Lover of fools❤️

Names Miraculous! Blog is just a whole bunch of art dumps of my OCs and other lmao Don’t actually mind if you use my art but please credit me and ask for permissionfirst and don’t copy my OCs please and thanks :)Have a great day Strawberries!

[fruittyyartts]

[souperluminal]

These prints and more from this May are now available in the shop!

[flygutzz]

Maybe you're fuckin scum. Don't you go psycho, chum.

[biposi]

I would like to introduce a new MOTM au to you guys. (Not going to do much with it but)

MOTM BROTHERS AU

basically the quest boys? Yeah they are the myth boys’s lil brothers now.

Observe:

Also had to change the quest boys names

Q!Bendy -> Sinny

Q!Boris -> Tom (Tommy)

Q!Cuphead -> Calix

Q!Mugman -> Mori

[sentient-grimm]

Guess I never posted these doodles of some of the MOTM cast

I think I drew these while fly was streaming on TikTok or something idk I can’t remember

[baconsoupagh]

🔫

[elltournesoll]

Gift for: dissmeditor <3

Valentine’s in the Workshop — MOTM

Summary: On Valentine’s Day, Yakko skips his usual dramatic entrance — and that’s how you know something’s wrong. Instead of city lights, you spend the evening in his workshop, where quiet concern turns into soft confessions, a handmade gift, and the reminder that even someone who turns everything into a weapon chooses to lower his guard with you.

Pairing: Myth Yakko x Reader

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Light Action and Character-Driven

Tropes: Soft Protector, “I Can Fix Anything (Except My Feelings)”, Maker/Inventor Love Interest, Quiet Confession, Valentine’s Day Domestic Moment, Touch-Starved but Hides It, Handmade Gift Symbolism and Chaos Boy and Gentle With You

Rating: T (Teen)

Myth! Yakko Warner belongs to: shishiminty !!

The first thing you learned about Yakko Warner was that he never walked into a room normally.

He arrived.

Doors were suggestions. Windows were invitations. Gravity was more of a polite guideline than a rule. If there was a dramatic way to enter, Yakko would find it, improve it, and add commentary like a live director’s cut.

You had seen:

— him swing through a doorway on a hanging cable, boots first, yelling “Tactical entrance!”

— him slide across a table on his knees because “momentum equals authority”

— him roll under a half-lowered garage door with a wrench between his teeth, which he later claimed was “pure cinema”

Once, he’d come through the ceiling tile, landed in a crouch, looked around the room, and said, “Good news: I found the attic. Bad news: I may have made an attic.”

So when the workshop door simply creaked open tonight—

On Valentine’s Day, of all nights—

You knew something was wrong.

You didn’t look up right away.

The desk lamp beside you cast a warm, golden pool over the floor. Metal glinted. Bolts, screws, bent nails, washers, springs, strips of wire — all sorted into messy little constellations only you and Yakko could navigate. The concrete was cool under your legs. The air smelled like oil, dust, steel, and that faint trace of soap that clung to him like a secret reminder he existed outside of grease and trouble.

There was a small paper bag sitting on the workbench above you — slightly crumpled, with a red ribbon clumsily tied around the handle. You hadn’t opened it yet. He’d shoved it at you earlier that afternoon with a casual, “Don’t read into it,” and immediately refused to elaborate.

Very normal. Very Yakko.

You were cross-legged with your back against the workbench, organizing scrap into vague categories you’d learned by watching him think.

Boots scuffed softly behind you.

“Front door,” you said casually. “No explosion. No sliding entrance. No dramatic Valentine’s serenade. Should I be concerned?”

Yakko’s voice came, lighter than the footsteps. “Please. I only skip theatrics when I’m being extremely serious. Or when I already did the theatrics earlier and you weren’t looking.”

You glanced up. “You didn’t.”

“I absolutely did. There were finger guns.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Incorrect. I’m romantic and efficient.”

He dropped down beside you, folding himself to the floor with that loose, springy ease of someone who had fallen from worse heights and gotten back up. Hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows. Bandages wrapped his forearms in uneven layers. A faint smear of grease on his cheekbone.

His ears twitched once.

Then went still.

You handed him a bent gear without looking. “Here. Future world-saving device. Valentine’s edition.”

He turned it in his fingers slowly. “Ah yes. Nothing says romance like mild mechanical disappointment.”

You huffed a laugh — but when you glanced at him, you saw it.

That delay before he smiled.

“…Okay,” you said gently. “What happened?”

He leaned back on his hands, eyes drifting to the ceiling like he was reading invisible subtitles. His tail lay quiet beside him.

