#snippets inspired by artwork

[kianamaiart]

Growing an audience takes time and getting people to care about your characters can often take more time. I've done a bunch of OCs in the past but none of them really got traction until my IDWTBAMG OCs. I steadily grew my social media following for well over a decade. A lot of checking socialblade, looking at analytics and generally drawing/posting everyday. I have a whole doc available about this type of stuff.

There's no particular shortcut other than happening to go viral or getting really lucky. But I will say "branding" or carving out a niche for yourself over time helps. Although I've been in a number of different fandoms over the past 15 years I've been on the internet, the kind of art I do has been pretty consistent. Lots of shorter, light hearted comics or vignettes highlighting relationships (be them romantic, platonic or familial) and people started enjoying my work for my writing style more so than just what fandom I was creating for.

Finding your community, creating stuff that aligns with those communities and engaging with others is huge. A lot of my work prior to IDWTBAMG centered queer people (specifically sapphics), Black and Asian folks and stylistically is very anime/modern western cartoon inspired. It's what became known for in fandom spaces and what people were following me for. So when I finally did make IDWTBAMG, a concept with anime influences, in a western cartoon style, with two Black, sapphic leads, it just fit right into what I was already doing. Like if you grew your following from doing cute, slice of life stuff, then suddenly dropped a psychological horror comic, chances are it's not gonna grab a large part of your audience. Might bring some new folks in, but you're ultimately kinda starting over and pivoting (that's why rebrands are hard to pull off). This may not be the best example but hopefully you get what I mean. Appeal to the communities you've fostered!

I hate using corporate speak for art but if you ARE trying sell your ideas to people and get your work out there, you do kinda have to learn how to market yourself and your art to some extent. Get in the head of a marketing agent or a brand manager. What's popular right now? How can I use that to my advantage? What times should I be posting my artwork to get the most eyes on this? Who is my target audience and how do I effectively appeal to them while staying true to my own work? Stuff like that. Genuinely, studying how social media managers operate as well as just observing how businesses market their products helped me a lot. "Okay I'm making this animatic, but it won't come out for the next four months. How do I keep people interested and hyped for that amount of time leading up to the pilot's release? I'll keep doing comics here and there so people connect with the characters by the time the pilot comes out. Once I get he VAs recorded, I'll make posts to get people hyped for the casting. I'll upload snippets and behind the scenes stuff to give people a taste of what's to come. I'll release during Black History Month since this is a Black led project with Black characters. I'll have a specific upload time at peak hours to get a good amount of people watching for the premiere and to give the pilot a good running start." This was all stuff I was taking into consideration and planning for.

Then generally, I think people connect to characters more than anything. You can have a cool concept and fun world building ideas but if your execution is bad and your characters aren't compelling, what's the point, y'know? IDWTBAMG isn't a particularly novel concept imo, but I think its strengths lie in the characters and how they interact. The concept is just a tool to give the character dynamics and relationships legs to stand on. So few of the comics I've done with these guys have to do with their lore, it's just small interactions of the girls in class, at a convenience store or just talking to each other in a void. Even though it's simple, that's often the kind of thing people connect with.

Then there's just the technical aspect of having appealing drawing! Getting better at your craft, if nothing else, is good for catching eyes and helping with your execution of your project. While it's not always necessary, I think it helps a lot. I know there's a lot of people who follow me just because they personally like my art style and character design.

Not sure how helpful this actually is LOL. It really does just kinda take time. We all have to start somewhere. I was a "small artist" too at one point. It was years of trial and error, mental breakdowns, finding my own artistic voice and posting artwork almost daily for like 5 years straight. I do think that's why IDWTBAMG ended up being so special to me. It really does feel like a culmination of everything I've learned and all that hard work up to this point and people can kinda feel that.

[tadc-harlequin-au]

"Greetings. Please, do enjoy your read, with the official Masterpost of..."

The Marvelous Mechanical Harlequin AU!

Looking for this AU's game counterpart? You can go to The Souls-like AU Masterpost for that!

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INTRO ANIMATIC:

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The long-awaited official masterpost of the Harlequin AU is now here! You'll find everything there is to know about the AU, all in here.

Please note that all of it is still a WIP! And this is NOT an RP blog! ══════☸☸☸════════════☸☸☸══════

CHARACTER ROSTERS & DESC.!

Main Cast:

Supporting Cast:

"The names have the link to the full character biography attached to them. Please note that some aspects of it are still incomplete, (or may even be outdated) for story purposes."

Pomni, The Last Harlequin: |•| Caine, The Puppetmaster:

Coming soon!

Ragatha, The Artifact Collector |•| Jax, The Mischievous Trickster

Lady Gangle, The Bashful Slithery Chronicler:

Z, The No-nonsense Housesmith:

Kingr, The Helpful King:

BOSS ROSTERS, OFFICIAL STORY/LORE SNIPPETS, NON-CANON TIDBITS and FAQs BELOW THE CUT!

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BOSS ROSTERS:

The Lady of Forgotten Memories |•| The Skirmish General |•| The Last Formidable, Imposing Structure |•| The Mischievous Trickster Automaton |•| The Maddened Princess of the Theater |•| Bladed Beast of Steel and Shadows |•| The Pierrot of the Carnival Funhouse |•| The Celestial Twin Entertainers |•| Bandits of the Confectionary Highlands |•| Former Warden of the Labyrinth |•| Overlooker of the Confectionary Highlands |•| The Abstraction |•| Duchess of the Mildenhall Cliff's edge House |•| Proud Queen of the Gatherers |•| The Patriarch of Puppets |•|

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OFFICIAL STORY:

"Thrilling Order Of The Hunt" comic |•| Stalemate (fic) |•| Touch-Starved (Post-boss!Ragatha)

OFFICIAL LORE SNIPPETS:

The Charmer, The Catalyst and The Inventor |•| Memory#1 |•|

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OFFICIAL ARTWORKS:

Coming soon!

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LORE-RELATED ASKS:

You can go here for that!

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NON-CANON:

"Come Back To Me." (showtime, ao3) |•| Cade, The Miracle star (Showtime fankid) |•| Anya, The Little sensitive Poppet (Jesterdoll fankid) |•| The Lady of Forgotten Memories' defeat |•| Who Broke It (Harlequin AU edition) |•| The Hole (Harlequin AU edition) |•| "Chandelier" fanart (fanfic, suggestive ⚠️) |•| Morning routines |•| ⚠️The Puppetmaster's Trophy Harlequin (dark themes, nihilistic/no happy ending)⚠️ |•|

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FAQs!

"Now, what exactly is 'The Marvelous Mechanical Harlequin' AU?"

Well I'm glad you asked! The Marvelous Mechanical Harlequin, or "Harlequin AU" for short, is a grimdark sci-fantasy story about "Puppets", whom are soul-infused robots, trying to regain their lost humanity in a broken world.

It follows Pomni, a short-tempered Combat Harlequin, as she explores the city of Circuits with the aid of Caine, The Puppetmaster.

However, as the story progresses, Pomni not only realizes that there's more to the grand scheme of things as she explores more and more, she also uncovers The Puppetmaster's story, and what secrets he may be hiding.

"How do the boss fights go down in the story?"

Action-packed, fast paced, involves a lot of dying on Pomni's part.

Even though this is inspired by a Souls-like, the boss fights go down more so like a mixture between Cuphead, Shadow of the Colossus, and God of War (2018/Raganarok). Mostly God of War.

"Are there going to be canon ships in this AU?"

Yes! The AU is very Showtime (Caine x Pomni) centric, and some of the story aspects of the AU are heavily surrounded on that. There is a bit of Jesterdoll (Pomni x Ragatha) in it, too.

Aside from these canon ships, all is fair game. The Puppets don't have ages seeing as to how they are robots (and were already adults prior to their conversion), so the possibilities are endless.

"Can I make fanarts/fanfics/make original content for your AU?"

Why, of course you can! In fact, I would REALLY love to see it, as long as it complies with my personal boundaries below. So don't be afraid to tag this blog, or @iamespecter in your posts if you want me to see it!

"What are the boundaries of the AU?"

Go wild! The AU's rating is pretty mature, if it wasn't obvious already for it's grimdark genre.

However... I would like to ask that if you would like to make something dark even for my standards for this AU (i.e non-con or dark kinks), all I ask is that you don't show it to me. I personally do not like it, and do not vibe with it.

"What are your thoughts about NSFW surrounding the AU?"

Suggestive content and NSFW is allowed! I am an adult, and I personally enjoy them. (I think I'll make a blog for the more... spicy things.)

Even I make suggestive content for this AU.

HOWEVER! Please tag it properly with "cw suggestive", "tw suggestive", "tw nsft" and various other tags for people who do not wish to see them, or are minors. I can't keep track of everything try as I might, so it'll be up to you to be a decent person, which I know you will be.

"I don't like showtime, but I find your AU interesting. Will that be a problem?"

For you, it might be. The story leans heavily around Pomni and Caine's relationship as a whole, and I'm sorry. I'm just really soft about them.

"Will this be anything like the original TADC?"

Yesss...? And no...? It takes a lot of creative liberty and inspirations from various medias.

⚠️ This masterpost is still under construction! Please excuse the technical difficulties. ⚠️

In the meantime, I hope you had a fun read nonetheless! Things will get updated overtime. - Ziku/IAmESpecter

[stuckygeekevents]

Stucky Historical Fiction: Mini Bang 2025

I’m so excited to finally share the schedule for Stucky Historical Fiction’s very first bang! 🏛️✨

A huge thank you to everyone who filled out the interest form—it was incredibly helpful in shaping the event. While we’re still not 100% sure we’ll be able to pull off a full bang (depending on artist participation), we’re going to do our absolute best!

And no matter what happens, everyone who signs up will still receive a custom fanfiction cover, just like in previous years.

Also! Since we’re drawing a bit of inspiration from Thunderbolts (and older, possibly grumpier Bucky), we’re opening the door to time travel for the first time ever in this event! ⏳

That means you can bring modern or post-canon characters into historical settings or pull historical versions forward in time—whatever suits your story. Just make sure history still plays a big role in the fic!

DATES TO KNOW

Sign-Ups Open: May 2

Sign-Ups Close: May 16

Join Our Discord (required to participate): by May 17

Prompt Suggestions Open: May 2–May 20

Brainstorming & First Writer Check-In (idea summary or WIP snippets): May 20–June 10

Claims Open (for artists to claim summaries): June 15

Claims Close: June 19 (optional, gives you a day to finalize)

Teams Announced: June 20

Artist First Check-In (basic idea, vibe, or rough concept): June 30 (alongside writers)

Custom Fanfic Cover Collaboration (Writers will be contacted by a mod to create a fanfic cover based on their summary!): July 1–July 31

Final Art Due: July 31

Posting Begins: August 15

You can check out our previous runs here. And join our Discord!

RULES

❌ DON’Ts

To keep this event respectful, fun, and inclusive for everyone, please do not:

Include incest or explicit underage content in your story or artwork.

Set your story/art in a fantasy kingdom or world that isn’t based on actual history or mythology (historical fantasy based on real time periods is okay!).

✅ This Year Only Exceptions:

Time travel is allowed!

Modern-day settings are also permitted—as long as they include a historical connection (e.g., time travel, flashbacks, or historical research as a plot element).

✅ DOs

Your work should:

Be complete by the final draft deadline.

Be beta read before posting (we'll help you find one if you need!).

Be informed by historical context, events, or figures—some research is encouraged, but remember, it’s fanfiction, not a thesis. Do your best and have fun!

Be respectful of the cultures, histories, and mythologies you’re engaging with.

Meet the minimum word count of 5,000 words. You’re more than welcome to write beyond the 5,000-word minimum if you’re feeling inspired—we’ve always loved long fics! But please don’t stress. Whether it’s 5k or 50k, do what’s realistic and fun for you.

For artists: submit at least one complete piece tied to a story or the event.

