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sparklingbluerose · 2 years

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TWST x Childe! Reader

"I swear on it forever when that day comes forward,

As long as i'm right here i will never forget you."

A/N: I cried writing this. That's also a warning.

☆

TW: Angst, Blood, No Happy Ending, Cursing

Male! (Y/N) 《Other Genders Will Also Be Made》

☆

When you love someone...chances are you'll never want to let them go, ever. Things change overtime, lives are always lost.

And it was no different for the panic surging through your veins as you rush towards the bathroom stalls. Swiftly gripping ahold of the sink, you spill out the blood from your lips.

Panting with a sigh, eyes drift down towards the one thing you dreaded the most. Maybe a vision wasn't nice...after all...

It never was. Up to now, you knew using both a vision and a delusion was going to kill you if you further use it. But what was the point..? You went against yourself, and fought the pain.

That could well describe the horrid feeling of anxiety and death pooling right into your stomach. "Urgh.." You gurgle, and spit out more amounts of blood into the running faucet. You felt weak. So weak...you couldn't just go out to help like this!

'No..no, i can. I can do this.' Gritting your teeth, you gaze at yourself in the mirror. Unrecognizable. Ha, of course you were.

It was always like that, no matter how long ago that childhood story of yours went off, you could still remember clearly the trauma and suffering you put through.

But now, it felt weaker. As if a large portion of air was taken from your lungs, you gasped for air.

THERE'S NO TIME! THERE'S A FUCKING OVERBLOT!

"Dammit...i need..to go." Pushing through gritted teeth, you wash the red metallic stains in the sink before running out.

TIME SKIP

"Shit! Where the hell is (Y/N)?!" Ace exclaims, fearfully standing away from the monster. The monster they all had always known and were in fear of. He has come.

"Malleus...why? Why would–" Silver merely croaks out, the ugly fresh wounds on his face making him paler than before.

No one but the other first years heard Ace's scream. They were too busy fighting off the horrible "thing"– anything to just stop the madness and make it normal again.

Please...please...please..please!

"STOP HIM! HE'LL HIT KALIM!" As if on cue, Lilia immediately swoops in and pulls the boy out of the way, succesfully evading the wrath of Malleus's attack.

"𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝗺𝗼𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀'𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝘀𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝗮 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗻." The voice booms through the entire area, trees almost bending over from the strong tone of the dragon fae's command. But nobody will ever listen. Not until he comes, they'll–

A flash of purple electricty circles behind the blot monster with a simple dash. Epel's eyes widen. "Is that...(Y/N)!??!"

Sighs of relief were heard, not until your body was severely hit by an attack of...Malleus..?..

Ace's eyes widen, seeing his own life flash by his eyes as the dear (Y/N) struggled to move around as freely as he could. Why were you so...weak? What happened?

Your eyes didn't glint anymore unlike how you always fight. Now it was different.

Strangely so different...why– why were you so slow? Why was blood pouring down from your mouth!? He gulps, unable to let anything come out of his mouth.

No..oh no..

A smile never came on your face. You looked so...dead..

Landing charged attacks after each other, it was enough to weaken the other but not enough for you.

"!" Stifling a cry of pain, a shock of thunder rushes through your veins and worsening your condition. No, you HAVE to keep going! You have to! Or else...you stop..

'(Y/N)?! Are you okay?' Of course not.

'Why are you bleeding so much!?!' Heh, beats me.

'WAIT NO–' ...Huh?..What–

SPLAT!

...

..O-Oh...

Riddle's eyes widen, unable to move.

..What the..

Leona grits his teeth, eyes watching you.

..So much red..

Azul chokes back a sob, seeing you fall.

...Is it r-really..

Jamil attempts to reach for you but..fails.

..Right now..

Vil shouts your name, but to no avail.

...At this moment..

Idia panics...fear enveloping him completely.

...My time..?..

Blood covering your eyes, stomach, body...it was everywhere. Nonetheless, you tear up, all over your clothes with no care.

"I.." You sob, emotions hurling at you so painfully. So it has to be like this..then so what?..Then i guess if this is how Malleus wants this to end...then so be it.

With a shake of your hands, you manage to make one last firm grasp on your bow. Beautiful drops of water...were appearing from the ground. It was so admirable. But no time now...

"..Brace yourself, this is gonna hurt!"

With the loudest voice you could muster, you throw all of the energy you could to deliver your final burst.

"(Y/N) NO!" But it was too late...

Riddle finally snaps out of his trance, running towards you first. No he couldn't..he can't accept this!

Running towards your body, he looks in pain with your deathly cold complexion. Eyes drained of all life, and simply nothing...

"Y-You seem to not be happy...to see me." You crack a small smile, attempting to stay calm in the moment of calamity. It wasn't fine...it really wasn't.

He gives you the most frustrated look he could manage. That was difficult to go through your head...why..wasn't he relieved?

"YOU'RE DYING! WHAT KIND OF IDIOT ARE YOU?! WHY WOULD YOU JUST SACRIFICE YOURSELF LIKE THIS? IT'S NOT FAIR, (Y/N)– it's..it's not fair..it's not fair!" He cries loudly, steel eyes brimming with hurls of tears..

You look down at your bloody body. Ah...right. That's what you did huh. You never knew you were capable of a heart again.

Footsteps run towards your beaten body, hands clasping yours ever so gently. Of course you knew that gloved hand anywhere..

So he's still a crybaby...little baby Azul..

You chuckle to yourself, but stop to cough blood out of your system. Leona cringes at the pool of blood...he..can't save you. What a bad time of events...

The delusion had long sucked out your life force, as you were struggling to talk or even move. But with a little hope left..

Tears strain the beautiful amethyst eyes above you. Vil.

"I love you."

In which were your final words, you could muster. You couldn't bare to leave them...but to die and feel the pain only for a little, seemed better than living on with life with pain forever.

The sunset slowly dies down, the crescent moon as pale and yet delicate as your face...as well as the smile of your fate.

All in that day, the life that was lost...was forever in vain.