“You ever notice,” he said, “how grown adults get real twitchy when you’re good at things?”

“That’s… extremely specific.”

“Had a run-in earlier. Some guys who didn’t appreciate my creative interpretation of ‘don’t touch that.’”

“You mean you disarmed them using a stop sign and a loose chain.”

He pointed at you. “You make it sound criminal. I prefer ‘urban problem-solving.’”

“You stole a stop sign. On Valentine’s Day.”

“I borrowed it. Temporarily. Romance requires sacrifice.”

Despite yourself, you smiled.

Your hand found his sleeve, thumb brushing near his wrist. “Did they hurt you?”

His eyes flicked to yours. The grin faded — just for a second.

“Nah. I’m hard to hit. I zig. I zag. I monologue. Very distracting.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“Of course I am. It’s a holiday. I have standards.”

“Yakko.”

That did it. His shoulders lowered a notch.

“They didn’t get me,” he admitted. “But they were asking about Wakko and Dot. The kind of questions I don’t like people asking.”

Your chest tightened. “They’re okay?”

“Yeah. I got there first.” His smile came back, sharper. Protective. “Let’s just say they won’t be asking follow-up questions without a chiropractor.”

You believed him. You’d seen how he moved in a fight — fast, clever, using space and objects and momentum. He ended things quickly.

Still.

“You don’t have to do everything alone,” you said quietly. “Especially not today.”

He glanced at you. “It’s just a day.”

“It’s our day.”

That caught him off guard.

His ears twitched again.

“…You’re sentimental,” he accused softly.

“You’re avoiding."

He huffed a laugh, leaning his shoulder against yours. “I had a plan, you know.”

“Oh?”

“Dinner. Something mildly illegal but charming. Then maybe rooftop stargazing. I was gonna pretend I know constellations.”

“You don’t?”

“I know three. I reuse them confidently.”

You smiled. “We can still do that.”

“Nah,” he said, glancing around the workshop. “This is fine.”

The lamp hummed. Metal gleamed. The red ribbon on the paper bag caught the light.

“You’d rather be here?” you asked.

He looked at you fully now.

“With you? Yeah.”

The answer was simple. Honest.

Yakko broke the quiet.

“You know,” he said, lifting the bent gear again, “in the right hands, this could be a weapon.”

You groaned. “Everything is a weapon to you.”

“Incorrect. Everything is a potential. I just help it achieve its dreams.”

You laughed, and this time his smile reached his eyes.

Then he leaned closer, voice dipping. “You’re my favorite, though.”

“My what?”

“Favorite potential. You could destroy someone emotionally with eye contact alone. Very Valentine’s-coded.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’ve seen it. Terrifying. Elegant. Inspiring.”

You shoved him lightly, but he caught your hand. His fingers curled around yours, warm and steady.

The air shifted.

His thumb brushed your knuckles. “You weren’t scared, were you? When we first met?”

“You swung from a chain and knocked someone out with a frying pan.”

“Vintage cookware is underutilized.”

“I figured if you wanted to hurt people who didn’t deserve it,” you said, “you wouldn’t joke while doing it.”

He stared at you.

“…That’s how you decided I was safe?”

“Pretty much.”

A slow smile spread across his face. Soft. Almost shy.

“You are either very smart or wildly reckless.”

“Why not both?”

He laughed — bright, real — and leaned forward until his forehead bumped yours.

“Good answer.”

His ears brushed your hair. His breath was warm.

“I build a lot of things,” he murmured. “Traps. Tools. Gadgets. Backup plans for my backup plans.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But you?” His eyes met yours, unguarded. “You’re the only thing I don’t try to engineer.”

Your heart stumbled.

“I don’t calculate with you,” he said. “I don’t plan exits. I don’t look for angles. I just… show up.”

Your hand curled in his hoodie. “Good. Because if you tried to strategize feelings on Valentine’s Day, I’d dump loose screws in your bed.”

He gasped. “Holiday cruelty.”

“Deserved.”

He grinned, nose brushing yours. “You make me less sharp.”

“That’s not bad.”

“No,” he agreed quietly. “It’s not.”

You kissed him.

Soft. Familiar. A little clumsy when his nose bumped wrong and he laughed against your mouth.

He kissed like he did everything — fully. One hand at your waist. The other still holding the bent gear.

You pulled back. “Are you seriously still holding that?”

He looked at it. Looked at you.

“…I could drop it.”

“Please. It’s Valentine’s Day.”

He tossed it behind him. Something clattered loudly.

“Probably important,” you said.

“Everything’s replaceable,” he murmured, leaning in again. “Except you. You’re custom.”

“That was terrible.”

