Mar 2
pOp!
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pOp!
MALEVOLENT RAPUNZEL AU ART COLLAB WITH @mx-paisley !!!!
Arthur, sweating and climbing up the tower to rizz up John, John HELP HIM and let down your SHINY GOLDEN FLUFFY HAIR???
I cant stop giggling
Details under the cut!
Tell me why Dan has been acting like we have a gun to his head and we’re making him confess that he loves his man and his man won him a plushie that he’s been carrying around for 15 years. Like. Brother you put up this soap box yourself you brought the megaphone we just happened to be in this damn park
I Promised And I Shall Deliver
(Turn on sound it's really satisfying)
He got a little crumpled after that...
Dw he's fine now 🙂👍 if you ignore the mental trauma
as discussed....@stagborne
“I’ve been having these peculiar dreams..”
Hannibal had first started his conversation with his psychiatrist in this form. He described being at a crime scene, seeing the victims and the yellow closed-off police tape. Naturally, one would assume it would be his own killings, though he had not picked up the hunt for well over two months now. These were not his own. More disturbing still, these exact tableaux would appear on the evening news days later, details matching his dreams with uncanny exactness, as if he’d stood beside the investigators cataloging each wound and blood spatter.
Why did these dreams pierce his consciousness with such clarity? And who was this Will Graham, whose name whispered through his subconscious like a half-remembered melody? He’d gleaned the man’s identity through dream fragments; colleagues addressing him at crime scenes, discussing his unique perspectives. The latest victim in these visions lacked the refined aesthetics Hannibal himself was known for; crude work that begged for correction through his own elegant composition.
It would be something to focus his mind on instead of the flashes of another that kept getting stronger as the weeks progressed. Hannibal drove his sleek Bentley to one of his lesser-known properties, exchanging it for an inconspicuous sedan. He affixed false plates with gloved hands and packed a leather duffel with selected disguises: wigs of human hair, colored contacts, prosthetic features crafted by his own hand. Engraved invitations to his upcoming dinner party already rested in the mailboxes of Baltimore’s elite. The centerpiece recipe remained undecided; first, he needed to select the perfect specimen to provide the essential ingredient.
Minato snaps sideways just in time - icicle hissing past his ear to thunk into the drift behind him like a thrown kunai.
He turns slowly. Very slowly. Like he’s considering the tactical implications of her entire existence.
His eyes narrow. His voice drops into that calm, deadly-serious register that makes people forget he’s still a genin.
“…Do you want war?”
A beat. Snow sifts off the pine branches above them, as if the world itself is listening.
Minato lifts one mittened hand and points - right at her - like he’s issuing an official summons.
“Because if you’re escalating from snowball to projectile ice weaponry, I need you to state that clearly. For the record.”
He takes one careful step back, heel testing the snow’s crust, mapping angles and cover like it’s a battlefield instead of the backyard.
“I’m willing to negotiate,” he adds, solemn as a treaty. “But if you’ve chosen violence…”
His other hand dips, scooping snow with quiet precision - packing it tight, shaping it smooth.
“…then I’m going to respond proportionately.”
He holds up the finished snowball. Perfect sphere. Offensively aerodynamic.
And then, still staring her down with that ridiculous seriousness:
“Last chance, Tsunade ane.”
She snorts, loud and entirely unimpressed.
“War?” Tsunade tilts her head, considering him like a poorly trained puppy with a live explosive. “Flake… if I wanted war, you wouldn’t still be standing there delivering a treaty with mittens on.”
She drops into a crouch, hands already moving—compress, turn, reinforce—snow packed so tight it squeaks in protest. Medical precision. Malicious intent.
“You want to escalate, Namikaze?” A grin splits her face, sharp and feral. “Because I invented escalation.”
She straightens, rolling the snowball once in her palm like she’s weighing a patient’s odds.
“Have you forgotten the Sannin Snowball Incident of your chūnin days?” Her eyes gleam. “The one that required ice packs, pride reconstruction, and an official village-wide ‘never speak of this again’?”
She draws her arm back.
“Ruthless. Brutal. No one spared.”
A beat. Then, almost fondly—
“And don’t flatter yourself, gremlin. If this were war…” Her smile turns sweet. Dangerous.
“…you’d already be losing.”
aphrodite, goddess of love, in two different dresses because both colors (all colors) look great on her
@awesome-shoes-with-wings, you're up