...

2 YEARS LATER

Sitting ever so quietly at the bench outside of Heartslabyul, Ace gives a comforting sigh. He was a 3rd Year now. And would soon be graduating in a week.

Ace Trappola, Prefect of Heartslabyul Dorm.

'Tired..' He was fighting back a yawn, pulling up an all night last night to try and work hard at studying. He almost fell asleep.

Almost. "Oi! Orange, what are you still doing out here?" His friend calls and he gives a small smile.

Deuce Spade, Vice Dorm Leader of Heartslabyul.

"Nothing, just felt the need to take a breath." The ginger shrugs, with a nonchalant expression. He should probably get up now before facing the wrath of his vice friend huh...

Deuce huffs, crossing his arms. "Whatever." He mutters. Although looking well presentable, Ace surely didn't know how to iron his clothes so properly...gah..

"Hm?" His teal green eyes catch ahold of something in the other boy's pocket. "Hey, what's that bump?" He points out.

The other looks at Deuce with furrowed eyebrows, and looks down to take it out of his pocket. And the smile...leaves his face..

Deuce may as well just have noticed it as well. An emotionless face cascades over both of them, unable to know what else to say. "..." It's been so long..to both of them..

Silence erupts between both, attempting to find the correct timing to say what they had wanted.

"(Y/N).." Deuce starts, still looking up trying not to cry. "Do you think that he's watching us up there?" He questions quietly. Ace simply shrugs, eyes glinting in sorrow. "Yeah..i'm sure." He whispers, gripping the object as not to let it go.

Always and forever, you have never been forgotten. Continuing to live on in their minds..and their hearts.

The cold, grey vision that no longer glows for anyone, that is properly protected by the other ginger friend had promised. So as long as he has it, he will always feel the love you gave them...

To a life of happiness and sadness, anger and sorrow, peace and tranquility, it will always be as that saying goes..

"For those that live too long, the friends of days gone by and scenes from their adventures live on in their memories. As such I have no regrets in meeting you, friend. Should the day ever come that we are not together, you will continue to shine like gold in my memories."

(I'm sorry i had to do this~)

Taglist: @stygianoir, @serenareiss

#twisted wonderland #childe #genshin impact #crossover #angst prompt #send help #fanfic #sad boi hours

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bloodiegawz · 1 year

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Part 1 here~

"You... wah... huuh?!"

Grim exclaimed loudly, while Mika stared on in dumbfounded silence.

"That's... That's crazy! Why would you do that? CAN you do that?!"

The stranger finally tore his eyes away from the wall, turning back to Mika and their monster. It was hard to read the emotion on his face.

"Look, that's not the issue. We need to focus on getting Mika out of here before this whole place collapses, and I'm pretty sure this is our ticket. Let's just-"

"Excuse me? 'Not the issue'?"

Mika finally spoke, bringing Grim up to rest on their shoulders.

"No, I think it's a BIG issue! I don't have a lot of boundaries, but you have just stepped alllll over them, mister! I don't even know who you are, and you think you can just... do... this?!"

Clearly they were upset. Understandably so, considering the situation they were now apparently in. The other rolled his eyes, exasperated.

"For whatever record, my name's Farceur. Congratulations, now you know me. Look, I said I was sorry, alright? Can we drop it?"

In response, Mika marched up to Farceur and jabbed him in the chest with their finger, causing him to step back. His eyes widened a fraction of an inch, growing anger visible.

"We're not dropping it! I deserve an explanation, and we're not helping you 'til I get it!"

"I don't owe you a damn thing!"

While the two bickered, the blot coating the room began to suddenly ooze faster, flowing towards the middle. However, both Farceur and Mika seemed completely absorbed in their argument. Grim was, too, until he noticed the sudden growing darkness in the room.

"Um... guys?"

"God, if I'd known you were going to be this annoying, I would have left you to die in here!"

"You shouldn't have done this in the first place! What kind of insensitive prick just forces an OVERBLOT of all things onto someone and expects them to brush it off?"

"Guys? Helloooo?"

"You're the one stalling! I would have explained myself after everything if you just LISTENED instead of arguing with me!"

"Yeah, right! Like it would take you so long to do that now? You were probably just gonna pretend the whole thing never happened!"

"Shut up already! You don't know what I'd do, and it doesn't matter! Why can't you just worry about yourself?!"

"Both of you, be quiet! Something's- myagh?!"

The room seemed to suddenly shift with a roar, causing Mika to stumble and drop Grim to the floor. He landed with a splat and immediately shook off his fur, coughing up blot. He looked upward, where he saw that the roof was beginning to cave in on itself- most notably, though, was the advancing blot beginning to overtake the oversized beating heart.

Mika was instantly snapped out of the argument, looking around the collapsing room with a new fear. Farceur, on the other hand, was much too invested at this point to let it come to a stop. His hair was disheveled, face red and contorted into an expression of rage without any hint of masking it away.

"OH, fucking GREAT! Now look what you did, we're gonna die here because you can't just focus on what actually matters!"

They shot him a look, but he just kept going, moving closer to them much in the same way they did at the beginning of the argument.

"I hate you, you know that? I've hated you since I knew you existed. But oh, no, it's not 'right' for me to hate you because we've never actually met! Isn't that so stupid?"

They opened their mouth to reply, but suddenly Farceur reached up beside his head and slapped them across the face.

"You know what's stupid?! How you got to be happy, that's what! You got everything! It's not fucking fair! I hate it, I hate you, I hate you!"

It was like a child's tantrum. He was screaming now, stamping his foot on the ground with tears and snot running down his face, and as he ended off his sentence he stared into Mika's face as if to demand something of them.

Mika scoffed, which ended with a soft hiccup.

"You're such an asshole. I never did anything to you."

They turned around, scooped Grim off the ground, and left the room without saying another word, slamming the door as they went.