🏺 Acceptable Time Periods:

We welcome stories and art set in any of the following timeframes:

Prehistoric

Ancient Civilizations (Egypt, Greece, Rome, etc.)

Viking Age

Medieval Era

English History (Tudor, Regency, Victorian, etc.)

American History (Revolutionary War, Civil War, etc.)

World Wars I & II

1920s – 1990s

Cold War

Modern Day (only for this event!)

💬 Community Expectations

Hey @everyone — we know you're here because you love history and stories just as much as we do. We encourage thoughtful discussion and debate—but let’s keep it respectful.

History and mythology often carry deep personal and cultural significance. Everyone brings their own perspective and background, and that’s something we want to honor.

It’s okay to share your opinion.

It’s okay to disagree respectfully.

It’s okay to interpret history or myth differently.

Please remember: we’re here to tell stories and have fun doing it. Keep conversations kind, inclusive, and open-minded. There’s room for everyone at this table.

💙 With love, —The @mods

[3amfanfiction]

“You need to learn how to defend yourself.”

What?

When you looked over at Simon, a raised eyebrow was your only response.

“Have you looked in the mirror recently?” he deadpans, gesturing in a sweeping motion from your face to your toes.

As a matter of fact, you have. You’re standing in front of one right now, finishing your skin care for the night.

He continues without waiting for a response, “You’re fucking stunning love and some jumped up idiot is going to get ideas while I’m gone.”

You finally have to break you silence for that comment—laughter ringing out, bouncing off the bathroom walls. “Simon Riley!” you admonish, “Nothing like that is going to happen! Have you forgotten you moved us to literally the safest town in the country?”

“But it could,” he responds sternly, not taking your backtalk for a moment, “look at how easy it is to squish these cute cheeks,” he slipped his arm around your neck from behind, your jaw cradled in the warm V of his elbow.

“Just look at this, what are you gonna do now?” he taunts, voice still steady but eyes gleaming with satisfaction. Like a cat batting around a toy.

You laugh delightedly, “That’s easy,” you turn to the side, leaning forward a bit to get around your cheeks, “I’ll bite them!” You chomp down, teeth pressing a neat ring into the skin of his arm.

Once you decided he was properly marked you let go, looking back into the mirror to admire your new artwork.

A clean ring of teeth marks showed on his bicep, skin slightly shiny with your drool. You made eye contact with him again through the mirror, “they won’t stand a chance,” you finish.

“You little witch,” Simon says, fondness creeping through every word. His other hand comes up to properly restrain you, causing your cheeks to chipmunk out around his arm in a beautiful pudge.

“I’ve been planning a new tattoo and I just figured out what it’s going to be,” he eyes your bite mark, something close to reverence flashing in his eyes, there and gone before you could properly recognize it.

You giggle while relaxing back, safe in the crook of his arms.

Next

Art Snippets Repository || Main Repository

Snippet inspired by artwork from @littlebit-of-art

haven’t seen one of these for chunky people, despite how perfect our cheeks are for this

[decagondice]

༓ EXPERIENCE SHAPES PERCEPTION ༓

༓ 'If lies can save a man once, truth can save him twice.' [The Arabian Nights: Tales of 1001 Nights]

༓ Pairing. Trueform!Sukuna x Bride!Reader

༓ Synopsis. Every night, a fresh girl is forcefully taken away from her loved ones per the King's orders, betrothed for a few hours as his wife, and at dawn, an extravagant silk bind is tied around her throat. Unable to tolerate the unjust wrath of the sovereign and promise to do any means necessary to survive in order to put an end to the King's torment, you offer yourself to the King of Curses as his unfortunate bride.

༓ Content. 1001 Nights inspired, sfw, F!Reader, Slightly reluctant reader, KingofCurses/Trueform!Sukuna, Slightly ooc Sukuna, angst (?), fluff (?), Sacrificial reader who eventually finds the good in Sukuna, Slightly depressed Sukuna, Emotional distress, Lonliness, Resentment, Mentions of death, Talks of violence (brief), Hurt, Conflict of feelings, Not proofread.

༓ Word Count. 8.8k

༓ A.N. I randomly had a vision of a 1001 nights au of Sukuna and reader last night and its been my mission since to bring that to life since then :P But, I was torn between making this fic 18+, however I think I just wanted to portray Sukuna's lack of love and life filled with rejection in a different format first. (When reading the fic, you will soon realise how much the last few chapters of the manga had an effect on me...) Hmm~ I might consider making and exploring a short snippet of a smut scene in this au, though not yet. This is my first ever piece of writing that I mustered up the confidence to present the world with, thank you for tuning in and please enjoy! :D

[Drawn to resemble the classic Arabian tales, 1001 Nights, narrating the story of Scheherazade's sacrifice to the resentful Caliph, captivating him with a story every night to preserve her life and end the wrathful reign once and for all. Artwork by Léon Carré, part of his collection of illustrations for 'The Book of One Thousand and One Nights', 1929]

The King’s palace was a labyrinth of shadows and whispered fears, a fortress carved from malice and crowned with disquietude. In the heart of it, past echoing halls filled with ancient curses and dread, lay his private bedchambers- a sanctuary draped in silks and shadows. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and myrrh as the flickering glow of oil lamps casting a dim, golden light that danced lazily on the walls. Heavy curtains draped from the high ceiling, their rich fabric falling like cascading shadows around the room, veiling the room in an otherworldly haze, as though even the air itself hesitated to settle too close to the King of Curses. Sheer veils billowed softly in the breeze that slipped through the open windows, creating a veil of secrecy, a cocoon of intimacy where the outside world seemed to disappear.

You stood before Sukuna, your hands trembling despite your efforts to still them, your gaze fixed on the dark patterns of the floor rather than meeting those eyes that burned with cruel amusement. You had come here not out of ambition or desire but out of duty—an act of desperation to save the other innocent girls from this fate, to shield them from being torn away from their families and cast into a life of terror at the hands of a monster.

You had heard the tales of Sukuna long before you ever set foot in his palace. His name was a curse whispered in the darkest corners of the village, a warning to children who strayed too far into the shadows. He was the King of Curses, a monster draped in human skin, infamous for his cruelty and insatiable thirst for power. But beneath the layers of horror and bloodshed, there were also whispers of another kind—a story buried in the dust of forgotten tongues, one that spoke of a man who had once been cast out, unloved, and rejected by the world that shaped him into the monster he is today. You knew of the loneliness that had festered within him, the pain of being feared and loathed for reasons beyond his control. And though a part of you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of sympathy for that tragedy, you couldn’t afford to indulge it. How could you feel pity for the very beast who was tearing innocent girls from their homes, who was crushing lives beneath his wrath without a trace of remorse? The same hands that once reached out in vain for love were now stained with the blood of those who had never done him harm. He was a monster by his own making, and even the darkest past could not excuse the cruelty that now defined him.

Sukuna sat reclined on the edge of a low, opulent bed, his form barely illuminated by the oil lamps that sputtered and hissed in their brass holders. He doesn't rise to acknowledge you; instead, he tilts his head slightly, a mocking smile playing at the corners of his mouth, as though your presence is nothing more than an amusing diversion in his endless reign of bloodshed. The silken sheets beneath him were the colour of deep wine, their surface catching the light in a way that seemed to make the room pulse with a dark, muted glow. His eyes, twin embers of malice and something unreadable, tracked your every movement as you entered the chamber, the heavy drapes closing behind you with a shiver of finality.

“Tell me,” Sukuna drawled, his voice as sharp and unyielding as the blade he might have pressed to your throat, “What makes you think you’re any different from the others who came before you? What hope do you have of surviving me?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze despite the terror that gripped your chest. Those crimson eyes stared back at you, full of cruel delight, as if he found your defiance entertaining in its futility. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, reminding yourself of the faces of the girls you were trying to save, the way their fear had mirrored your own.

“I have volunteered to become your bride,” you said, forcing your voice to steady as you met his eyes. “Not because I believe I am stronger or braver than the others—but because I couldn’t stand to see another innocent torn from their family. I thought that if I could offer myself, it might be enough to end this cycle of suffering.”

Sukuna’s lips curled into a cruel smirk, his eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of amusement and disdain. “You think of yourself as a saviour of some sort?” he asked, the mockery in his voice cutting deep. “Do you believe your pathetic sacrifice will sate my thirst for destruction? The world is built on suffering, and I am its rightful king. Do you think yourself capable of changing the fate that awaits you? That your life is worth so much that I would spare the rest for the sake of your trembling courage?”

He leaned forward from where he sat on the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed yet predatory, the movement causing the heavy silk drapes to sway, turning the chamber into a shifting sea of light and darkness.

“You are nothing but another lamb brought to the slaughter by trembling hands.” He leans forward, chin propped on one hand, his fingers tapping the side of his jaw as he eyes you like a predator watching a mouse dance on its hind legs. “Do you truly not know that you stand in the den of a beast who devours without mercy?”

His words cut deep, but you refused to let them break you. You had to survive this, for their sake, and for your own. As his gaze bore into you, suffocating in its intensity, you did the only thing you could think of—something born of sheer desperation.

“I stand before you, knowing well the beast I face. And yet, I do not come to plead for mercy.” Your voice is steady but soft, like a whispered plea against the storm. “I come to offer you something else— a story each night. I will give you a story unlike any you have ever heard, if you’ll listen. In exchange, you spare me for as long as I can hold your interest."

The words spill from your lips in a rush as you try to barter with him suddenly.

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, his lips twitching into a smirk that spoke of both curiosity and disdain. “A story?” he repeated, as if the idea were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “You offer me tales to stave off your death? How utterly quaint. You think words will stay my hand when I tire of you?”

“If they do not, then I will be no worse off than I am now,” you said, meeting his gaze with a defiant glint in your eyes. “But if they do… perhaps I can buy a little more time. Perhaps, in my words, you will find a reason to let me live another day.”

He pauses before speaking again.

“You are a fool to think you could charm a monster with your petty tales, Human.”

His voice drips with scepticism, but you notice the faintest twitch of intrigue in his gaze. It’s a small opening, an aperture in his indomitable armour.

“I don’t believe I can charm a monster,” Your voice unwavering, the words carefully pour out from your mouth. “But, I believe that even a monster seeks a distraction from the loneliness of his throne.”

For the briefest moment, his eyes narrow, something cold and bitter flickering in their depths—a buried wound reopened, a memory of rejection. He hides it quickly, but not before you catch the flicker of vulnerability that you know is your only chance.

His eyes stared at your form, and you could feel his gaze like a physical force, pressing down on you, testing your resolve. Then, slowly, he leaned back, a slow smile spreading across his face, though it never touched the cold, glittering malice in his eyes.

You took a breath, your heartbeat thundering in your chest, and said, “I don’t know if I can change anything. But if it means buying a little more time—if it means sparing just one more life—I’ll do whatever it takes.”

He laughed, a sound low and dark that echoed through the chamber like a promise of doom. But there was something in his eyes—something almost curious, as though he were intrigued by your defiance, by the way you held your ground when so many before you had already fallen. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Then let us see how long your courage lasts,” he said. “Tell me a story, if you dare. Spin your tales and try to keep my interest, little lamb, and know that the moment I tire of you, your life will be forfeit.”

And so, night after night, you returned to that chamber, your voice threading through the darkness like a lifeline, weaving tales of sorrow and hope, of longing and loss. At first, Sukuna listened as if you were merely a distraction, something to toy with until his boredom gave way to cruelty. But as the nights stretched on, something between you began to shift, something so subtle and unspoken that it almost seemed like a trick of the light.

You noticed the way his eyes softened ever so slightly when he watched you, how they no longer held the same cold indifference. There were moments, fleeting but undeniable, when his gaze would linger on your face, following the movements of your lips as you spoke, as if he were more captivated by you than by the story itself. And when he thought you weren’t looking, his expression would change, growing almost thoughtful, almost gentle, as though your words were stirring something in him that he had long since buried.