“It’s a themed line. I had to.”

You kissed him again, longer this time.

When you finally leaned back, you reached up and grabbed the small paper bag from the workbench.

“You going to explain this?” you asked.

He immediately looked defensive. “It’s not a big deal.”

You untied the ribbon.

Inside was something small — handmade. A thin chain bracelet, simple but sturdy, with a tiny polished gear attached in the center. Smoothed edges. Carefully filed. Clean.

You looked up at him.

“I had extra scrap,” he muttered. “And it’s… you know. Symbolic. Or whatever.”

“Symbolic?”

“Yeah. You’re the piece that keeps things turning. Mechanically speaking.”

Your throat tightened.

“You made this.”

“Well I wasn’t going to buy something. That lacks narrative weight.”

You slipped it onto your wrist. It fit perfectly.

He stared at it like he’d just completed a very delicate engineering test.

“It’s perfect,” you said softly.

He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your temple like he didn’t trust himself to say anything bigger.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he murmured.

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a proper hug this time. Tight. Warm.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Yakko.”

His tail curled securely around your leg again.

After a moment, he shifted and scanned the workshop.

“You know,” he said, voice lighter now, “if we’re in my natural habitat on the most romantic day of the year, we should at least build something.”

“You just got back from a fight.”

“Exactly. Prime crafting mindset.”

He grabbed wire, a broken hinge, and — somehow — a spoon.

“You are not weaponizing cutlery on Valentine’s Day.”

“Don’t limit the spoon.”

You watched his hands move — quick, precise, creative.

“What is it?” you asked.

“Emergency distraction device.”

“That’s vague.”

He finished, holding up a tiny spring-loaded contraption with the spoon attached at an angle.

“You throw it,” he explained, “it clatters, spins, reflects light, confuses everyone for three seconds.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s all you need.”

You shook your head, smiling.

He handed it to you carefully, like it mattered.

Like you mattered.

And in the warm light, on Valentine’s Day, surrounded by scraps and sparks and the boy who could turn anything into a weapon but chose, with you, to sit still—

You realized something.

Yakko Warner didn’t stop being sharp.

He just chose not to point that edge at the people he loved.

And tonight, he chose you.

Author's note: I wanted to write this little gift for my dear friend who loves Yakko so much.

I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

[elltournesoll]

Gift for: A few friends from the myth server <3

Spare Parts & Sweethearts — MOTM

Summary: While Valentine’s Day chaos takes over the house, Wakko Warner retreats to his workshop — but he isn’t hiding. Behind grease-stained hands and quiet gestures, he has something carefully prepared for the one person who matters most. Between handmade gifts, shared sweets, and soft confessions, love shows itself not in grand performances, but in steady hands and quiet devotion.

Pairing: Myth Wakko x Reader

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Slice of Life, Light Domestic and Character-Driven

Tropes: Gift Giving and Quality Time as Love Language, The Quiet One Loves Deepest, Handmade Gift, Hidden Romantic, “The Tough One Is Soft for You”, Protective but Gentle, Soft Workshop Date and Found Family Chaos in the Background

Rating: T (Teen)

Myth! Wakko Warner belongs to: shishiminty !!

Valentine’s Day was loud everywhere else.

Red ribbons tied to stair railings. Heart-shaped balloons hovering too close to ceiling fans. Yakko singing something dramatic and off-key about “romantic taxation without representation” somewhere in the distance. Dot had commandeered the living room with pink streamers and glitter that would absolutely never come out of the carpet.

But down the far hallway, behind a door reinforced with three different locks and a handwritten sign that read KNOCK OR FACE CONSEQUENCES, it was quiet.

Warm.

Safe.

The air inside Wakko’s workshop was thick with the smell of machine oil, metal shavings, toasted sugar, and something faintly sweet underneath it all — soap and warmth and him. A desk lamp cast a golden circle of light over a cluttered workbench. Gears, springs, scraps of copper wiring, tiny screws sorted into glass jars, a half-assembled device that looked both fascinating and mildly concerning.

And there he was.

Goggles resting on his head, brown leather vest snug over a loose blue shirt, sleeves rolled to expose his forearms. His gloves were off, tucked into his belt. A smudge of grease marked his cheek. His ears twitched slightly as he tightened a bolt with careful precision, tongue peeking out in concentration.

You leaned against the doorway for a moment, just watching.

He looked intimidating to people who didn’t know him — tall, broad-shouldered, boots heavy enough to dent flooring if he walked too hard. The kind of presence that made strangers hesitate.

But you knew better.

You knocked gently against the frame.

He didn’t startle. He always knew when you were there.

Without looking up, he nudged a spare chair toward you with his foot.