#the girls are fightingggg #the ramshacklabyrinth #twst #twisted wonderland #twst oc #twst grim #farceur #gawzdrawz #writing #twst: mika mckey

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nym-dawndane · 10 months

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The town was booming with rumors of the forgotten prince returning as the king grew older. Nym did not believe it, nor did she care much for such rumors. It mattered little to her. Noble people and royalty constantly sneered and turned their nose up at her family and her. It was the high price of having a mother who was the town whore. Her mother knew plenty of secrets that could ruin half of the creepy crypt keeper she slept with, but instead endured the hate and insults of the town. Naturally, walking through the market, wishing she could afford the better options and first pick of the vegetables and fruits. She did not dare look at the meats as it was a luxury they could never afford, holidays on rare occasion one of the men her mother slept with was feeling extra giving. Nym approached the elder man with thinning hair as he blotted away some of his sweat. Bebita, her sister, was a step ahead, selecting and feeling the food. The man smacking her sister's hand away, her sister turning red with anger, but Nym also felt her anger rise. No, it was not an uncommon affair for them to squabble with the townspeople. “Do not handle my merchandise if you do not plan to buy.” Nym not being able to bite her tongue, “stupid fool!” She blurred out, the man clearly offended. Bebita did not hold back either, grabbing one of their squishy bell pepper and tossing it at the man. “Who would want to buy your rotted vegetables anyway!” The bell pepper splatting against his shirt. The man now also turning a shade of red from anger. “You fucking cunts!” Nym grabbing her sister’s arm and pulling away from the stall before the man could properly aim at them. Eyes, too many pairs of eyes, stared at the interaction as their voices had raised. The bell pepper falling to the floor near their feet. The man glaring at them for a moment too long, “his prices are too much for rotten vegetables!” Nym shouted, the man finally looking away, as if he knew that no one would pay their words any mind. Which was true, the whole town believed them whores, just like their mother. It was not the case, however, but despite their mother trying her earnest, the town still believed what it wanted. Nym used her hand to fan herself from the unbearable heat, Glancing over at her sister’s paler complexion, turning red. On the brink of burning, “perhaps you should go home.” Nym suggested, Bebita’s lighter complexion had garnered her a suitor. Bebita loved him that much was evident, and perhaps he liked sincerely for a moment. That was until the town got into his ear, causing him to end all ties with her. The town, giving Nym yet another reason to hate them. Bebita shook her head, “we still have three silvers left. Carrots, flour, and something else. Let us finish.” She some, Nym merely quirked a brow, but now she felt a pair of eyes that had never left her since the altercation with the man. Her gaze scanning the marketplace, landing on a pair of green eyes. Green eyes, how beautiful. It was her first time seeing a pair of green eyes, rare. She thought, but shortly after took in his demeanor and attire and quickly broke her gaze from him. He was a nobleman, new to town. The face new and unfamiliar. Now it being Bebita turn to draw Nym into the heart of the marketplace as they walked to finish their weekly visit. “Do you think-?” Nym began to ask if he was the price, but Bebita cut her off. “No.” Laughing as if it was the most outlandish suggestion. “Noblemen rarely if never speak to us, why would royalty cause about us peasants, Nym?” But Nym did not answer as she tested the floppy carrots for firmness. Bebita was right. They were living in place that did not care for their suffering.

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thekimspoblog · 5 months

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Fantasy of the Day: Strawberry Milkshake

Inspired by @somethin-stupid-67

It's 2023. Not sure what state Jimmy and Kim are living in, but they decide to take the kids out for ice cream. Out in the parking lot, Jimmy notices some teenagers pointing at him and whispering. They are on their phones to make sure they are seeing what they think they see: Sure enough, it's that guy from YouTube. He grew a mustache, but it's still definitely him. Isn't he supposed to be in jail? One of the teens gets a bright idea and his friend pulls out his phone to start recording.

*Splat!* Something heavy and cold hits Jimmy right in the face. Pink drips down the front of his coat as he recovers from the shock. "Wooo! Did you guys get that? I hit Saul Goodman with a milkshake!" the boy screams, dancing around in front of the camera.

"Hey!" Jimmy yells, having to stop to make sure his nose isn't broken, "I'm just trying to have a nice night with my family here! How long am I going to be paying for something I did a lifetime ago?!" Usually Jimmy just tries to take this harassment in stride; society needs a scapegoat. But that cup easily could have hit Kim or his children instead, and that was enough for him to momentarily lose his temper. The comment was a mistake though, as now the hooligans' attention has been turned to the wife and kids. As the other teen continues to scroll through YouTube, he recognizes Kim as "That weird Jesus lady from basic cable". Kim tries to hide Iris behind her as the jerks begin to circle like vultures and ask more questions, but Iris has decided to handle this confrontation themself.

"Leave my dad alone! You think you're so tough?!" the five year old barks at the older kids in their pathetically squeaky voice. The boys just laugh at Iris. If nailing a minor celebrity in the face with strawberry ice cream wasn't enough, now a toddler is trying to threaten someone three times their size with the confidence of Bruce Willis; this is YouTube gold!

"Don't! Film! My daughter!" Jimmy steps between them. He doesn't want to get the law involved, when that's never worked too well for him in the past, but he'll do it if it comes to that.

"Everyone calm down!" Kim interrupts, "Alright. You got us. Very funny. But do you really think it's fair to put a child in the public eye without their consent?" The boys continue to posture with cavalier intimidation, but eventually the camera man breaks eye contact with the matriarch, realizing he might have started something he isn't prepared to finish. "We were leaving anyway," the other teen says, and the boys disperse.

Kim breathes a sigh of relief. She retrieves some paper towels from the car and begins blotting the milkshake off the front of her husband's coat. Jimmy keeps grumbling that the coat is probably ruined; his wife tells him he's worried over nothing; it will come out in the wash. Iris, however, has a good deal of questions what all that was all about. "Are you a movie star?" Iris skips around their parents in a circle excitedly. "Sure... I'm a movie star..." Jimmy sighs. This isn't the first incident which Iris has noticed their parents are apparently infamous. But they're still too young to understand why.