One night, as you spoke of a warrior who fought not for glory but for the love he could never fully grasp, you saw Sukuna’s jaw tighten, the barest flicker of something raw passing across his face. It was a crack in his mask, a moment of vulnerability that seemed to take even him by surprise. He shifted, turning slightly away as if to hide the turmoil in his eyes, but you could still see the shadow of pain that lingered there, the ghost of something he would never voice.

“The warrior,” you continued, your own voice softening as you ventured into the story’s heart, “he fought because he knew that love, even unreturned, was the only thing that could ever make him feel human. It was the only thing that could make the darkness inside him seem like something less than a curse.”

Sukuna’s fingers twitched slightly where they rested on his knee, his gaze dropping to the floor as though your words had struck deeper than he wished to admit. He let out a slow breath, the sound almost like a growl, as if he were fighting a battle within himself, as if your story had hit too close to the truth of his own guarded soul.

“I told you to amuse me,” he said, his voice rougher now, laced with something almost vulnerable beneath the bravado. “Not to speak to me of things you don’t understand. Love is nothing but a weapon, a lie dressed in silk. Do you think you can wound me with your pretty tales?”

You hesitated, your heart aching at the hardness in his voice, the bitterness that seemed to bleed through his words. “I don’t wish to wound you,” you said softly, meeting his gaze with a steadiness that surprised even you. “I only wish to show you that not everything has to end in darkness. That there is more to this life than the hate and loneliness you’ve known.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes locked on yours, and in that silence, something unspoken passed between you—a fragile thread of understanding, a bond that was as much resistance as it was connection. His hand reached out, almost unconsciously, his fingers brushing against yours with a touch that was hesitant, almost reluctant. It was as if he didn’t quite know how to bridge the gap between cruelty and tenderness, how to reconcile the monster he had become with the man who still longed to believe in something beyond his own darkness.

When he pulled his hand back, his eyes lingered on yours, softer now, searching your face as if he were seeing you for the first time. And in that look, you saw the flicker of a man who was more than just a monster, a man who was trying, against all his instincts, to understand the strange, delicate thing growing between you.

And though neither of you spoke of it, though the words remained locked behind walls of pride and fear, you knew that something had shifted irrevocably in those moments. The King of Curses, who had once seemed untouchable, unmovable, was beginning to unravel beneath your touch. His gaze, so often filled with fire and malice, now held something softer when it turned your way—something almost like admiration, like a reluctant longing that he could neither deny nor accept.

Blossoming feelings, subtle and unspoken, budding like a flower in the cracks of a stone wall. Fragile, tentative, both of you too proud, too fearful to admit its existence. But it was there, in the way his eyes softened when they met yours, in the way his defences fell just a little more with each night that you shared. A flicker of light in the darkness, a promise that even monsters could yearn for more than the abyss.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

The nights continued in that hidden, veiled sanctuary, where the scent of incense lingered and the golden glow of the oil lamps painted soft halos around your figures. You could feel the shifting of something unnamed, a tenuous thread that connected you to Sukuna, something deeper than the stories you spun to save your life. There was a pull, a force between you that neither could fully grasp or resist—a slow, inexorable gravity drawing you closer, even as you both tried to pretend it wasn’t there.

Your tales had become a nightly ritual, the words flowing from your lips like a spell, weaving through the stillness of the room. And Sukuna—this terrible creature of wrath and solitude—listened to them, not as a predator listening to the last words of his prey, but as a man who seemed to find solace in your voice. His gaze, once filled with nothing but cruel amusement and hunger, now seemed to soften in the dim light, tracing the lines of your face as if memorising the shape of every emotion that flickered across it.

There were times when he would reach out, almost unconsciously, his fingers brushing the edge of your sleeve or lingering near your own hand. The touch was light, so brief that it could have been mistaken for nothing more than the movement of air, but you felt it all the same—each contact sparking something within you, a rush of warmth that you couldn’t quite name or deny. He’d pull back just as quickly, as if startled by his own actions, a frown creasing his brow like he was punishing himself for that momentary slip of vulnerability.

Despite his silent reprimands, you began to notice the changes in him. The way his sharp words seemed to lose their edge when he spoke to you, the way his anger—so fierce, so all-consuming—seemed to hesitate when it came to you. There were moments when you’d catch him watching you with a look that bordered on wonder, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve, or perhaps a memory he longed to reclaim. His eyes, once like cold embers burning in their sockets, now held a trace of warmth when they met yours, a softness that seemed to take even him by surprise.

Yet, even with these changes, there was still a wall between you—thick, immovable, built from years of pain and rage that neither of you could dismantle in a single breath. Sukuna would often turn his gaze away just when you thought he might open up, a shuttered look crossing his face, as if terrified by his own emotions. He was a man at war with himself, torn between the beast he had become and the fragile humanity you were slowly unearthing within him.

One evening, after a particularly harrowing tale of two lovers separated by fate, you noticed a shadow flicker across his face—a hint of sorrow that made your chest ache. You paused, your voice faltering slightly, and for a heartbeat, the silence between you was alive with all the things left unsaid.

“What is it about these stories that you think will change me?” he asked, his voice rough, almost bitter, as he met your gaze head-on. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that he tried to mask with his usual disdain, but it was there—a crack in the armour he wore so tightly around his heart. “Do you think words can heal what the world has done to me? Do you think your voice can mend what was broken long before you were born?”

“I don’t know,” you replied, your own voice barely a whisper, the honesty raw between you. “I don’t know if I can heal you, Sukuna. I don’t know if I can change the darkness that you carry. But I do know that I see something in you—a part of you that still remembers what it means to feel, to long for something beyond this anger and vengeance.”

He stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between a sneer and something softer, something almost like pain. “You see what you want to see,” he said, but the words lacked their usual venom, trailing off into the quiet of the room. For a moment, he looked at you not as a king of curses, not as a monster, but as a man—just a man, vulnerable and lost, standing on the precipice of something he could neither name nor understand.

And then, slowly, hesitantly, as if fighting every instinct that told him to turn away, Sukuna reached out. His fingers grazed the side of your face, a touch so light it was almost a question—a silent plea for something he didn’t know how to ask for. You held still, your breath caught in your throat, afraid that even the slightest movement would shatter this fragile moment between you.

“Your stories,” he said at last, his voice so quiet it was barely a murmur, “they make me remember… things I thought I had buried.” His thumb traced a line down your cheek, his touch both tender and hesitant, as though he were afraid of the warmth he might find there. “You’re like a flame in this darkness, something I want to reach for, even though I know I have no right to. Even though I could snuff it out with my own hands.”

You turned your face slightly into his touch, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope, the vulnerability between you stretching taut like a thread that could either bind you together or snap in two. “And yet, you don’t,” you whispered. “You could end this now, and you don’t. Why?”

He said nothing, but his eyes told you everything. They spoke of the battle raging within him—the struggle between the curse he had become and the man who was trying, against all odds, to remember what it was like to be something else. To be someone else. Someone who could care. Someone who could love.

Sukuna’s hand dropped back to his side, his expression hardening once more, though the softness in his eyes didn’t entirely fade. “This changes nothing,” he said, though the conviction in his voice wavered. “I am still what I am. Don’t mistake my interest for kindness.”

But you saw it there—the tiny crack in his defences, the fragile tendril of something more that had begun to grow between the two of you. It was subtle, almost invisible, like a seed taking root in the dark soil of a barren landscape, and yet it was there. And in the quiet of his bedchamber, with the flickering light casting long shadows across his face, you knew that you were not the only one who felt its pull.

For in his touch, in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching, in the way his words softened when they were meant to wound—you saw the beginnings of something tender and reluctant. The monster within him was still very much alive, still sharp-edged and dangerous, but for the first time, there was something else as well. A flicker of a man who was learning, despite himself, to care for the flame he had found in the darkness.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

The days bled into nights, and each night that you survived seemed to blur the line between captor and captive, between monster and storyteller. Sukuna’s bedchamber had become your stage, a place where you wove tales to pacify the beast that loomed over you, but also where something unspoken began to pulse between you—a slow-burning warmth that defied the cold cruelty of his presence. The more you spoke, the more your stories reached into the corners of his soul, unearthing the fragments of the man he tried so hard to bury. And in those moments of listening, the mask he wore seemed to slip, just enough to reveal the man beneath the monster.

You found yourself watching him when you thought he wasn’t looking, your gaze lingering on the curve of his lips, the intensity of his eyes, and the way his sharp features softened in the glow of the oil lamps. There was a beauty to him, hidden beneath the menace—a kind of tragic elegance that you could almost reach out and touch. He was like a starless night sky, dark and endless, but with a hint of light just waiting to break through if given the chance. The way he listened to your tales, how his eyes would narrow with thought or flare with emotion, told you that your words were not only buying you time—they were reaching him, drawing him closer to something he could neither name nor understand.

But there was also reluctance in you, a fear that tangled with your hope. You could not forget the darkness that lived in him, the cruelty that could ignite in his eyes with the flick of a thought. Sukuna was still dangerous, still unpredictable, and every night you wondered if this would be the last, if the flicker of humanity you saw in him would be snuffed out by the monster he claimed to be. You felt the tremor of your own hesitation, the way your heart wavered between pity and fear, between hope and doubt. How could you let yourself care for a man whose hands were stained with the blood of so many, who could end your life in a heartbeat if the whim took him?

Yet, despite that, despite everything you knew and everything you feared, you couldn’t help the way your breath would hitch when his gaze softened ever so slightly. Or the way your skin tingles when, during those rare moments, he let his guard down enough to touch you—not in violence or possession, but in something that felt almost tender. Like that night when your tale came to an end, and instead of letting you leave as he usually did, he reached out and caught your wrist, his fingers circling it with a gentleness that stole your breath.

“Stay,” he said, his voice rough with something that could have been longing or anger—maybe both. His grip was firm but not unkind, as if he feared that with one wrong move, you might slip through his fingers and disappear. His eyes searched yours, darker than the night, a swirl of emotions hidden in their depths that he didn’t know how to voice. “Stay a little longer.”

You looked at him, at the touch of vulnerability in his gaze that was as startling as it was heartbreaking, and you nodded. Slowly, carefully, you sat back down, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, close enough that your breaths seemed to mingle in the space between you. Sukuna’s hand remained on your wrist, the touch turning almost idle, as if he were memorising the shape of your pulse beneath his fingertips.

“What do you see when you look at me?” he asked suddenly, his voice low, roughened with a vulnerability he couldn’t quite conceal. There was a hint of frustration in his tone, like a man desperate to understand something that defied his grasp. “Tell me the truth.”

You hesitated, your throat tightening with the weight of his question. What could you say? That you saw not just the monster he tried so hard to be, but the man he once was and perhaps still could be? That somewhere in his darkness, there was a light fighting to break free, a yearning that had been denied so long it had turned to rage?

“I see…” you began, your voice soft, barely more than a whisper, “I see someone who’s afraid to believe in anything that isn’t pain or vengeance. Someone who’s convinced himself he doesn’t need love because he thinks it’s beyond his reach. But I also see a man who listens to my stories not because he has to, but because they make him feel something he thought he’d forgotten how to feel.”

His fingers tightened just slightly around your wrist, and you could feel the tremor in his touch, the way his breath hitched in response to your words. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, his jaw clenching as if struggling against some invisible force. When he finally spoke, his voice was rougher, more vulnerable than you had ever heard it. “I don’t need your pity,” he said, but the words lacked their usual bite, falling almost hollow in the space between you. “I don’t want your sympathy.”

“It’s not pity,” you replied, holding his gaze, refusing to look away. “It’s just the truth. You’re not as alone as you think you are, Sukuna.”

For a moment, he looked as though he might argue, as though the monster in him wanted to rise up and crush this fragile hope between you. But instead, he just stared at you, his eyes softening, the fight bleeding out of him as something warmer took its place—a flicker of longing, so fierce and raw that it made your heart ache. He reached up then, his fingers brushing the side of your face, a touch so gentle it felt like a question, like he was asking if he was even capable of something as simple as kindness.