Silent invitation.

You smiled and stepped inside, closing the door behind you. The faint chaos of the house outside faded into a muffled blur.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” you said softly.

He made a small acknowledging hum in his throat — warm, low — still focused on tightening the last screw. Only when he was satisfied did he set the tool down carefully and wipe his hands on a rag.

Then he looked at you.

And his expression changed.

The seriousness melted into something softer — eyes half-lidded, ears angling toward you, tail giving one slow, lazy sway against the floor.

He tilted his head slightly.

You crossed the room and sat in the chair he’d pushed out. “You hiding from the chaos?”

He snorted faintly, leaning back against the workbench.

Fair.

From somewhere down the hall, something exploded.

Neither of you reacted.

You glanced at the half-built contraption on his table. “Should I be concerned?”

He followed your gaze and shrugged.

That was not reassuring.

But he reached forward and gently rotated the device away from you, as if to say don’t worry — this one’s safe.

That small action made your chest warm.

He always did that. Little, protective gestures without making a big show of it.

“You didn’t go out,” you said. “No dramatic Valentine’s stunt? No scavenger hunt? No sugar heist?”

His eyes flickered with amusement.

He stepped closer to you instead.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, even through layers of fabric.

Then he reached into his vest pocket.

Your brow lifted.

From inside, he pulled out something small wrapped in a square of cloth.

You watched carefully as he unfolded it.

A necklace.

Not store-bought. Not polished to perfection.

Handmade.

The chain was simple but sturdy. The charm at the center was crafted from metal — a miniature wrench, its handle curved subtly inward into the shape of a heart. The edges had been sanded smooth, filed with care. Tiny engraved lines along the sides suggested he’d spent hours detailing it.

You didn’t speak at first.

He held it in his palm, not quite looking at you.

There was a faint scratch near the curve where the metal had slipped once — a flaw only noticeable if you searched for it.

Proof it wasn’t mass-produced.

Proof it was his.

“You made this,” you whispered.

He nodded once.

“When?”

He shrugged.

That shrug meant late nights. Measured cuts. Burned fingertips. Testing balance so it wouldn’t sit crooked. Probably scrapping the first attempt because it “wasn’t good enough.”

Your throat tightened slightly.

“It’s beautiful.”

His ears flicked.

You stood slowly and stepped closer. “Will you put it on me?”

He froze for a fraction of a second — just enough for you to notice the nervous flicker in his eyes — before stepping behind you.

His fingers were careful as he lifted your hair out of the way. His knuckles brushed lightly against the back of your neck, sending a quiet shiver down your spine.

He fastened the clasp with steady hands.

When his fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary, you reached back and gently laced yours with his.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

He squeezed your hand once.

Then, because he couldn’t let the moment get too overwhelmingly tender without balancing it out, he stepped around you and reached into another pocket.

This time, he pulled out a wrapped pastry.

Slightly squished.

Still warm.

You stared at him.

“Did you rob a bakery?”

He gave you a look.

Shared resources.

You laughed under your breath and took it from him. The sugar dusted your fingers as you broke it in half. You offered him the larger piece.

He hesitated.

You raised a brow.

He accepted it.

You both took a bite at the same time.

Ridiculously sweet.

You watched him chew, and sure enough, a spark lit behind his eyes — that familiar sugar rush threatening to bloom.

You pointed at him. “Don’t.”

He swallowed and gave you the most innocent expression he could manage.

You narrowed your eyes.

He leaned in and bumped his forehead lightly against yours.

Distraction tactic.

It worked.

You sighed softly and leaned into him, resting your hands against his vest. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through the fabric.

“You know,” you said quietly, “you don’t have to make me things every time.”

He stiffened slightly at that.

You felt it.

So you corrected gently, “I love that you do. I just… I’d still love you if you didn’t.”

His tail stilled.

He pulled back just enough to look at you properly — really look at you — like he was measuring the sincerity in your eyes.

You lifted a hand and brushed your thumb over the grease smudge on his cheek.

“You don’t have to earn it.”

Something in his expression softened in a way that made your chest ache.

He leaned down slowly.

Not rushed.

Not impulsive.

Careful.

His forehead touched yours first, grounding himself there. His nose brushed lightly against yours. His breath was warm, faintly sweet from the pastry.

Then he kissed you.

Soft.

Steady.

Intentional.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t theatrical like Yakko would make it. It wasn’t flashy.

It was warm and real and slow enough that you felt every second of it.

When he pulled back, he didn’t go far.

His gloved hands — when had he put them back on? — slid gently around your waist. His tail curled loosely around your leg, grounding you both.