#mcwexler #parenthood timeline #kim wexler #saul goodman #gene takovic

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oritimesthree · 6 months

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"Could you love me as I am?" the woman asks. The man shakes his head, no.

"No. Your lips look as if they are stung by a legion of wasps."

The woman braces herself, and tears her lips off, screeching in pain. Nonplussed, the man nods approvingly as he's splashed with blood.

"How am I now?" inquires the woman through tears. She bristles as the air chills her now-unprotected teeth. Again, the man shakes his head.

"Your cheeks are blotted with acne. How can I love something so hideous?"

And, with a sickening noise, the woman detaches her cheeks, leaving only bloodied bone in their place. From the right angle, you can see into her mouth and out the other side. "Do you love me yet?" she pleads.

The man tuts disapprovingly. "You would dare to ask that, while your fingernails remain so dingy?"

With increasing numbness, the woman rips back each of her nails until they detach, one at a time. "Please," she gasps. "How much will it take for you to love me?"

"Until you're worth loving," the man answers curtly. "Meanwhile, your purulent eyes vex me still."

Without nails to gouge, the woman is forced to stick her thumbs behind her eyes and pull until the optic nerve snaps. She hears her eyeballs splat against the ground.

"I cannot do this forever," she urges him. "Please, there is only so much of me left..."

"Stop waggling your tongue. It would be of better use nailed to my door."

The woman's heart drums furiously, stewing with anger and love. "Why do you inflict your words with such venom? Could you not show me a mite of kindness?"

Though blinded, she can hear his anger rise in his chest. "How dare you!" the man shouts. The woman shrinks back. "You expect me to change for the likes of you? I have done everything, and you refuse to stop! I never asked you to tear yourself apart, and still, you would blame me!"

There is an agonizing silence. "Perhaps," says the man at last, "we should go our separate ways. I cannot tolerate your behavior forever."

"No!" cries the woman, panic surging in her veins. "Please, I- I still love you. I only wish for you to do the same."

The man considers her words. "One more chance, then. But you must make changes, or else."

The woman swallows her fury. "Yes, of course. What do you need me to do?"

She cannot see it, but the man smiles malevolently. "Cut out your tongue."

#drabble #vent #first vent art in a while #tw blo0d #tw self h4rm #tw abuse

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twstrhythm · 1 year

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Writing prompt

"You moron... Why are you so careless!?"

((Friendship between Rook and someone of your choice.))

Things really should have gone smoothly. They had made sure it would, but something just had to go wrong. Things always seemed to go wrong for no reason.

"Rook! I think we're stuck!" Epel shouts. He ducks back behind the stone wall. "That thing is not going to leave!"

"Do not lose heart, Monsieur Cherry Apple! We will find a way!"

"Huh?! I never said I was giving up!" Just how had his words been misinterpreted? He was never going to understand Rook and his logic.

Rook peeks around the corner and sees the creature was still lurking in the area. "Epel."

"Yes, Rook?"

"We will have to make a run for it."

"Huh?! Are you crazy?!"

"I worry for what Vil may be thinking now. He must be devastated we have yet to return!"

"I don't know about that... I think he'd rather we-" Epel's eyes widen as he sees Rook run off, and he quickly takes off after his upperclassman. "Rook! What are you doing?! Wait for me!"

He lets out a scream when the monster turns in their direction and dashes after them. He hears a splat of blot hit the wall just inches away from himself.

"Monsieur Cherry Apple!" Rook's voice reaches his ears before he is pulled right off the cliffside.

"ROOK!" Epel screeches. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

"Getting us to safety!"

"HOW IS OFF THE CLIFF SAFE?!"

"Epel, have more faith in me." He hears moments before they hit the water below.

After the two Pomefiore students had dragged themselves onto the shore, Epel kicks Rook in the knee.

"Monsieur Cherry Apple?!"

"You moron… Why are you so careless!?" Epel shouts. "We could have died!"

"But we did not."

"Well we still could have! What would I tell Vil if something bad happened to you?!"

"Monsieur Cherry Apple! There will be no need for that!" Rook quickly says.

"Argh! YOU-"

"Rook. Epel. Care to explain why you decided to leap off the cliff?" A voice behind them says.

"...shit."

#twisted wonderland #rook hunt #epel felmier #writing

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finiffy · 2 years

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pathetic wet paper bag man (ukulele) splats when he falls onto the ground

He splats and leaves like an ink blot on the ground and makes a cartoon squishy sound on impact

#fin answers #anon

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shadowdemon40-blog · 1 year

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Lookiiie it's violet if she was an agent in Valorant. I have drawn her before in Valorant with Omen but I never sat down and gave her a proper design. So here she is. She would probably just go by Splat as her agent name or...Blot. idk.

Idk fully what her moves would be, but I was thinking like an orb of ink that could make people "slip", kinda like an opposite to Sages slow orb.

She could uhhh, I guess throw paint at someone which would blink em for a super short time and when the enemy runs they leave a paint trail for a few seconds.

Her third ability could be idk a clone thing like Yoru's but it looks like an alive enemy member and if there's only one person her ability is disabled and she says something like "I need inspiration."

Her ultimate would be uhhh....a wave of ink that pushes people back and makes em drip ink or something for a bit longer oorrrr she could leave a painting of herself somewhere and if she dies she can return to that painting. The draw back could be that anyone on the enemy team can "erase" it by shooting it or something.

I'm just spit balling ideas here, I don't really know because I can't tell what would be "game breaking" or not.

This was also my first time trying to do the Valorant style, which was hard because even their style changed over the years so XD I did my best.