“You speak as if you know me,” he said, his voice barely more than a murmur, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. “As if you see past the monster I am. Why?”

“Because,” you said softly, feeling the truth of your own words catch in your chest, “sometimes the hardest stories to believe are the ones we tell ourselves.”

His gaze faltered then, his hand dropping to his side as if suddenly aware of what he’d done, of how close he’d let you come. The mask of indifference snapped back into place, but it was thinner now, more fragile, unable to fully hide the man beneath it. He turned away, his jaw clenched, the set of his shoulders rigid with a frustration that wasn’t aimed at you, but at himself.

“Go,” he said, the word a rough whisper, almost torn from him. “Leave before I change my mind.”

And you did, though your steps were slow, your heart heavy with the knowledge of how close you had come to breaking through his defences. As you slipped through the curtains and out of his chamber, you couldn’t help but glance back, catching one last glimpse of Sukuna standing in the dim light, his face half-hidden in shadow, his eyes fixed on you with an expression that was equal parts longing and fear.

It wasn’t love—not yet. But it was something. Something fragile and new, something that both frightened and fascinated him. And though neither of you were ready to name it, you knew that it was growing between you like a fire waiting to be kindled, a warmth that could one day banish the darkness if only he’d let it. And perhaps, one day, the King of Curses might come to realise that even he was not beyond the reach of redemption.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

Shifting like the currents of a hidden river beneath the surface of your nightly tales, that fragile something between you and Sukuna continued to grow. As per your routine, you still came to his bedchamber each evening, weaving your stories into the warm, fragrant air, but now there was a difference in how you both lingered in that space. It was no longer just a battleground where words danced to save your life; it had become a place where silences spoke louder than the tales themselves, where the stolen glances and unspoken words built a tension so palpable it filled the room.

Sukuna watched you differently now. His gaze, once sharp and cold, had softened in a way that seemed to unsettle him more than any of his past violence ever had. There was a war in his eyes every time he looked at you, a struggle between the darkness that defined him and the light he couldn’t quite extinguish when he was near you. He tried to mask it, his expression often hardening the moment he felt his guard slipping, but there were cracks in his armour now—cracks that grew wider with every story, every quiet laugh you coaxed from him, every moment that made him feel something other than the hate he’d clung to for so long.

One night, as you finished the tale of a long-lost prince returning to his love, you noticed the way Sukuna’s hand had drifted toward you, fingers almost brushing the fabric of your sleeve. He pulled back before making contact, a scowl flickering across his face, as though furious with himself for that momentary lapse. But you saw through that façade, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly when he thought you might look away.

“You seem moved by that tale,” you said, the words light yet probing, testing the waters of his resistance. “Is there something in it that you recognize?”

He laughed then, a rough, humourless sound, though it lacked the sharp edges it once had. “Moved?” he echoed, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “Do not mistake my interest for softness. I am no lovesick fool to be swayed by such nonsense.”

And yet, as he spoke, his eyes never left yours, and there was something in them—a flicker of pain, of memory, that betrayed his words. You could see it clearly now, the way his barriers were beginning to crumble, even as he fought to hold onto the fragments of who he used to be. He was no longer the untouchable King of Curses in those moments; he was just a man, trapped between the monster he’d become and the human he never thought he’d be again.

“Perhaps not,” you replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “But even the hardest hearts can soften, even if they don’t want to admit it.”

He looked at you then, truly looked at you, his gaze intense and searching, as if trying to unravel the mystery of you, this mortal woman who dared to speak to him as though he were something more than a beast. For the first time, he seemed almost uncertain, like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure whether to step forward or retreat back into the darkness that had always been his comfort.

“Why do you persist?” he asked, his voice low and rough, his brow furrowing as if the question was dragged from some deep, wounded place inside him. “Why do you look at me as though I’m not a monster? Why tell me these tales as if they could change anything?”

You hesitated, feeling the gravity of his question, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. It wasn’t just a question about the stories; it was about you, about why you stayed when any sane person would have fled. Why you dared to look at him not as a villain, but as a man capable of more than just destruction.

“Because,” you began slowly, your voice barely a whisper, “I see more in you than you allow yourself to see. I see a man who was once capable of kindness, who wasn’t always this… cruel. I see someone who’s afraid to hope because he’s been denied love for so long that he’s forgotten what it feels like.”

His jaw clenched, a flicker of something raw and aching crossing his face before he masked it with a sneer. “You’re a fool,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual venom. “You think you can save me with words, with your pity? There’s nothing left of the man you think you see.”

“Maybe,” you said, your eyes never leaving his, “but you keep listening anyway. You keep letting me stay when you could have ended my life the moment I entered your chambers. You reach out for me even when you don’t mean to. If that’s not proof that there’s still something human in you, then I don’t know what is.”

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. The air between you was thick with the weight of unsaid words, with the electricity of something both terrifying and beautiful. Sukuna’s expression was a battlefield of conflicting emotions—anger, vulnerability, denial, and something else, something softer that glimmered beneath the surface like a light struggling to break free from the darkness.

And then, almost without realising it, his hand came up to touch your face. The movement was slow, hesitant, as if he was testing the reality of your presence, of his own desire to reach for something he had long believed lost to him. His fingers brushed against your cheek, the touch so gentle it sent a shiver down your spine, and for the first time, he didn’t pull away. He held his hand there, cupping your face like you were something precious, something breakable that he was afraid to hurt.

“You,” he said, his voice cracking with the weight of his own disbelief, “you’re the most infuriating creature I’ve ever met.”

A smile ghosted across your lips, so faint it was almost imperceptible, and you leaned ever so slightly into his touch, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours. “And yet, you let me live,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath. “You listen to my stories, you reach for me even when you don’t mean to… Why is that, Sukuna?”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either. The monster in him was silent, subdued, replaced by a man who was lost and yearning, who didn’t know how to handle the tenderness he felt creeping into his heart. He was afraid—afraid of vulnerability, afraid of what it meant to care for someone, even in the smallest, most reluctant way.

But in that moment, with his hand on your cheek and your eyes locked on his, you knew the truth. The King of Curses was beginning to fall, not in defeat, but in a way that neither of you had expected. Slowly, painfully, he was learning to care. For you. And it terrified him more than any curse ever could.

The silence between you was no longer empty; it was filled with a thousand unsaid things, with the unspoken promise of something that might one day grow if either of you were brave enough to let it. And as you stood there, caught in the gravity of each other’s gaze, you knew that this was only the beginning. A delicate, fragile beginning to something that could be more than either of you ever dared to hope for.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

Dusk had finally arrived, and the dense fragranced smoke made the air feel warm and almost oppressive. You sat across from Sukuna, your voice carrying softly over the quiet hum of the night as you began to tell him yet another tale—this one different, more poignant, more deliberate.

“There was once,” you started, your voice laced with the slow rhythm of an ancient storyteller, “a creature who was not born into darkness, but who fell into it, piece by piece, as the world around him turned its back. He was not always a demon, you see. Once, long ago, he was something else—someone else. He was born of light, meant for greatness, a guardian meant to protect and to love.”

You paused, casting a glance at Sukuna, whose gaze was already fixed on you with an intensity that made the air between you feel electric. He didn’t interrupt, but you could see the shift in his expression, the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers clenched just slightly, almost inconspicuously. He was listening, not just with his ears but with every part of him, as though he was bracing himself against something he didn’t want to admit was reaching him.

“But the world,” you continued, choosing your words carefully, “can be cruel to those who don’t fit into its perfect mould. And this guardian, despite his strength and his loyalty, was different. He was feared for his power, for the potential of what he could become. And so, the ones he had sworn to protect turned on him, shunning him, casting him out into the wilderness as if he were nothing but a beast. They called him a monster, a fiend. They said he didn’t belong among them.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and unspoken, like a truth that neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You could see it in Sukuna’s eyes—a flicker of recognition, the raw wound of a memory he had tried to bury under layers of hatred and pride. For a moment, he was no longer the invincible King of Curses, but something far more vulnerable—a man haunted by the echo of his own past.

“They cursed him to the darkness,” you went on, your voice softer now, almost a whisper. “And in that darkness, alone and forsaken, the creature’s heart hardened. His pain turned to rage, his sorrow to vengeance. He became the monster they had always feared he would be, not because he was born that way, but because they had made him that way. He believed he was unworthy of love, unworthy of redemption, because that’s all the world had ever shown him.”

Sukuna’s face was a mask of stillness, but his eyes were aflame with something that bordered on anguish—a deep-seated hurt that he couldn’t hide, no matter how hard he tried. His hands, which had once been so quick to strike, now lay motionless at his sides, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. You could tell that the story had struck a chord, that it had reached into the deepest part of him, the part he kept locked away even from himself.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his voice rough and strained, barely more than a whisper. The question seemed to cost him something, as though he were admitting to a wound he had long denied. His gaze was hard, almost angry, but beneath that anger was a glimmer of something else—pain, vulnerability, the same longing that he had buried beneath centuries of rage.

“Because,” you said gently, meeting his gaze, refusing to look away, “I believe that even in the darkest of creatures, there is a spark of light that refuses to be extinguished. I believe that the demon in my tale, like you, was not born a monster but was made into one by a world that didn’t know how to love him. And perhaps, somewhere deep down, he’s still searching for a reason to believe that he’s more than the monster they say he is.”

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating in its intensity. Sukuna’s eyes bore into yours, raw and unguarded, as if you had laid his soul bare and he didn’t know whether to thank you or curse you for it. He looked away then, turning his head slightly as if to shield his face from your gaze, but not before you caught the faintest glimmer of moisture in his eyes—a shimmer that could have been from the firelight or could have been something far more human.

“You think you know me,” he said at last, his voice hollow, laced with bitterness and something else—something broken. “You think your pretty words can change what I am. But you have no idea what it’s like to be cast out, to be made into this… thing. To be so hated that you start to hate yourself even more.”

He stood up abruptly, turning his back to you, his broad shoulders tense and rigid as though he were trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will. For a moment, you thought he might lash out, that he might snap back into the beast that he was so comfortable being. But he didn’t. Instead, he stood there, silent and still, his fists clenched at his sides, his whole form trembling with the effort to keep the chaos within him contained.

“You’re wrong,” he said, his voice cracking with the force of his own denial. “There’s no light left in me. There never was. I am the monster they made me, and nothing will ever change that.”

Slowly, you rose to your feet, your heart aching at the sight of him—this man who was so much more than the monster he believed himself to be. You approached him cautiously, your hand reaching out, hesitant, trembling slightly as you placed it gently on his arm. He flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away, didn’t break the fragile connection that bound you both in that moment.

“Then let me be wrong,” you whispered, your voice soft but steady, full of a conviction you hadn’t even known you possessed. “Let me be wrong, Sukuna, but let me try. Let me see the man beneath the curse, the man who still listens to stories even when he says he doesn’t believe in them. Because I think… I think you’re more afraid of being loved than of being hated.”

He turned then, slowly, his eyes locking onto yours with a fierceness that took your breath away. There was a storm in his gaze, a turbulence of emotions that he could no longer hide. Anger, pain, confusion, and beneath it all—a flicker of yearning so raw and desperate that it broke your heart to see it.

“Why?” he demanded, his voice rough, almost pleading now, his hand coming up to catch yours where it rested on his arm. His grip was tight, almost desperate, as if he were afraid that letting go would mean losing the only lifeline he had. “Why do you keep trying to find something good in me when I’ve done nothing but prove I’m a monster?”

You smiled then, a sad, gentle smile that reached the deepest parts of you. “Because even monsters deserve a chance to be saved,” you said softly. “Even monsters deserve to believe they’re worthy of love.”

For a long moment, Sukuna said nothing. He simply stood there, staring at you as if you were something he couldn’t quite understand, something he couldn’t believe was real. And then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he let his forehead fall against yours, his eyes closing as he exhaled a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. His touch was still hesitant, still tinged with that reluctance to fully give in to what he was feeling, but it was there—a silent surrender to the possibility of something more.

