paper falls into his hands. he glances over its contents, skimming through it as he goes to pass it over to you with an apology at the tip of his tongue, only to freeze.

this… this is genius! this is absolutely the pinnacle of writing!! while a little rough around the edges (as drafts usually tend to be), his once clouded mind is now clear, giving way to a blank canvas which slowly depicts the imagery your writing induces. idea after idea pours into his brain as he can visualise exactly what he wants, his body trembling and heart pounding as he insantly fixates on your panicked form still collecting all the fallen papers.

“yes… yes! this is what i was looking for! everything about this is pure artistry! the possibilities are endless, the sky is the limit!!”

this is possibly the happiest and freest he has felt in what seems like eons! seriously, compared to those other mind-numbing scripts this truly is the pinnacle of writing itself.

a laugh full of pure, unadulterated glee escapes him, careful not to crinkle the god-sent paper cradled in his palms. “you! you’re a genius!”

“i’m a wha…?”

he whirls in the direction of the source of the voice, further praises and a proposal for a collaboration on the tip of his tongue, only for his breath to catch in his throat.

you… you’re so radiant! even with that disheveled appearance and absolutely adorable confused expression you’re giving him, he never realised such beauty existed! not only does your writing fill him with endless creativity, but his pounding heart, parched throat and warming skin tells him you’re definitely the main character!

but wait! if you were to be the main character, then would that make him the main character’s love interest? surely he wouldn’t have had such a cliché meet-cute like bumping into each other if he wasn’t the love interest! but what if there is a second love interest? no, no, he can oust them…

you, on the other hand, believe you’re about to get whiplash instead of the man, baffled at how he instantly switched from a maniac to stark silence to muttering senselessly with a dreamy expression.

well, each to their own. you have more pressing matters, and that’s to quickly return home and continue fantasising before you forget the idea! but first, you have to get the last piece of paper back…

“um… sir? can i have my paper back, please?”

in an instant, he kneels in front of you. now that you’re at eye level, he certainly is very handsome. if you didn’t know any better, you would have thought this was some movie or drama plot with him as the main lead! oh, but why is he holding your hands—

“yes, i will spend the rest of my life with you.”

“…what?”

tldr; you’re just a silly writer who daydreams far too much for their own good, and somehow managed to bag top-tier director mr reca with the power of said daydreams. (his ever-growing obsession with you is concerning to say the least but, hey! what genius isn’t at least a little insane?)

[let-sarastro-cook]

[let-sarastro-cook]

my loves

they're on the case !

[let-sarastro-cook]

I think I'm funny

[let-sarastro-cook]

theyll only keep getting more and more self indulgent btw and im not apologizing

[let-sarastro-cook]

AAAAA YESSS NOAN CONTENT

Afterglow

Pairing: Noan x (gn!) Commandant / Reader

Notes: Set shortly after Noan’s affection story 6; word count 1.3k

Warnings: Subtle possessiveness

A fluke. 

Fate disguised as a coincidence. 

Isn’t that how it always goes in hero stories? 

A chance encounter that alters the alignment of stars and rewrites destiny for the better, with hope woven into every word and touch. 

But this is not a hero’s story, and fate has never been kind to him. 

It is not a moment of joy, with warm smiles and gentle laughter in the company of friends. It is not a moment of anticipation, spirits soaring high before the oncoming fight. This moment — quiet and peaceful — has been won only after the blood of comrades has stained your hands beyond recognition and their corpses paved the way to the top of this hill upon which you weather every storm. 

But even so…

Despite it all, he is grateful. 

How could he not be, with your head on his shoulder? 

Your breathing is slow and steady, his cloak a poor cushion against the hard, unyielding metal of his frame. Yet now and then, you drowsily nuzzle against his shoulder and almost seem to burrow into the worn folds of the fabric before settling once more against him. It’s enough to trigger an itch in his wires, a slow rolling brushfire that sweeps across him — quiet, without flare or noise. More than once he has brushed the hair from your eyes, his fingers curling as they trace a path from behind your ear down along the curve of your jaw. 

Still you do not wake. 

Not when he calls your name or when his touch drifts across your cheek like butterfly wings, a ghost of a touch too delicate to truly be missed. Just how much have you been pushing yourself lately? It hasn’t even been three days since you returned from a month long mission down on the surface and already the shadows beneath your eyes are just as concerningly dark as the first night he kidnapped you to this blind spot in Zone Z. Do you always throw yourself so recklessly into the fray, heedless of your health? 