#Valorant OC #Valorant #Valorant Art #OC #original character #ShadowDemon40 #Shadow Demon #Digital Art #Digital Artwork #Artwork #Art

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lsttcs · 4 months

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words that, last, you loose

gripping circus blood drip

it’s blacktop drive

your ecosystem has been pruned for you

the sun is to be restored

and no man busts the shed

It’s where resin plays harps for you

and splat display

alligator blot interlocking

it is fat

if it’s physical on stage tom heads

looking back at that

I think they closed 1 hard, closed 1, number 7

Recharged dusky

Hedge reanamoure

Blind musk green

Candle scrape

Sleet

#poem #poetry #njpoetry #nycpoetry

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patrioticshortbread · 1 year

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the water of the river flows, a stream that caresses rocks. bubbles flip and tickle fish, dirt and sand ache in the mix.

a drag, sweet, sour, burning down throat. nimble, skinny, hot with flame, flickering out when the wind gently brushes by the tip.

sheets, cotton sticking where sweat builds. laid flat, hot, heavy, pressing a forlorn hand at the small of my back when i rest down once more.

somber rain. tender droplets, stroking dark blots to the grey cement. dribbles scatter at glass windows, splats of heavenly joy.

#my writing

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justrent · 2 years

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Inkling books

This is a well written book that is funny and good for all good for all ages. The year this book was published was 2018. The Author of this book is Kenneth Oppel. “Splat!” a living splotch of ink escapes from a sketchbook. A New York Public Library Best Book of the Year - top ten selection.A little ink blot is about to become your new favorite character! And Sydney Smith is creating wonderfully inky illustrations to bring the story to vivid life. Inkling is funny and fizzy and exciting, and brimming with the kind of interesting ideas and dilemmas that kids will love to wrestle with. Kenneth Oppel has given us a small masterpiece of middle-grade fiction. It's not until Inkling goes missing that this family has to face the larger questions of what they-and Inkling-truly need. And for Dad he's a spark of ideas for a new graphic novel. But Inkling's also started drawing the pictures to go with the story-which is amazing! It's just the help Ethan was looking for! Inkling helps the rest of the family too-for Sarah he's a puppy. Inkling has absorbed a couple chapters of his math book-not good-and the story he's supposed to be illustrating for school-also not good. But one night the ink of his drawings runs together-and then leaps off the page! This small burst of creativity is about to change everything.Įthan finds him first. Ethan promised to illustrate a group project at school-even though he can't draw. Perfect for those who love Hoot, Holes, or Frindle and sure to be a hit with kids everywhere! ★ An Amazon Best Children's Book of the Year selectionĪ brilliantly funny story about how a little ink splot changes a family forever.

#Inkling books

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lascladviser · 2 years

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High resolution paint splatter background

#HIGH RESOLUTION PAINT SPLATTER BACKGROUND FULL#

#HIGH RESOLUTION PAINT SPLATTER BACKGROUND FREE#

It has been suggested that Rorschach's use of inkblots may have been inspired by German doctor Justinus Kerner who, in 1857, had published a popular book of poems, each of which was inspired by an accidental inkblot. The ink blots were hand drawn by Rorschach himself. Rorschach's, however, was the first systematic approach of this kind. Interpretation of inkblots was central to a game, Gobolinks, from the late 19th century. Using interpretation of "ambiguous designs" to assess an individual's personality is an idea that goes back to Leonardo da Vinci and Botticelli. Hermann Rorschach created the inkblot test in 1921. The areas of dispute include the objectivity of testers, inter-rater reliability, the verifiability and general validity of the test, bias of the test's pathology scales towards greater numbers of responses, the limited number of psychological conditions which it accurately diagnoses, the inability to replicate the test's norms, its use in court-ordered evaluations, and the proliferation of the ten inkblot images, potentially invalidating the test for those who have been exposed to them. Īlthough the Exner Scoring System (developed since the 1960s) claims to have addressed and often refuted many criticisms of the original testing system with an extensive body of research, some researchers continue to raise questions. In the 1960s, the Rorschach was the most widely used projective test. The Rorschach can be thought of as a psychometric examination of pareidolia, the active pattern of perceiving objects, shapes, or scenery as meaningful things to the observer's experience, the most common being faces or other pattern of forms that are not present at the time of the observation. The test is named after its creator, Swiss psychologist Hermann Rorschach. It has been employed to detect underlying thought disorder, especially in cases where patients are reluctant to describe their thinking processes openly. Some psychologists use this test to examine a person's personality characteristics and emotional functioning. The Rorschach test is a projective psychological test in which subjects' perceptions of inkblots are recorded and then analyzed using psychological interpretation, complex algorithms, or both. Rorschach inkblot test, the Rorschach technique, inkblot test

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gaiuswrites · 3 years

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Thread the Needle | Yoga!Din

Pairing: Modern!Din x Yoga Instructor!Reader

Rating: Explicit (minors, goodbye)

Word count: 3.5k~

Warnings/tags: Yoga!Din (yes, he gets his own warning), hurt/comfort, language, smut, good ol' fashioned cunnilingus, piv

Notes: ✨ HI FRIENDS ✨ Yoga!Din rides again. This idea has been stewing (pun intended, you'll get it later) in my dumb brain for a while now and I've finally decided to write it. Technically, this takes place a little farther into the future (perhaps when the pair is more of an item, and less of a fuckbuddy fling, but thorough plot? We don’t know her). Anyways, enjoy! Cheers x

He doesn’t mean to be dramatic, but it’s the most agonizing sixty minutes of his goddamn life.

He’s seated on his mat, legs folded into a fucking pretzel—lotus pose, a calm voice inside his head corrects—and he’s steaming.

She isn’t here.

He is—Din, for all his faults, showed the fuck up to class but she didn’t, and in her place there’s some smelly old bat, this woman’s wrinkly ass – sits bones – plunked down at the front of the studio— occupying her spot, where she should be.

His eyes stalk the movements of this other woman as she putters around the studio—the godawful stench of something earthy wafting behind her— and it looks wrong. It feels wrong; like a violation somehow—of the space.

Of their space.

“The light in me recognizes the light in you,” they all utter in unison like a fucking hippie cult, and he books it out of there, swiping his mat up with an aggressive slap and rolling it under his arm.

“Hey,” he calls out, pacing towards the front desk. The receptionist— Riley? Kylie? Din can never remember—glances up from her phone, bright eyed.