And in that moment, with your hand still on his arm and his breath mingling with yours, you knew that the demon in your story had not been defeated but had begun to believe in the light again. Not because of some grand act of heroism, but because he had found someone who dared to see the humanity within him, even when he had given up on seeing it himself.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

The sky outside his chamber was a raging symphony of thunder and rain, the storm’s fury echoing the tempest that had been brewing between you and Sukuna all this time. The wind howled through the narrow openings in the stone walls, the curtains rippling like waves of silk in its wake, casting wild shadows across the room. It was as if the heavens themselves were tearing apart, unleashing their wrath on the earth, and within the shelter of Sukuna’s bedchamber, the storm had found a mirror in the turmoil that raged between your hearts.

You stood before him, drenched in the soft, flickering glow of the oil lamps, your voice trembling as you tried to pierce through the walls he still kept so fiercely around his heart. Sukuna’s eyes were wild, his face a mask of conflicting emotions, a mix of anger, fear, and that same raw vulnerability that you’d seen creeping into his gaze over the past few weeks.

“Why do you fight this so hard?” you asked, your voice cracking under the weight of your own desperation. The words were almost lost to the roar of the storm outside, yet you knew he heard every syllable. “Why do you still pretend you don’t feel anything? That you’re not capable of more than this darkness?”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, his teeth gritting as he turned away from you, his hands fisting at his sides. The storm’s rage seemed to course through his veins, the lightning outside illuminating his sharp features, casting shadows that made him look every bit the demon he believed himself to be. And yet, there was something in the way he stood there, shoulders trembling, eyes averted—a man on the edge, teetering between surrender and defiance.

“Do you think we are the same? I am not like you.” he growled, his voice like gravel, torn between anguish and frustration. “I don’t know how to be good, how to be anything but this—this thing they made me. I’m not meant for love, for kindness. I’m meant for death and ruin! That’s all I am.”

“No,” you said, your voice firm but soft, unyielding as you closed the distance between you. The storm seemed to quiet in your wake, as though the very air held its breath. You reached out, gently taking his hand in yours, feeling the tension in his fingers, the way he hesitated before finally allowing your touch to anchor him. “You’re more than what they made you, Sukuna. You’re more than the monster you think you are.”

He looked down at your joined hands, his expression twisting into something pained, something that looked like loss and longing all at once. His fingers were trembling now, almost imperceptibly, as if he was afraid to believe in what he was feeling. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet yours, and for the first time, they weren’t filled with anger or resentment but with something far more fragile. Hope. And fear.

“You do not realise what you’re asking of me,” he whispered, the words barely more than a breath. “To hope, to believe that I could be anything other than this… Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? How cruel?”

“Hope isn’t cruel,” you replied, lifting your other hand to his cheek, gently cupping his face. He flinched at first, the motion instinctive, but then he let you hold him there, the warmth of your touch a balm to his storm-ravaged soul. “Hope is the kindest thing there is. And I think, deep down, you want it. You’re just afraid to let yourself have it.”

He swallowed hard, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away, retreat back into the safety of his darkness. But then, in a movement so slow it seemed to defy time itself, he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing as if savouring the warmth of your palm against his skin. The tension in his shoulders eased, the storm inside him quieting as he let himself lean just a little closer, as if he were finally too tired to keep fighting.

“Why?” he asked, his voice almost broken, rough with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “Why would you care for something like me? After all I’ve done, after all I am?”

You gave him a sad, gentle smile, the kind that was both a promise and a farewell, the kind that said everything words couldn’t. “Because even the fiercest storms pass, Sukuna,” you whispered. “Even the darkest nights have to end. And even you—especially you—deserve to see the dawn again. You deserve to believe in something more, even if it scares you.”

He opened his eyes then, and in them, you saw the storm break, saw the crumbling of a fortress he’d spent centuries building. The fear was still there, the uncertainty, but there was also something new, something that looked almost like surrender. The kind of surrender that wasn’t about defeat, but about letting go of the chains he had wrapped around his own heart.

And then, without another word, he pulled you to him, his arms wrapping around you in a way that was both fierce and gentle, like a man holding onto the only thing that could save him from himself. His forehead pressed against yours, and his breath was warm and uneven against your lips, his eyes searching yours, still disbelieving but filled with that spark you’d never seen before—hope.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, the words rough but honest, a confession laid bare. “I don’t know how to be anything but a monster. But for you... for you, I want to try.”

Your heart swelled, a warmth spreading through you like the first light of dawn after the longest night. You reached up, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer, your lips ghosting against his in the barest of touches, a promise of something more—a beginning, not an end. “Then try, Sukuna,” you said softly, your voice trembling with both fear and joy. “Try with me.”

He closed his eyes, his breath hitching as he let the last of his resistance fall away, and for the first time, you felt the true man beneath the curse—the one who had been buried so deep he’d almost forgotten he existed. He held you as if you were his anchor, his lifeline, the only proof that he could still feel something other than rage and pain.

And as the storm outside raged on, battering against the walls of the chamber, the two of you stood together, wrapped in each other’s arms. In that fragile, trembling embrace, Sukuna finally let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t beyond saving after all. That maybe, in the warmth of your touch and the softness of your whispered words, he had found something he thought was lost to him forever—a chance at redemption, a chance at love.

The dawn was still far off, the road uncertain and fraught with the shadows of the past, but for the first time, there was a light on the horizon. And as Sukuna held you close, his lips brushing your temple in a touch so tender it almost broke your heart, he knew that whatever lay ahead, he wouldn’t face it alone. 

Not anymore.

The storm raged on, but within that chamber, there was a stillness, a quiet hope that spoke of new beginnings and the promise of something neither of you dared to name. It was not an ending, not yet. Just the beginning of a story that had no easy answers, no simple resolutions—a story that was still being written, night by night, heart by hesitant heart.

A.N. Thank you for reading! :D Please let me know what you think!

[3amfanfiction]

What you’re getting into:

You can call me Three or 3, 30’s, she/her, a silly simp (no matter how much I tried to act tough in my 20’s, it never stuck), chronically online, 18+ blog (I will block minors and ageless blogs), who is currently hyper fixated on COD smut.

I try to keep my reader inserts fairly neutral, but know that I write all of them with an unapologetically fat reader in mind. A lovely, soft, round reader with stretch marks, scars and body hair. Someone who these fictional characters want to dig their fingers into.

Some of my work is dark, all the way to hurt/no comfort. So if a piece says to mind the tags, mind them. You are responsible for your own experience. But if you choose to read then I hope you like them!

Come visit with me, my asks are open!

AO3

Recent Work:

Escaping the Cult: You'd been on the run for years, keeping your head down. Now your past has you pinned to the wall. Simon x Reader

Overstimulated: 3k of pwp. What it says on the tin.

Stepbrother!Johnny: 4.5k about your stepbrother pestering you while you’re making breakfast

Bog Witch!Simon: .9k of introspection about bog witch!Simon

Uncle Johnny: 2k fauxcest, you gift your panties to your Uncle Johnny.

All Work:

All Stories - Recent ficlets to multi-chaptered works, organized by ship.

Snippets Inspired by Artwork - Short blurbs inspired by talented artists.

Older Work - Older ficlets organized by ship. Nothing over 2k.

All dividers by @/cafekitsune

Background by @/mintaii

[ghostlysoaps]

With barely a sound

Inspiration courtesy of @fludderpy and this artwork + snippet of theirs cont. where they left off. tw: explicit. 🔞 read at your on discretion.

Perhaps that's why he says it. To bring a sense of normalcy, a taste of their regular banter, the back-and-forth they'd perfected over months of missions together, into a still-life picture taken from a magazine. Or maybe it's as simple as him having little to no filter in the early mornings – whether they're in the field or on base. Words never fail to crawl their way out of his throat then, when he's at his most vulnerable, and what slips out always seems to be steeped in longing.

"D'ye wan' some help?"

He expects Ghost to sigh. Perhaps, if he plays into John's stupid game, he'd ask him to fetch Gaz for him as if Soap isn't well aware who his favourite sergeant is. Tell him to get fucked if he'd woken up on the wrong side of the sleeping bag.

"Alright."

Ghost drawls it, warps the first letter with his gravelly baritone until it resembles an o. And as if it were a siren's song, John takes an unconscious step forward. Towards the steam billowing from the cracked open door where a floorboard creaks. Ghost's hands still where they'd been rubbing over his face, one-quarter profile hidden in shadow. Through the gaps in his fingers, John finds him staring back at him with brown eyes so dark they rival the colours he wears.

Trembling, Soap undoes the velcro strap of his throat mic. It's too loud in a world holding its breath. As is the clink of his belt buckle. The swish of his shirt being dragged off. The rasp of jeans kicked to the side. 

He stands naked in the hall, teetering on the threshold under Ghost's burning gaze, unsure of what's expected of him.

Ghost tilts his head in a wordless beckoning and Soap heeds his call as if it were an order in the field.

The door clicks shut behind him but Soap pays it no mind. Even if it had been thrown wide open he wouldn't have cared, dishonorable discharge be damned. All that matters is Simon. Simon, who seems to falter in his confidence when Johnny draws near, as if John doesn't think him the most beautiful man in the world. Holding his breath when they're face to face as though Johnny wouldn't kiss him through his mask if that was the only way to have him.

He cups Simon's cheeks, strokes his thumbs over his cheekbones and the smeared paint there. Trailing his fingers further up, John rubs them through the suds in Simon's hair before bringing them back down again to work the stubborn grease off his skin – warm and malleable under John's attention. Even the scars are soft to the touch. He traces over them in silent awe. Drinks him in while Simon's heavy-lidded eyes return the favour, looking at John as if he'd been crafted by Pygmalion himself.

Simon's lips part. They're tinged a delicate pink, like that of peaches at the height of ripeness. Soap kinda wishes to take them between his teeth too. Lick at his saliva to see if it tastes as sweet as fruit juice when the rind breaks.

But he falters for too long and Simon shoulders the burden of command with the ease of expectation. He starts massaging shampoo into John's hair and scalp. Firm, short circles that liquify his brain right in the cradle of his skull. The world goes black and when it aligns itself again, Simon is smirking at him. Teeth glinting and charmingly crooked.

Soap blinks his bleary eyes with a dazed smile and steps into the spray of water to rinse himself off. He bats Simon's hands away when they reach for him again to lather his own and run them down the ladder of Simon's ribs. It earns him a full-bodied shudder. A gasp as light as the beat of a dragonfly's wing. John draws no attention to it as he learns what the curves of Simon's body feels like. Afraid to shatter the fragility of the moment.

There's an understated sort of intimacy to learn one another's bodies this way, rather than in the heat of passion. John finds he quite likes it. Delighting in every twitch and shiver he elicits from his lieutenant. It's what he'd imagine plucking at the strings of an instrument would be like whilst haltingly teaching himself the best way to make it sing.

Every sigh and hitched gaps and quiet groan are stowed away in his memory. Johnny finds a particularly sensitive spot to worry, right where Simon's glutes meet his pelvis, and tries to see if it has a mirror on his left side.

By the way he twitches as if he'd dipped his fingertips into an electric socket, Johnny figures he does.

He pets over the dark blond fuzz at the apex of Simon's thighs, entreating, in askance, never dipping below the invisible line drawn in the sand until Simon nods at his unspoken question.

When he wraps a perfunctory hand around Simon's prick, he finds it swollen and hot. He doesn't mean to linger. Sets to cleaning it in the same detached manner he would his own when it thickens further in his grasp. Besides, Simon sighs all sweet and saccharine, grasping Johnny around the waist to guide him closer. There's no denying, pressed close as they are, that John has taken an interest too.

His own cock is dripping like a leaking tap, curving towards his belly, flushed a ruddy pink at the tip. He stares at it in abject betrayal right up until it disappears within pale fingers.