From the hallway, Dot shouted something unintelligible followed by another crash.

You both ignored it.

Wakko turned slightly and reached behind him, flipping a small hidden switch beneath his workbench.

There was a quiet mechanical whirr.

You blinked as part of the wall shifted.

A hidden compartment slid open.

Inside was a small, carefully arranged space — not much bigger than a closet, but transformed. A round metal table polished to a shine. Two mismatched chairs. A small lamp casting soft golden light. A plate arranged with strawberries, chocolates, and neatly sliced pastries. Two cups already poured with something warm.

You stared at him slowly.

“…You built a Valentine’s dinner nook.”

He lifted one shoulder.

Of course he did.

He stepped forward and pulled out your chair.

You sat, still staring at him in disbelief.

“You planned this.”

He took his seat across from you.

He didn’t deny it.

As you reached for a strawberry, you noticed the tiny details — the way he’d carved small hearts into the wooden stems of the utensils. The faint scorch mark on one edge of the table where he’d probably welded something too close. The cups warmed to the perfect temperature.

“You thought of everything.”

He shrugged again, but there was no hiding the pride in his eyes.

Halfway through the meal, you caught him watching you.

Not casually.

Attentively.

Like he was memorizing you.

“What?” you asked softly.

He tilted his head, then reached across the table and took your hand in his.

His thumb traced slow, steady circles over your knuckles.

He didn’t fill the silence.

He didn’t need to.

You started talking — about your week, about something funny that happened, about a small frustration you hadn’t voiced out loud yet.

He listened.

Even when his eyes flickered briefly toward a noise in the workshop, they came back to you.

He nodded in the right places. Squeezed your hand when your voice dipped. Reached over to brush your hair back when it fell into your face.

The Fixer.

He didn’t just fix machines.

He fixed moods. Fixed tension. Fixed the quiet cracks you didn’t always show.

At one point, you sighed softly — not even realizing you had.

His ears perked immediately.

He stood, walked around the table, and gently pulled your chair closer to his.

You didn’t protest.

He sat, and you shifted naturally into his side, resting your head against his chest.

His arm wrapped around you without hesitation.

Protective.

Warm.

He rested his chin lightly on top of your head.

The steady rhythm of his breathing slowed yours to match.

Outside, the world was still loud.

Inside, it was just him.

Just you.

Just warmth and sugar and the faint scent of oil and leather and something safe.

After a while, you felt him press a soft kiss to your hair.

Then another.

Not showy.

Just there.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” you whispered.

He tightened his arm slightly in response.

And when someone knocked loudly on the workshop door, calling his name urgently about something definitely on fire, he didn’t move right away.

He let himself have one more quiet minute.

One more steady breath with you in his arms.

Then he sighed softly, kissed your temple, and stood — offering his hand to you.

Because even if the world exploded outside his door…

He’d always come back.

After all —

He was the Fixer.

And you?

You were the one thing he never wanted to repair — because with you, nothing felt broken in the first place.

Author's note: I love the warner siblings in Myth Of The Machine so much, I want to keep writing and posting fics of the 3 of them here.

I've been noticing how much the people love Wakko, so this can also a gift for them.

I hope you guys enjoyed it <3

[plusultra4270]

late nights and heartbreak

[justalocalperson]

more doodles of ed edd n eddy!!! all the characters are here now :")

[e-chan049]

[battymaniaco]

Hi

Loviu cupbros

[dumgum06]

A quick collection of sketch commissions I’ve gotten from @mysticbeaver !! They’ve been my most loyal client and I’m SO HAPPY I’ve gotten to draw these lil blorbos 🩷💜💙

[diced-rice]

[creativeblackhole69]

I’m cringe but freee

Had a thought

[nortsauce]

MOTM Mickey meeting his quest for the ink machine version: https://youtu.be/sKCfhrSyjLg?si=Zv_vAObi87jgCFvp

I’m allowed to make this joke right

[nortsauce]

I need data on Mickey and Toodles (mostly Toodles-)

Putting that aside, you can skip this answer if you like, uh, how do the stars get along? Do they know about the C-bros?

Here’s their relationship charts! They all have very complicated relationships. One toon’s friend is another toon’s enemy, and some have very one-sided views on friendships. (i’ll try and reblog with how toodles feels abt everyone bc i couldn’t fit her lol)

Anyways the Cup bros, or “The Collectors” *dramatic lighting strike* have been a hot topic for a few years. They haven’t been caught due to several complicated factors that I can’t spoil. Pomni is new so she’s getting briefed on everything surrounding that.

Regardless, they aren’t very well liked

[nortsauce]

4got toodles LOL