Poor thing.

“Who the fuck is that?” He jabs his thumb over his shoulder towards the studio, the gaggle of ladies trickling out of it already gossiping and clucking away. Din doesn’t mean to sound accusatory; he doesn’t mean to be this intense. It’s not this girl’s fault, he knows that— but she’s in proximity and she’s shit out of luck.

“M’sorry?” she sputters, blinking up at him.

Breathe, that same voice coos—he can feel the tickle of it behind his ear.

“Our usual Wednesday instructor,” Din begins again, clipped. “Where is she?”

“Oh," she shrugs, "she called in sick.”

With a furrowed brow he pitches forward, craning over the desk. “Is she okay?”

The girl— Miley? —all but flinches back from him, a quizzical expression wormed onto her. “Uhm, yeah she has the flu—nasty one, too, but she’ll probably be back by ne-"

Din doesn’t linger long enough for her to finish. He’s wheeled around, striding from the building, the tinny chime of the bell ringing out as the door creaks closed behind him. The women exchange waggling glances in his wake, tittering in mouthwatering delight—more juicy fodder for their post-yoga soiree.

///

He doesn’t remember driving there. He made a quick stop to the grocery store— their grocery store, now— to pick up what he needed and before he knows it, he’s at her front door, bringing his fist down upon it in hard raps.

He hears movement—can sense it there, can practically imagine it: her lithe body tip toeing over— no, she’s got the flu, maybe it’s more of a shuffle—and peeking through the peephole. There’s a weighty pause and then—

The slow, dubious clicks of unbolting locks, the turning of a handle, the yawn of the wood as it opens.

Her voice is made small with disbelief and exhaustion. “Din?”

“Can I come in?”

She cracks the door ajar, standing in the frame of it now, a thick blue comforter slung over an arm, and she can’t quite mask the stupefied look etched onto her face.

He’s never done this. She’s never done this. He’s been to her place twice—three times, if he counts them fucking in the car in her driveway—and he’s certainly never showed up unannounced.

“Uhm, I-”

“Great.”

Din pushes past her, plastic bag swinging heavy at his side.

“W-What?”

She’s left gaping, mouth and eyes opened incredulously, ogling the way he struts through her entryway, before finally having the wherewithal to close the door. “Hey, what are you-”

“You need to keep your fluids up,” he says roughly—as if it’s obvious—making a beeline towards the kitchen.

She follows after him, bunching the throw snuggly around her shoulders. “Din,” she utters feebly, “I really don’t think you should be here right now.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Please, I don’t wanna get you sick."

He thunks the bag onto the granite countertop, producing two cans.

She doesn’t know why she bothers, it’s not like he’s listening to her anyways. If she’s learned anything about Din Djarin, it’s that he’s nothing if not stubborn—impossibly immovable. He’s tossed his jacket off, slinging it over the island, a determined glint in his eye as he prowls around the kitchen, opening cupboards at random.

“Seriously, I don’t want you catching this. I feel like shit… Oh my god, I look like shit,” she groans in realization, burying her head in the blanket, hermitting herself away.

“You look fine,” he replies gruffly, delving through the drawers in search of a can opener.

Frumpy sweats and a baggy t-shirt with some faded logo on it that’s absolutely hanging off her. Hair tossed up and sloppy, coiled into a loose bun, errant pieces rebelling every which way. A little pale, maybe. Tired eyes. Messy.

Beautiful, he meant. She looks fucking irritatingly beautiful.

Din continues to rifle through her cabinets and he exhales in frustration, “Jesus, where do you keep your pans?”

“Bottom right,” she points begrudgingly.

He grunts, finding one big enough and sets it down on the stove.

She can’t stop fussing over him; making comments here and there, asking if he wants anything, needs anything—water, kombucha, tea, a beer, a snack—if she can help in any way possible—and it nearly sends him over the damn edge.

“Would you quit it and just let me take care of you?” he grits out, and her mouth clamps shut with a pop.

She’s quiet after that, picking anxiously at a thread poking out from the blanket she wears like a shawl—observing as he empties the cans into a large pot, lights the gas stove, and brings it to a boil. She gives him space, stationing herself by the kitchen table, leaning a hip into one of the four chairs there.

Honestly she does try to keep to herself; she tries to accept what Din is doing for her, but she can’t help it. As soon as she sees him ladling the soup into one of her favorite cups—it looks so tiny in his grasp— and bringing it over to her like a goddamn patron saint, she breaks.

“You really didn’t have to do all this.”

“Yeah well, you need to get healthy so you can take your class back from that fucking fossil.”

“Din,” she admonishes.

“Baby,” he gives her a pointed look and she gnaws at the inside of her cheek, a blush blotting her clavicle. “She fucking smells. Now sit your pretty little ass down-”

“But-”

He presses a hand to her shoulder, forcing her to sink into the chair with a soft oomf, and places the bowl in front of her. “Don’t fight me on this. Drink the fucking soup.”

She huffs, glancing down, and then back up to Din.

“Progresso?”

He grunts.

She blows at the steam rising from the hot liquid. “Chicken noodle?”

Din crosses his arms over his chest and plops back onto the island.

“Classic,” she praises, mumbling into it.

She loathes to admit it, but the first sip tastes like heaven. It soothes her raw vocal chords, worn hoarse from nights of coughing, and seeps deep to warm her cold bones.

Din remains mute through the whole affair, staring owlishly as she spoons it down, slurp for slurp, until he’s satisfied she’s finished. When she does, she arches an eye brow at him— mouth pressing into a thin line. Happy now?

He tips his head and pads over to her.

“Wait, no you don’t have to-" He swipes it from the table, the spoon clanking against the ceramic rim. Din moves to the sink and she groans.

“Just leave it,” she whines, but he ignores her—stubborn stubborn stubborn— he’s already got soap on the sponge and the water running. Again, she huffs and rises to her feet, hem of the blanket trailing behind her.