John hitches a moan and tucks his face into the faded motif of Simon's tattoo. It's not a comfortable perch. His shoulder is too defined to be of use so he shifts to bury his face in the crook of Simon's neck instead. Beneath a wafer-thin layer of skin, his pulse is beating a mile a minute and tastes like generic soap under Johnny’s lips. Not that he's able to focus very hard on anything other than Simon doing his damndest to wring his soul out through his dick.

Clumsy with desire, John returns the favour. Composes his own symphony from the sounds Simon makes nestled in the background noise of slick skin and pattering water.

They come like that. Twined together like two vines racing up a brick facade. Tilts his head at the very last second to muffle his cry against Simon's lips, to kiss him as if the air from his lungs is what Johnny needs to breathe. Swallows the reverberating groan he receives in response with helpless gratitude.

They weather the aftershocks together, still mapping each other's mouths – alternating chaste presses of lips with twining tongues. Their own corner of the world, painstakingly culminated from stolen glances and yearning, kept under wraps by the skin of their teeth.

"Come home with me," Johnny whispers, heart bared and bloody for Simon to gawk at.

Simon merely kisses the delicate patch of skin below Johnny’s earlobe and taps a repeating rhythm up and down Johnny’s spine until they're forced apart by the world at large and its expectations for them. Back to the exfil point where Nik is waiting, back to relaxing against the enforced hull of his helicopter, back to another grueling assignment halfway around the world. But through it all, Johnny grins bright enough to rival the roiling magma at the earth's core, fingertips dancing a familiar beat under Ghost's watchful eye.

– – –  – • –

O.K.

[hermitscratch]

Joel & Etho - 21, for the writing ? :3

Send me a pairing + a number! || Accepting

21. A kiss to shut them up, Joel/Etho, 957 words

[ Inspired in part by this lovely artwork by @plumadot ! ]

"So I've got a theory," Joel started.

It was a nice day; temperate in a way that heralded the approaching warm season. A lot of hermits were taking advantage of it to check the things off their to-do lists that weren't easily done in cold or wet weather. Etho had broken off from the others for just that purpose, but as soon as he mentioned needing coral, Joel invited himself along.

Which meant a return to form in the shape of them, once again, sharing a boat.

"Do I have to listen to your theory?" Etho asked. The answer didn't matter much when he was a captive audience, but their conversations up until this point had been general, casual nonsense. How they spent their morning, how they liked their steak cooked, what ore they'd most be willing to eat. Time killers at worst, amusement at best.

Joel scoffed. "Don't act like you don't want to know what I'm thinking," Etho felt an elbow land against his ribs without any real force. It might have been rougher, if they weren't currently faced away from each other. Joel liked watching the wake the boat left behind, so they were pressed back-to-back. "It's about your obsession."

"My obsession? Don't you mean yours?" He retorted. Joel snorted, and Etho could imagine the smug grin that'd be accompanying it.

"This projection is getting embarrassing, Etho," Joel said with thinly veiled glee.

Etho rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. Just tell me about your theory," He said through a chuckle.

From behind him, Joel wiggled like he was trying to look over his shoulder. The boat rocked hard to the left, and Joel stilled before crowing, "I knew you wanted to know!"

Etho stopped rowing to peer over the boat's edge. The ocean here was deep, illuminated only faintly by magma pockets and the occasional rogue glow squid. They'd made a lot of headway, but there was still a ways to go to reach an untouched reef. "I wonder if I could swim back to shore from here..."

"I'll push you overboard myself if you don't let me get a blummin' word out," Joel griped, even as he fisted a hand in the back of Etho's shirt. It wouldn't do much if Etho decided to move, but the idea that Joel might want him to stay was more than enough for Etho to do so.

Not that Etho would ever tell him that; his ex-soulmate's ego was big enough.

"You're the one stopping, though?" Etho answered, rebalancing the boat and adjusting the oars to continue rowing. Joel's inhale was audible, and before he could argue, Etho urged, "Let's hear your theory."

Joel crossed his arms with a huff. Etho grinned. Joel was probably pouting and everything. "D'you remember what Gem said this morning?"

"Hmm," Etho had to think the question through. They'd been hanging out with Gem, Impulse, and Scar that morning, a lot of things were said. "Mmmmaybe?"

After a few minutes of fruitless sifting through snippets of conversation that Joel might have found noteworthy, he threw Etho a bone. "When we were arguing about who built a better cherry tree, still me by the way, she said-"

Ah. "'Just kiss already', or something?" Etho offered.

Joel clapped once, "Exactly."

Etho laughed, pitching his voice up in a mockery of Joel's, "Oh no, I'm not obsessed, I'm just chasing him making smoochy sounds and thinking a lot about Gem telling us to kiss-"

"That first thing was literally your fault!" Joel argued, "And I'm not thinking about it, alright? There's nothing to think about, it's just a thing that is!"

"What is?"

Joel seemed to shrink, curling forward so their backs were no longer touching. "If we kissed, the world would sorta collapse, wouldn't it?"

Etho stopped so abruptly that he almost dropped an oar. What? "Uh. No?"

"Of course you'd say so, it's stupid how bad you wanna kiss me," Joel scoffed. The turn in conversation was so jarring that Etho didn't even argue the point about wanting to kiss Joel. "But the stir it'd cause would be massive. Gem would explode. Bdubs would probably explode, maybe Grian? Scar and Skizz, definitely, we'd never hear the end of it."

Etho locked the oars and turned around in his seat. If Joel noticed, he gave no indication, plowing relentlessly forward as if he'd realized there was no going back now that he'd started. Etho recognized that habit from their time together in Double Life- an anxious Joel with no other outlet would ramble himself breathless.

"Your mask as well," Joel continued, "Nobody's seen you without it-"

Etho tugged his mask down.

"-that's probably grounds for server obliteration in itself-"

He put a hand on Joel's shoulder.

"-if the first time anybody saw your face was for a kiss like that, then-"

He turned Joel to face him.

And before Joel could say another word, Etho kissed him.

Silence. Bliss. Etho's lips were dry from the mask, and he kept the press of them soft until he felt Joel's stiff body melt, meeting Etho's lean halfway. He tilted his head, and he could feel the flutter of long lashes against his face as Joel's eyes shut. The world kept turning, and Etho let it, stealing a moment just for them.

It only ended when Etho pulled away, leaving a dazed Joel to process what had just happened. Etho didn't bother putting his mask back up when he grinned. "Still alive?"

"Wh- y-?" Joel floundered. Etho chuckled, and Joel scowled, even as a dusty blush painted his cheeks pink. Even as he turned to face Etho properly, dropping his head against Etho's shoulder. Even as Etho felt lips against his racing pulse.

"Oh, shut up, Etho."

[ironwoman359]

I believe you’ve said you are no longer in the Sanders Sides Fandom anymore so feel free to ignore this. I have fallen back into the fandom and was wondering if you had any good fic recommendations? I know you’ve written some too. I’m not sure what types I want but I do enjoy whump, hurt/comfort, found family, and angst. Thanks in advance.

So, my entire Sanders Sides masterlist is here, but I can give you some specific recs of mine that fit that vibe!

A Fiendly Reunion is a canonverse multi-chapter whump/hurt-comfort fic in which the dark sides kidnap Virgil post SvS:Redux, and Thomas and the light sides venture into the dark side of the mindscape to rescue him.

We Blankly Stare is a 3-chapter whump fantasy story in which a naga Janus is kept as a pet who is rescued by the other sides. (and if whump is your thing, this whole list here is of responses to a Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt card)

Replicated is a whumpy science fiction story done through an interactive ask blog I run called @ts-replicated-au. In it, Thomas discovers that his DNA has been used to make test subjects in a massive facility that does all kinds of unethical experiments on human clones. The story is on indefinite hiatus right now but I've always wanted to return to it and at least complete the Escape Arc of the story.

Other authors I'd recommend (though several, like myself, ALSO don't write much for the fandom anymore):

@tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors, whose work ranges from the sweetest fluff to the sharpest angst and whom I adore with my whole heart (and who DOES still write for the fandom, just uploaded a massive chapter to a very angsty time loop story, Violet is incredible seriously)

@delimeful who tells wonderful fantasy and sci-fi stories, many of which make my h/c heart oh so happy

@asofterfan's punk au has some of the most heartfelt writing I've ever read, and also some incredible artwork (one of their pieces inspired me to write a whump fic that to this day is one of my most popular on both tumblr and AO3, Broken Wings )

@random-snippets, which is the writing blog of @randomslasher, a dear friend and excellent writer who from what I recall was the first fic author I ever read whump from who called it whump, thus giving me a great new term to put into this website's terrible search feature.

There are so many others who deserve a look, and so many now who I'm sure are making new and fresh Sanders Sides content that I'm not aware of, so anyone who's got any good recs for anon, drop them in the notes!

[tswaney17]

Little Heir

@duskwhisperer and I are so excited to share “Little Heir” with you for @azrielappreciationweek day one, the family you make.

Thank you, @ruisfree for collaborating with us and bringing this piece to life. Still smiling and kicking our feet over all the creative details you added. We loved working with you! 💕

This commission and fic were inspired by the adorable idea of Azriel catching Nyx sneaking Aunt Elain’s cookies late at night. 🍪 We wanted to capture Azriel trying not to smile while Nyx guiltily looked up at him. With the scene set in Elain and Azriel’s kitchen, we thought it would be perfect to show Nyx’s artwork on display. And of course, we couldn’t resist showing our appreciation for a shirtless Az. 😏 We truly hope you adore this piece as much as we do.

Do Not Repost

🎨 @ruisfree | Comm by: @duskwhisperer & @tswaney17

Characters belong to Sarah J. Maas

~~~~~

My fanfic account: @tswaney17fics​​​

My ao3 account: tswaney17

Please let me know what you think about this update. I love getting your feedback. Constructive criticism is always welcome. 💕

Catch up here.

Trigger warnings: mild NSFW language, tooth-rotting fluff

Word Count: 1,177

This fic will be posted on AO3 only. Read here.

Azriel felt the pull even in his deep sleep. That urgent tug that something was amiss. He knew the feeling of his shadows trying to drag him from his slumber. Had experienced it for years.

He very nearly growled at the disruption, until a single shadow curled around his ear, whispering their secrets.

The heir is awake. He wanders the house.

That had his attention, his eyes blinking open and seeing the sky outside their bedroom window still stained deep blue and purple, the sun not yet basking over the eastern mountains to grace them with its presence. The moon’s glow across the floor indicated it was still very late at night or in the wee hours of the morning. Far too early for the nearly five-year-old to be out of bed.

Why Nyx was awake, he didn’t know, but he’d soon find out. Azriel carefully detached himself from Elain’s warm body. Her brows furrowed in protest, a wordless sound passing through her parted lips as he slowly slipped away.

Read More

~~~~~

Remember, sharing is caring! Please reblog if you liked the fic. It helps spread my work and I truly appreciate it. 💕

While I have moved these fics to AO3 only, I am still going to utilize a tag list here on Tumblr. This as a permanent solution and may change in the future. For notifications, you can follow and subscribe to my fanfic account where I will be reblogging updates and snippets only. You can also find me on ao3. If you would like to be added to my tag list, please leave a comment on this post.

My fanfic account: @tswaney17fics​

My ao3 account: tswaney17

Taglist: 

@nikethestatue

@reverie-tales

@123moiaussi

@duskwhisperer

@zdenkah

@nyxreads

@shedoessoshedoes

@athena-85

@jasmineandshadows

@nightcourtseer

@nivem565

@debramclaren

@illyrianvalkyriecarynthian

@secretpuppyflower

@justreallybored

@ultadverb

@the-regal-warrior

@roseandshadows

@tcursebreaker

@kingravinger

@mis-lil-red

@eloeloeheheh

@fawnandshadows

@swankii-art-teacher

@miss-bee-cat

@bookhhrelaz

@impossiblescissorspeachpaper

@elrielbaby

@lesolehabitantdelalune

@thoughtsaboutshows

@britishwings

@aelin21galathynius

@saz-griffin

@azrielslight

@bookstaninthesoul

@curiositywoman

@karsyn-b2

@elainsweetcobalt

@emilyondemand

Some tags seem to not want to link, which could be related to your visibility settings. Sorry about that!