How does Gray Raven stand it, watching you tear yourself apart like this piece by piece? How does Simon hold his tongue every time your paths cross, despite the endless worries that flow over like rain behind the closed doors of Dark Ares? 

You nuzzle against his shoulder again, a faint furrow in your brow as the blanket draped around your shoulders slides away. Noan cannot help the small smile that pulls at his lips as he adjusts the blanket and dutifully ensures you are properly bundled. His hands hover near your cheek, an itch in his fingertips to brush against your brow and coax that furrow away. 

You trust him — foolishly, kindly — and he still cannot wrap his head around why. It’s such a heavy thing — your trust — and he has long since known cold, metallic hands cannot grasp delicate things forever. 

Would that wake you? 

Would it cross a line somewhere, somehow? 

He settles for lightly brushing the hair from your face, touch far too light and mindful, before his hand drifts down to your hands resting in your lap. Slowly, with all the careful movements of a child reaching for something forbidden in the middle of the night, he cradles your hand in his. Immediately, your warmth sinks into him, gradual and welcoming. 

Your head on his shoulder, your hand cradled in his — a fragile peace lay nestled against him. 

It feels like Spring.

It feels like home.

Delicate, like a folded paper crane. Even the slightest moment could tear and rend everything asunder. The smallest bit of rain could eat away the body. Carefully, so carefully must he act — every word and action mindful and calculating. He can’t lose this — this friend, this trust, this warmth. 

Slowly, he laces your fingers in his, marveling at the softness of your skin against the hard edges of him. You stir in your sleep, fingers curling around his hand and weakly returning his grip. 

“Commandant.” 

Your title is a whisper upon his lips, gentle like flower petals. 

“You’re scowling again.” 

His free hand brushes against your cheek, thumb tenderly swiping just under your eyes as if to wipe away tears. Beneath his light touches, you seem to relax, the faint traces of tension fading from your expression. He feels the subtle shift of your weight as you lean upon him further, like a bird burrowing into a corner of the nest. 

Warmth seeps into him, sinking beneath cold metal and bleeding beyond colored wires. Down, down, down it travels — to a vast white expanse within him, where only snow thrives. It seeps in, like springtime rain, and melts the unending snow. Noan gently tilts his head, lips brushing against the top of yours as he soaks up every bit of your warmth like a sunflower desperate for the sun. 

The empty bridge framed by the black expanse of the stars are the only witness to this moment of weakness. He knows when the timer runs out, this will all be over. He will return you to your Gray Ravens, likely carrying you upon his back much like he did before. He will return to the cafe and slip that shackle back on his wrist once more. 

“Shall we run away again?” You had asked just hours prior, the playful smile on your lips marred only by the exhaustion you could not hide. 

He didn’t tell you the response he suppressed — suffocated, really — that you need only say when and he would answer your call without fail. He did not tell you how he hid a blanket in the library on the impossible chance he could sneak you away to Zone Z again. He did not speak of the joy that flared in his chest, bright and blooming, to hear your request. 

He had merely held out his shackled wrist to you, a small smile on his lips as he had replied, “You really shouldn’t make a habit of getting kidnapped by an infamous bad guy unless you want to be lectured for hours.”

Your laughter as you disarmed his tracker still rings in his ears. A precious sound — what would it take to make you laugh more often? How often do you laugh around your Ravens? 

Noan closes his eyes as his thumb brushes over the back of your hand in his as he curls himself around you. If only there were still softer parts to him left, maybe he could be of more comfort. You’re still sleeping so soundly, but it can’t be comfortable to use him as a pillow like this. The blanket he brought couldn’t be enough — it’s not, not to him. He has to do more, be more. 

Next time, then. 

The thought freezes Noan, barely suppressing the flinch that would have squeezed your hand — he could have hurt you. Next time? Will there be a next time? Would it be alright to hope for that? To trust in that? 

Noan calls your name softly, devoid of any titles. Caution laces his tone but it is no less gentle. 

Still you do not wake. 

Soon, this peace will end and his time will run out. You will return to the frontlines and he will return to his shackles, worn weary by painful tests and experiments under watchful eyes that neither trust nor care for him. 

“It would be nice,” he murmurs into your hair, “if you called upon me like this again.” 

Silence settles and the stars in the instance still frame the otherwise dark and empty room. Noan quietly tugs the blanket tighter around you and curls himself that much closer to you, every bit a child clutching a jar of fireflies for comfort. 

The feeling of you cradled in his arms — a paper crane, a firefly — 

This is enough for now…. 

[let-sarastro-cook]