“Thank you,” she gives in a hushed tone.

It’s so strange— being taken care of in her own place. She doesn’t know what to do, where to go. It’s ill-fitting, foreign, and she can only hover there, buzzing like a pesky insect beside him.

He’s wiping the dish off with a towel when he chances a peek back at her, practically stuttering when he does.

She’s swaddled in that fucking quilt, awkward and impossibly sincere and precious just standing there—watching him play house in her home. A brush of color has sprung up on her cheeks—more light in her eyes, too—and Din, try as he might, can’t pry himself off her.

She’s sick—she’s sick and gorgeous and he wants her. He wants her to feel better, he wants to fuck her, he wants to hold her. He’s overcome with it.

He swallows.

Fuck.

He abandons the bowl and rag in the drying rack and turns to her, her eyes widening, glassy and bloodshot, as he tucks a stray hair behind her ear— knuckles trailing down her jaw.

“Din…”

Her tongue skips over her lip—mocking him—damp and full and begging to be taken by his own, and her breath catches as he drags a thumb across that plump flesh, enrapt with the way her mouth parts so effortlessly for him—so fucking supple. Din’s gut twists and his blood thickens in his veins—the air between them rippling with something velvet and carnal.

He takes a step towards her. Her throat bobs.

“You’re gonna get sick,” she pouts in protest, rutting her palm into his chest, but there’s no fight in it. The blanket slips from her shoulders, hitting the ground with a dulled splat.

“Din,” she tries again, “I don’t want you to-"

He leans in, cradling her cheek, murmurs fanning over her face. “I’ll risk it.”

And he dissolves the gap, sealing her mouth with his in a tender kiss. It’s almost chaste at first, how they rove tentative and unhurried over each other—an innocent exploration— all until his tongue darts out to touch along her lip and she whimpers into him, letting Din dip into the dark cavern of her mouth. She tastes warm, like comfort and broth and rainy days, and he sighs as she brings her hands up to weave into his hair.

Neither of them fight for dominance like this—their tangle of soft sounds is perfectly balanced— Hatha; effort and ease, breath and body. He pushes, she relents—she surges forward, Din bends. They dance like this, slow as tar, until she catches his bottom lip between her teeth and tugs.

It’s like a switch has been flipped.

He seethes, inhaling sharply as his hands slide possessive and greedy down her body, grabbing fistfuls of her waist hidden under all the oversized layers, and crushing her into him. She’s making these airy noises, panting and urgent and fuck if it doesn’t tear him apart—viscerally, from the inside out.

Din walks her backwards, step for choreographed step, foxtrotting until she bumps into the kitchen table. He breaks away from the kiss to reach past her, frantically pushing away the unopened mail and receipts and loose change, the jingling of her keys cutting through the wanton quiet as they clang onto the tile, and he hitches her up to sit there with one fell swoop.

“I wanna make you feel good,” he husks, inbetween the bites he’s searing onto her neck. “Please, just lie back for me sweet girl.”

“Din, I-“

He silences her with a nibble to her ear, coaxing a breathy yelp out of her. “Lie back, baby.”

It doesn’t take much convincing after that. She acquiesces, Din’s wide palm splayed on her breasts, guiding her to recline back onto the table. He makes speedy work of her sweatpants, yanking them down her legs and flinging them off to land in a crumpled heap.

He sinks to his knees, pulling the cradle of her hips to the edge of the table before parting her thighs. The gloss of her cunt, wet and glistening for him, makes his hardening cock jump up to his stomach, and she twitches as soon as the cool air brushes against her.

“Fuck me,” he groans, whispering into her heat like he’s pained, like the sight alone is torturing him—like it’s slowly but surely ending his fucking life.

Din breathes her in with a sigh, that summer fruit tang— the scent of her aching and pulsing for him— and he starts tracing up and down her inner thigh with his tongue and teeth, nibbling along the path there until he’s at her apex. He’s dimpling her pliant skin with his calloused fingertips, strong hands wrapped under her knees, keeping them splayed as he kisses along her outer lips, nipping at her hip bones, teasing everywhere but where she needs him most.

It’s devastating—debilitating—and she’s shaking now. Every muscle, every fiber of her, convulsing with anticipation—with the promise of being dissected, of being torn apart and stitched back together again. She’s already got a hand covering her mouth, muffling the sobs he’s drawing out as he toys with her— playing her like a fucking fiddle.

Din’s eyes flit up to find her like this, brow pinched tight and cries stifled, and he chuckles— he fucking laughs— heady and ambered into her legs.

“You doin’ alright up there, teach?”

“F-Fuck you,” she hisses out with a weak whine.

God, she’s fucking perfect.

“You need something, sweetheart?” He smirks— she can feel the shape of it against her thigh, the way his stubble grates along her skin— and she can only mewl, speechless. Pathetic.

“Yeah, I know what you need...” Din hums, before finally - finally - taking mercy on her.

With one single drag, he tongues a broad stripe up her slit.

The noise that rips through her sounds like she’s being strangled— it gets caught in her throat like a trapped animal in hot car— a desperate little thing clawing to get out. Her nails scrape against the wood, leaving nicks in the chestnut lacquer. Immediately, she cants up to him, searching for his mouth hungrily and Din all but obliges as he clasps onto her hips, keeping her still while he fucks into her.

He’s carving her out— hollowing her; burying himself in her folds, nosing against her mound. He laps her up in kitten licks, delving the muscle of his tongue in and out of her, leaving her weak and gasping. Din laves up and down and side to side in clever little swivels, before he reaches her clit and sucks.

Her fist shoots from her mouth to grip his wavy locks, grinding shamelessly against his face.

“O-Oh my god, Din - fuck - Din. Oh fuck oh fuck-"

He loves it when she gets like this; that serene and tranquil exterior— the one that can quell a studio full of strangers into a haze with only the sound of her voice, that voice he can’t get out of his fucking head, the one that got them into this mess in the first place— shattered, mutilated beyond recognition and all she has left is her need— her wild, unbridled need.