[alexalexinii]

A YEAR OF (CARRY ON) ART

Thank you for ALL THE TAGS omg Im overwhelmed ahaha. (@noblecorgi @artsyunderstudy @ileadacharmedlife @nausikaaa @rimeswithpurple

@confused-bi-queer @monbons @emeryhall @run-for-chamo-miles)

I did so much art this year, a few of them being Carry On inspired, because how could I not. Didnt do as much art as I thought but here is my roundup for 2024!!

January

Penny's Birthday Art

February

Year of the Dragon Art

Baz's Birthday Art

Carry On Valentine Exchange for @thewholelemon

EGF Art - Splendid Morons by @noblecorgi

EGF Art - Direct Engagement of Restriction by @facewithoutheart

March

I didnt really do anything cause uni just started :,(

April

Snowbaz Wedding Snippet

Snowbaz in a Flower Field

May

I was mostly trying to get uni work and convention artwork done this month! cause I had a pretty big con at the start of June!

June

Simon's Birthday Art

Gay Plots (aka using memes to make me sane during uni part 1)

July

The Way We Are by @roomwithanopenfire

WS in a nutshell (aka using memes to make me sane during uni part 2)

August

Carry On Art Remix (aka using memes to make me sane during uni part 3)

September

Uni strickes once again, I needed to focus. Also did art that I cant show yet teehee.

October

The Chosen One

November

Carry On Through the Ages (I love drawing Simon angry, its fun)

December

Mage Commission done for @mooncello and @drowninginships as a gift for @valeffelees !!

Secret Snowfake Exchange for @onepintobean

Here's also a general wrap-up for all my art

I'll also copy and paste what I wrote on my instagram real quick:

"THATS A WRAP ON 2024!! This year has been…. a lot. From finishing honours to being hospitalised, I’ve had a lot of challenges this year but it proved to me that I am able to get over anything I set my mind to!.... ...The Simon Snow fandom has been incredible again this year and one of the best fandoms I’ve been a part of! So much support and love and so many collaborations with writers. I’ve been very happy to have been part of them... ...Besides the stress and pain I’ve gone through this year, it has been a good one overall. Thank you all! See you in 2025!!"

And Tags!!!

@aristocratic-otter @best--dress @bookish-bogwitch

@cutestkilla @ebbpettier @facewithoutheart @fatalfangirl

@hushed-chorus @iamamythologicalcreature @imagineacoolusername

@katatsumuli @leithillustration @letraspal @martsonmars @mooncello

@nightimedreamersworld @orange-peony @palimpsessed

@raenestee @roomwithanopenfire @scribble-tier @youarenevertooold

 @shrekgogurt @theimpossibledemon @thewholelemon @valeffelees @wellbelesbian

[steggyfanevents]

#steggyweek24 is August 26 - September 1, 2024!

What is Steggy Week?

Steggy Week is a celebration of the Steve Rogers/Peggy Carter ship in all forms: comics, film/television, or animated series.

How to join the fun

pick a theme (as many as you like!) from the list below

make a fanwork based on that theme

post it on the theme day

tag it with #steggyweek24 and @steggyfanevents

Fanworks can be anything: fic, art, graphics, gifs, videos, playlists, moodboards, headcanons, meta, and more. If you made it for Steggy Week, we’re happy to see it and share it!

Don’t feel like making anything? Try compiling a rec list, or sending a few prompts. Comments and reblogs are always appreciated too. Steggy Week is for everyone!

Don’t forget to reblog this post and share the word!

Themes

Day 1 (Monday) - Tropes and genres Battle Couple to Bedsharing, comedy to drama - Steve and Peggy make it all look good. Looking for inspiration? Check out this trope generator or this genre picker wheel.

Day 2 (Tuesday) - Headcanons and meta Share a long-held theory, a strong opinion, or a treasured headcanon - or a fanwork based on any of the above.

Day 3 (Wednesday) - AUs and crossovers Carter and Rogers in your favourite space-themed franchise? Regency-era romance Steggy? We want to see it all!

Day 4 (Thursday) - Outsider POV Steggy through the eyes of someone outside their relationship. Friends, enemies, strangers, exes - all perspectives welcome.

Day 5 (Friday) - Inspired by Your inspiration can be anything - a song, an artwork, a colour palette, a quote. Or take it to the next level and make a remix: create art or gifs based on a favourite fic, or write fic to go along with an inspiring visual creation!

Day 6 (Saturday) - WIPs and updates Our most popular returning theme, chosen by you! Post a new chapter of a story, or the latest gifset in a series - or share a snippet, sketch, or preview of anything you’re currently working on.

Day 7 (Sunday) - Free day Come as you are, make what you like! A day for anything that doesn’t fit the themes above.

[4aceclover]

Characters from @booksrbetterthanpeople that I personally really like most because I find it interesting the idea of the comic Duo having creepy exes

(any story involving these two I personally love and I recommend checking out these fanfictions they are just that good) 👍🏾☺️

I've come up with some interesting ideas that I would love to turn into fanfictions about these two knuckleheads one of the fanfiction ideas that they wrote was the idea of both of them meeting and because of them somebody got akumatized

In their story it was Marc and Nathaniel themselves I got akumatized but I'd love to write a story where it was actually their exes who get to come with ties and they work together to kidnap the comic Duo

(below I have some snippets of some of my favorite moments of their fanfictions that inspired me to come up with ideas of my own using these characters I haven't written them yet though I'm a bit too nervous)

In their stories there are moments where Nathaniel's ex Emani is actually called out for his behavior specifically towards Marc and how he seems to have some sort of interest in him in a very similar way he did Nathaniel.

From: Heartthief

This snippet here actually shows how Lucien (Marc's ex) behaves around Nathaniel before he found out that the comic Duo were dating. Take advantage of the fact that he likes Nathaniel's artwork and their comics it would allow you to come up with an idea of him falling for Nate in a very similar reason that Marc did

From: Doll Master

This one's interesting because this is one of two moments that I was talking about earlier about Emani showing some level of interest in Marc. The fact that he said that if they had met sooner he would have been fine with him being by Nathaniel's side is quite interesting to me, because it shows that he understands why Nathaniel fell in love with him (in his own twisted way)… but he also doesn't like the fact that from his perspective he broke Nathaniel, when in reality that didn't happen… Nathaniel changed before he met Marc…if he knew that then just imagine what he would have done with Marc

From: Wrath

This is the second moment I was talking about but this time it goes into a bit more detail

It's called out a few times that both Emani and Mark look very similar (for example they both have green eyes and their hair and style are very similar) in this snippet (for spoiler reasons I'm not going to give all the details) it's important to note how Nate's ex describes Marc and explains how if they had met sooner he would have been fine with doting on Marc in a very similar way he did to Nathaniel and having two boyfriends

This has some interesting Revelations and ideas for stories

The fact that he was fine with having two boyfriends comes up with the idea of what if they did meet sooner, would he have kept to his word and allowed Mark to be by Nate's side how would he dote on him

What kind of nickname would he give Mark if he was a boyfriend of his (my personal favorite is Angel because Angel doll Mark is sweet and innocent so it works)

What if he tried to change mark and manipulate him in a very similar way he did to Nathaniel how was this affect both of them

From: Riot and Empath

This part's important because it highlights something about Marc's ex that stated in his character profile, the fact that he's very manipulative. We see this here he uses the fact that Alix is friends with Mark and Nathaniel to try and learn more about them to get closer to mark that way he can take back his Emerald (Marc)

At the end of the day I have come up with a few unique yet creepy ideas for these two and how the story of hellhound and demon doll could have been about these two teaming up and manipulating our comic Duo into basically being puppets cute little housewives of dolls that they can manipulate with collars or something I mean their power is even scream manipulative and I personally love that

I'd love to make a post talking about the idea for the fanfiction itself that I came up with but I am still a little nervous about doing that, because these characters come from someone else and I don't want to do that without permission, maybe I'll do it next time but for now I just wanted to talk about how much I love the small details in the stories that gave me the idea to come up with something like this

[vanco-halloween-exchange]

Exchange Event Information

Hello everyone! We're here to present and provide all the information for our Vanco Halloween Exchange event! Sign-ups will be open from June 15 to June 29th.

We have a carrd that covers all the information in this post!

This event is for those 18+ only. You can see more information below

Vanco (Vander/Silco) will be the focus of the exchange event, though background ships are welcome.

You can choose between creating artwork or fanfic based on your gifter's prompts, it's up to you.

Discord will be our primary method of communication, with the works hosted on an AO3 collection. If you don't have an AO3 account but would like to participate, please let us know and we can arrange an invitation for you.

Here's the Discord Server Invite Link! Come join us if you'd like to participate and be pinged immediately when the sign-up form is released.

Feel free to reach out with any questions or concerns through the blog's asks or leave a comment on this post!

Schedule

Gift Requirements

Gifters will be making gifts in their preferred form of media, which can range from poems, fics, fanart, comics, and more. These are only minimum requirements, not maximum limits. Have fun with that! ☆ Fanart Minimum: Fully lined with flat colours. ☆ Fanfic Minimum: 1,000 words. ☆ Poem Minimum: 300 words. Please ensure your gift is appropriately tagged according to Ao3’s tagging guidelines. If you create art for the exchange, it will also have to be uploaded as a work to Ao3. If you need a tutorial to add artwork to an AO3 work, you can check out this link.

Signing Up

Participants will fill out a Google Form, listing what they like and dislike as both the gifter (what you give) and giftee (what you receive). In this form, you will list your boundaries and interests for your gifter to avoid (boundaries) or include (interests) within their gift. You can optionally provide prompts to inspire your gifter, though it is not expected that they follow it to the letter. Once matching is complete, you will know who you’re making a gift for, but you will not know who is making a gift for you.  It is crucial to not contact the person (or people) you are making gifts for. Remain anonymous until the creator reveals on October 31st.

Progress Check-In Requirements

Check-In #1: Creators should be able to show progression. Authors can submit drafts or snippets. Artists can submit sketches and thumbnails. Check-In #2: Authors should have 500 words (fic) or 150 words (poem) to submit. Artists should have started on their lineart process.

[writing-fanics]

I'm loving your works so faaaar! Especially that one where the reader is charlie's mum and that snippet where the reader leaves heaven to save her daughter😭

So I'm here like: what if the reader was reborn in heaven and meant to be Adam's wife but she refuses and is forced to be in Heaven, and it doesn't matter how many times Adam tries to woo her, she's loyal to Luci.

Then when she sees her daughter is in danger, she chooses to leave Heaven,(Emily sets her free, with the Entity's approval, like the god in that universe) knowing the consequences of her actions.

I imagine after saving her daughter, Adam is furious, a chain forms around her neck and Adam pulls her in roughly.

Charlie screams for her Mum and is like "LET HER GO"

"Remember our deal you-" the reader spits on him.

Got inspired by a Lucifer x Lilith tweet where Lucifer goes bersek when the exorcists want to kill Lilith for treason and Lucifer embraces his demon's side to protect her.

I see the reader embracing her demonic side just for Charlotte.

"Say goodbye to your offspring you whore!"

Adam holds reader by the hair, as the exorcists surround Charlie, spare at her troath.

The quality is so bad but I didn't want to look like I was stealing this beautiful artwork to this artist in twitter.

"Yes the great noble angel" Adam chants as you say that you'll accept any punishment, even dead if that means sparring your daughter's life

"Your pure heart won't spare your daughter!"

The rest of the members of the hotels tries to catch up with you to no avail.

"Mum!" Charlie screams and as you see blood, her blood, you lose your mind.

You break free from Adam's iron grip, eyes red and shatter his mask.

"BRING IT ON, CHARLIE IS NOT DYING HERE!"🤭

yes I’m still working on it and will for sure be adding this

mama bear will be coming out and then adam threatens the two toddlers y/n has.. the babies she was pregnant with before she died protecting her people.

and goes sicko mode and goes ham like her demon form isn’t her true demon form she turns into some primordial being and just destroys him

“YOU COME AT ME AND MY FAMILY?!”