Her need for his tongue, for his fingers, for his dick. Din Din Din, she only wants him— only needs him.

He slips a finger into her, easing past his knuckle in one movement, and her chin tips back, crown of her head digging into the table, hair mussing against the wood grain.

Her nipples have pebbled through her shirt, her pretty feet arched and contorted, and she’s heaving - writhing - like this above him.

He adds another digit, pumping in and out, the squelch of her pussy sounding lewd and obscene and fucking divine as he grazes her clit with his teeth, pulling at it.

“Fuck-” she rasps, legs quivering on their own accord— instinct and reflex demanding she tremble— and Din moans into her sex, feeling her walls constrict around his fingers, and he curls them up as he thrusts, hitting against that spongy patch insider her that makes her vision go white.

“Din, I- I’m—"

She can’t manage the rest. Instead of words, she cries— high pitched and wounded, as if she’s barely making it out alive. Her legs clamp around his head, bracing him there, and she cums— she loses it for him— her slick coating his nose, his lips, the hair speckled around his chin. She soaks him, and it leaves Din rocking his hips and humping the fucking air— as randy as a teenager, ravenous for anything, even if it’s just the friction of his pants drawn tight around his erection.

He takes her through her orgasm, lapping at her softly until she’s warbling—a slew of nonsense babbling out of her— and he leans back on his heels to admire his work, eyes singeing into her cunt made puffy and swollen pink, fluttering at the loss of him.

He plants one final kiss to the cleft of her pussy before shifting his weight back up to his feet, slotting himself between her.

Fuck, he isn’t as young as he once was— he feels his age in the ache of his knees. All the yoga in the world can’t erase his scar tissue, can’t undo time.

But he thinks maybe—if he’ll let himself—that she makes him feel younger. Lighter.

He squeezes her calf and begins to move away when she whimpers, bolting upright to palm greedily at the bulge pressing painfully against its constraint, her fingers fidgeting with his zipper and Din— in an uncharacteristic show of strength and self restraint— gingerly clasps onto her wrists, holding her still.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and her eyes snap up to meet his. “This isn’t about me.”

“No, but-”

“You don’t- we don’t have to-"

“Din,” she pants, grabbing onto the waist of his jeans and pressing her center into him, smearing herself along the denim there, her pearled clit catching on the rough fabric. Her eyes have gone jet-black with desire, obsidian lust burning through them. “Din, fuck me. Please fuck me, plea-“

Shit.

He’s never moved so fast in his goddamn life, unbuttoning his jeans in a flash, untucking himself— throbbing, leaking already—from his briefs. He gives himself two rough jerks, his blunt tip prodding at her entrance, before pushing into her with a gasp.

Fuck, she’s warm— not just warm, she’s hot. She’s molten, and she’s milking him for all he’s worth, gripping around him, fucking strangling his cock with how wet she is—how tight. God, she’s a fucking dream—a nightmare too, undoubtedly.

“Fuck baby - shit - you’re—hnng-” He groans—can’t even form a real sentence—all of his blood has rushed out of his brain and straight to the juncture where their bodies meet.

His eyes flutter deliriously at the feeling of her stretching around him like this and for a passing, fleeting moment, he considers the fact that he should be gentle with her— that she’s not feeling well, that she’s probably sore with body chills and God knows what else and that she should rest—

But once her knees are split apart and legs spread long— so fucking flexible, fuck she’s killing him— his well-met concern all but abandons him.

He fucks her hard— so hard she falls back, that unforgiving surface bruising into her spine. He probably hurts her a little—just how he likes, just how she loves.

Din plows into her, digging into the meat of her thighs, slamming into the pussy that takes him so fucking well, the pussy that feels like it’s made for him— like she’s made for him— and the table shudders with each roll of his hips, scraping it inch by inch along the tile, knocking against the chairs with loud, clattering bangs.

“W-Wait— wait wait wait-“ she pants, hands scampering up to his arms.

He slows his thrusts until he’s stilled inside of her, worry creasing around his eyes. “W-What? Are you okay—what’s wrong?”

“T-The table," she whines, “it’s from fucking IKEA. I built this piece of shit myself— there’s no way it’s gonna stay standing with you fucking me into it like this.”

Din barks out a laugh, throaty and genuine, and for the second time today, he comes to the conclusion that she’s perfect.

“Bedroom?” she nods down the hall.

“Bedroom,” he growls before scooping her up, lifting her off the table, her legs scrambling to hook around his waist, forearms bracing around the broad plain of his shoulders.

“Din!” she squeals in surprise, “I can walk, you know.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, giving her a bounce and a light slap to her ass. “You’re sick.”

///

“Onions,” he mutters, leaden eyelids nestled shut.

He didn’t mean to stay over this long—well past sunset, later than he’s ever allowed himself—but how could he be expected to leave? After she came on his cock - twice - and he had filled her up until his cum was gushing from her, extricating himself out of this exact position of woven, spent limbs and sweat stained sheets sounded criminal.

“What?” She cranes groggily up at him.

“The sub. She smelled like onions. And patchouli.”

“Hey,” she tuts in mock offense, “Brenda is nice.”

“Good for Brenda. Doesn’t make her smell any better.”

“God, you are so rude,” she laughs, shaking her head as she nuzzles into Din’s side, lips curving into a sleepy grin against his chest—right above the aching thump of his caged heart.

Taglist (I apologize if I missed anyone!):

@radiowallet @pedros-mustache @djarinsbeskar @chasingdreamers @greatcircle79 @iamskyereads @imnotinlove-thisisnotyoursong @fan-of-encouragement @read-and-rec @helmet-comes-off @keeper0fthestars @hellabaybee @ourmotherofyearning @krissology

#yoga!din #I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL #modern!din #modern au #din djarin smut #din djarin x female oc #din djarin x fem!reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #smut #mando x fem!reader #mando x you #mando x female oc #hurt/comfort #fanfic #one shot #star wars fanfic #pedro pascal #din djarin au

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