“DONT FORGET YOURE IN MY HOUSE NOW BITCH!”

it takes Lucifer to stop her the little ones hiding behind Angel Dust scared. She notices and calms down breathing heavily then she remembers Charlie

She’s okay I healed her

Lucifer glares at Adam as she flew out of the crater, “You’re lucky I stopped her, I should’ve let her finish you off”

“Don’t ever come near me or my family again, and don’t you think about laying a hand on my wife!”

[scuttlingcrab]

Death’s Companion

Summary: Death, it seemed, was Emmrich Volkarin’s oldest acquaintance, and not by choice, but rather, by grave circumstance. His correspondence with Death should’ve never come to be, at least not so informally—it was an anomaly, and what began arguably on the most devastating day of his youth.

Notes: Thank you @ennissg for inspiring me with your redrawing of Death and the Maiden. I've been sitting on the idea of this fic for months and your artwork pushed me to the finish line! 💚

A snippet below, and the rest can be found on AO3!

(Also just updated the title from Mortis Particeps to Death’s Companion 😅. I wasn’t a fan of the old title. Might change my mind later *face palm*)

Link to my other Emmrich work in the A Necromancer's Melancholia.

***

It was the afternoon of Emmrich Volkarin’s 93rd name-day. He was hidden away in his study, resting on a worn leather chair that was nestled in a cosy alcove. The room was a modest size, in actuality, the smallest one in his manor house. Even so, bookshelves lined the quarters from floor to ceiling, stuffed full of various tomes and precious keepsakes.

The fire to the right of Emmrich cracked and popped, roaring flames keeping the crisp autumnal weather from creeping in through the floorboards, and worse, from seeping into his bones. A mere drop in temperature was all it took to cause his knees to ache, his knuckles to lock. He was unaccustomed to these irksome symptoms of aging, something new and unexpected seemed to surface practically every day since his 90th voyage around the sun. Emmrich was fortunate it didn’t impact his mind, nor his magic. Although his wrists would tire after writing one or two messages—a disappointing predicament, as he used to spend hours with a quill and a pile of parchments, often into the wee hours of the morning, before even a hint of a cramp manifested. Mercifully it only took but a flick of a finger to conjure a spell that could pen his words for him. That, or Rook, his dearest Rook, would oblige Emmrich when the mood arose, always the expert in dictation.

To his left, large oval windows covered the walls, showcasing exquisite views into the sweeping Nevarran countryside that surrounded his property. The trees were peppered in rich yellows, reds, and oranges—golden sunlight filtered through the windows, its soft rays providing a soothing ambience for any task at hand. Every so often, Emmrich caught himself peering outside, distracted, as he sought just another glimpse—treasuring the simplicity of nature, its stark beauty, fearing the leaves might suddenly change colour, or the world would disappear at any given moment.

A thick wool blanket was draped over Emmrich’s lap, and he was leisurely making his way through a stack of congratulatory missives. Well wishes for his day of birth, to health and prosperity—one might’ve found these types of words quite repetitive or borderline dull throughout the course of their existence, but Emmrich cherished them all the same, year after year. He was able to ascertain quite a lot by the penmanship of the author—how well they were faring financially or mentally, by a mere signature alone. Did they depict their thoughts with brevity? Their name hastily scribbled and with scarcely any ink remaining? Or was the letter overflowing with thoughtful words, their handwriting delicate and connected, the parchment a piece of art in and of itself?

Despite the copious amounts of time Emmrich acquired after retiring from the Mourn Watch, he hardly had a moment to focus on his social engagements. Well, with all his travels across Thedas, to reading and obtaining new volumes, the list of never-ending personal projects quickly accumulated. Regrettably, unless his dear friends purposely called upon Emmrich and Rook, or if they received an invitation to an old colleague’s soirée, these missives were the only connection he had left to his past—each one a different greeting, a welcoming embrace or a soft kiss to the cheek, as it filled his heart with gratitude.

Emmrich let out a contented sigh as he finished re-reading Bellara’s missive. He folded it carefully, holding it close to his chest. It was a habit of his, something he tended to do exclusively with letters from the Veilguard companions. He knew it was frivolous. Emmrich had been mocked on more than one occasion from Johanna Hezenkoss on the matter, hence why he moved her skull to the foyer—but it simply couldn’t be helped. As he read their letters, in his mind’s eye, he imagined they were all once again sitting around the table in the Lighthouse’s library—in their mismatched chairs, fussing about what they would make for tea, in between sporadic talks of battleplans or debating the meaning of Solas’ memories. How odd it was yearning over his memories, to suffer from these bouts of nostalgia even now.

Bellara’s missive was nearly five pages, full of her exploits in Arlathan, and her findings from the latest exploration into the Fade. The Veil jumpers carried on making progress, all thanks to Nadas Dirthalen’s vast knowledge. Bellara rounded off the missive with a snippet of a new serial she had been working on, a romance turned murder mystery, with an all too familiar backdrop of doomsday looming over the protagonists—apparently she was now quite the famed author, albeit using the pen name Amaryllis Quinn. She was always timid in taking proper credit. Nonetheless Emmrich was delighted for her, for them all.

He spun a wrist and a spectral quill materialised before him. Emmrich held out Bellara’s folded missive, and the quill pulsed above it, ready for him to action it with his words.

“Note for tomorrow. Stop. Request a full copy of Bellara’s latest work. Stop. Inquire if she has any further ideas. Stop. Perhaps a chapter, or two, on the mysteries of the Fade will add intrigue to the subplot. Stop.”

He sliced through the air with his index finger and the quill disappeared.

Emmrich tilted forwards, with the full intention of adding the missive to the ‘read’ pile on the floor beside him, when the air shifted. All manner of happiness evaporated in a matter of seconds as the light in his study darkened. He stilled, breath catching, the hair on his arms standing tall in warning. A chill crawled up the back of his spine as a voice broke through the silence.

“Emmrich Volkarin.” It announced—the cadence was airy, weightless, but still managed to reach the depths of his soul, numbing his centre.

Out of the corner of his eye, a dark figure took shape, an emerald green glow pulsing from its form. It was just out of view, yet patiently standing by for his full attention.

“Ah.” Emmrich slowly released his hold on the missive, his grip nearly crumpling the parchments. He added it to the pile with as much dignity as he could muster, and folded his hands across his lap. He squeezed his fingers, attempting to stop them from trembling, but it only made it worse. Emmrich desperately wanted to hide under his blanket, hold it in front of him as if it were a shield, yet there was nothing to be done on the matter.

Emmrich steaded his breath and turned his head, finding the Spirit known as Death hovering in the shadows that clung to the corners of the room. When Emmrich met its gaze, its form glided in his direction, the autumn light vanishing as the darkness encroached him. Even the fireplace dimmed as Death stopped in front of it, the flames extinguishing as if they’d been snuffed out.

Death wore Emmrich’s face, and he stared back at himself—his own eyes surveying his form, yet there was never any ounce of judgement. Its visage was understanding, devoid of any sensitivities save for sheer tranquility, the stark opposite of Emmrich’s current bloodless expression—his eyebrows knitting, mouth twisted in a deep frown. Death towered over Emmrich, wearing nothing but a black robe with a flat hood. Its arms were covered in grave gold, Emmrich’s grave gold, the very pieces he donned throughout his life to date. In one hand it held a small emerald lantern, and the other was unfilled, resting at its side. Black wings sprouted from its back, taking up more than half of the study.

“It seems the hour has struck.” Emmrich eventually whispered, barely managing to swallow, for his mouth was drier than the Hissing Wastes.

“So it has.” Death spoke with a defining finality to its words, no different to how its spoken in the past, but on this occasion, Emmrich knew it was different. It was there to claim him.

Death extended its hand towards Emmrich, a comforting act, palm extended as it waited for him to take it. He could only stare at it in turn, attempting to remain calm, stoic even, yet his heart betrayed him. It rapidly pounded against his chest, as if it was trying to squeeze through the space between his ribs and flee. As it should have. Emmrich knew he wouldn’t get far if he attempted to escape, he had seen what Death could do when forced to chase after an expired soul.

“Perhaps you may indulge me, old friend? If I may be so presumptuous, in my final moments.”

Death titled its head, an eyebrow raising only just.

Emmrich's thoughts went to Rook, seeking images of her reassuring countenance, as he pondered his next words conscientiously.

This name-day was meant to be uneventful. Emmrich didn’t want anyone fussing over him, and he never bothered to celebrate them in the past, but Rook invariably insisted. His adoration for her was his true weakness, and he could never resist her simple demands, immediately caving in. It had been this way since they wed 40 years ago.

Emmrich had merely requested a meal with his beloved wife, and to spend it at home. Rook had gone into the local village an hour or so ago, hoping to purchase a few last minute items and missing ingredients, as last night she had a sudden inclination to make him a hazelnut torte. It had been years since Emmrich last consumed his mother’s scrumptious recipe, and Rook wanted to do something special, something different for him. ‘Whatever you think is best, dearest. You know as well as any, I’ve always been quite amiable.’ She confirmed with a kiss, hands running through his snow white hair, making him feel wicked, undeserving, like he was once again a spry 52-year-old.

“Today is my 93rd name-day.” Emmrich began, never once looking away from Death’s glance. His stare. His eyes.

It remained silent and Emmrich’s next notions flickered to Manfred. His ward. His companion. And by extension, his first and only son. Manfred’s development surged in the years since the downfall of the Evanuris—his speech and cognition were extraordinary, and his magic exceeded Emmrich’s own a decade prior. Manfred was likely in his quarters far away within the Necropolis, or perhaps somewhere in the Memorial Gardens, where he spent most of his time tending to flowers, in between his own work in the Mourn Watch. Manfred had visited Emmrich a week prior, distressed he would miss his name-day. Emmrich insisted it was ‘quite alright and nothing to fret over,’ as Manfred had attended enough name-day dinners in past years—this one was due to be no different than the last lot. And oh, how painfully erroneous he had been in this assumption.

“I’d love nothing more than if you spent the remaining hours of my name-day in commemoration with me. To life and making the culminating passage through the Veil. It would mean everything, and dare I say, be a fitting conclusion.”

Death brought a hand to its face, resting it on its chin, as if to ponder the ask.

“I’m not one to grant courtesies, Emmrich Volkarin.”

“No, I suppose you’re not. Although you’ve been known to make exceptions in the past. All I can do is attempt to tip the scales—after all, I’ve nothing left to lose.”

“You are correct.”

“And this is no ploy, nor an endeavor of making a last minute bid for immortality. That’s something I chose to forsake long ago.”

Emmrich’s fists clenched around his blanket in suspense as Death grew taller, its head reaching the ceiling, its wings stretching wide. It studied Emmrich, its leer penetrating the deepest parts of his psyche, his entire essence, sifting through his past actions, every word that’s ever left the tip of his tongue, exposing all of his greatest fears and weaknesses, his regrets and failures—his entire life, 93 years of it, on display so readily.

Death exhaled, its breath ancient and long, like air released from a tomb that had been sealed for centuries, never meant to be opened. It was haunting, uncomfortable. Instantaneously the study was full of a dramatic gust of wind, a cyclone forming around Death. The wind slapped against Emmrich’s face, picking up momentum as it pulled at his blanket, throwing books and vases off the shelves. All he could do was bite his tongue, he’d dare not complain. He'd dare not move. He’d dare not scream. He’d dare not look away, not even a blink, for a chance of penalty. Death stood still against the tempest, its expression unreadable. Emmrich found the courage to keep his equanimity, despite the concern of what was to come, expecting his soul to be pulled from his body and thrown into the Fade. Nay, the Void itself, as punishment for ever attempting to make such a selfish request.

“Very well, Emmrich Volkarin.”

The wind ceased and Emmrich gasped, somehow breathless despite not moving a muscle.

Rest on AO3! *disappears into the void*