#how to create a gif in canva | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

highdramas · 2 months ago

Text

a guard dog with a death wish | jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!widow!reader warnings: EXTREME ANGST. like seriously. reader is very distraught. death of a partner, mention of suicidal ideation, language, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), there will be an eventual happy ending <3 word count: 2.6k summary: at a grief support group that you never wanted to attend in the first place, jack abbot finds you, and pulls you up by your-- admittedly-- quite sad and pathetic boot straps. notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with any of my work or this fic. yay i've finally posted a new fic!!! this is the first part of a new series! yay! not a ton of jack x reader in this part, but it lays the ground work for what is to come <3 i sincerely hope you all enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it <3 parts that are to follow may be non-linear on reader's healing journey, but i haven't gotten that far yet so we'll just have to see hehe

the thing that no one thought to warn you about grief is that, a year may pass since the worst moment of your entire life, and you’ll still pat yourself on the back when you get yourself to swallow a bowl of fruity pebbles. the thing they didn’t think to tell you is that two hours of sleep will seem like a miracle– bonus points if the two hours are continuous. the thing that they should put in the pamphlet is that your world is going to end, but everyone else is going to, somehow, miraculously, be so much more put together than you.

you ascertained that you were not doing this whole grief thing right six months ago. when the looks that you received stopped being empathetic, and began to be outright concern. when the texts were more frantic. when it was easier to disconnect from all of it– friends, family, loved ones. how could you explain this feeling to them?

how could you explain that your heart was living somewhere else, outside of your body, so far out of your grasp? how could you explain that every night a future that was never yours, could never be yours, played on a loop in your brain until you were reduced to hot, angry tears? how could you explain any of this to someone and have them understand it, understand you?

it’s not like you thought you were the only person in the world who was grieving tucker. it felt like the whole world was grieving him– that was the type of person he was. but he was your person, first and foremost. he was the person who you sat on the couch with and watched survivor every wednesday night. he was the person who always put the groceries away. he was the person that you lived your mundane little life with– it wasn’t perfect. you didn’t need it to be perfect. that fact that you shared it with him was all that you needed.

it was tucker’s mom who sent you the information for the grief support group. there was a pang of emotion when you saw the text– you hadn’t even seen her since the funeral. you knew, deep down, that she understood. but it didn’t make your feelings of frustration with yourself dissipate.

she could get herself together, and she gave birth to tucker. you were falling apart while she held herself together. it was embarrassing.

the invitation, most likely created on canva, was sent to you in a well-meaning text alongside the words, he loved you more than anyone, or anything. he wouldn’t want you to live like this. if you won’t talk to anyone you know, talk to someone you don’t.

the words, as tough-loved as they were designed to be, didn’t bring you any comfort or resolve for making yourself better. that may be what tucker would’ve wanted– but he died, and you were left behind without the one person who made you feel like you were coming up for air.

tucker sunday was a good man. he was a good man who had loved you entirely and completely and with no reservations, from the moment the two of you met in the first grade. you were new to school, having been relocated to the pittsburgh suburbs from boston. everything felt different and scary– you sat alone on the playground with your hands in your lap, looking from left to right, right to left, hoping that someone might come up to you.

and then there was tucker. gap-toothed and freckled and with a pair of glasses perched on his tiny nose. he plopped beside you with a copy of the lord of the rings in his hand– advanced for a first grader, but that was just how tucker was.

he sat down beside you that sunny day on the playground and he never left.

that was the thing that you think people don’t understand. tucker had been your world, every day– and not in a codependent way. you each had your own, full lives. your own friends and your own families that knew just the right way to blend and merge. you were a librarian at a high school. he was a teacher at an elementary school. you couldn’t carry a tune or play an instrument to save your life. he was the best at the guitar. you loved to bake. he loved to cook.

you balanced one another. and now, the scales have tipped so fast, in such a fervent freefall… how do you climb such a steep mountain back to where you were? when you don’t have someone keeping you even?

you look at the looming building from your place where the bus dropped you off. your hands tremble as you make sure that you have the correct address– you do, of course, because despite your grief, you are still meticulously type a, somewhere inside of yourself.

“my little planner.”

his voice rattles in your head and you have to physically shake your shoulders before you walk through the doors and down the hall, turning left into a room with probably fifteen chairs in a circle. only six are occupied.

a woman turns her head to you and smiles brightly, too brightly for a room filled with such, presumably, weary souls. “hi there,” she gestures towards the empty chairs. “come on in. have a seat.”

your fingers grip your bag tighter, eyes popping from each individual to the next. there’s two people huddled together– sisters, you think. an older gentleman with kind eyes and a long beard who is wearing a veteran hat. a woman in her mid-fifties, if you had to guess, with legs crossed and peering at her phone down the bridge of her nose.

none of them glance up at you, but one.

he’s sitting in the chair facing directly to the door, alert. his eyes don’t leave you for even one singular second as you pad into the room, half wounded animal, half woman. his arms are crossed over his chest and his legs are slightly spread and there’s a camo backpack leaned against his leg. you have to question if you have something on your face or if he just has a staring problem. you decide it must be the latter.

you don’t glare at him in return, but you don’t not glare at him, either. you take tentative step after tentative step until you take a seat one away from him, fixing your hands into your lap and casting your eyes down to them. you look left to right, right to left. you fiddle shakily with the ring that weighs heavy on your left hand. you twirl it and twirl it and twirl it until your skin feels irritated.

introductions begin to happen, but you don’t quite hear them. you’re still staring down at that ring and everything surges at you suddenly, a tidal wave of anguish that takes you by the ankle and drags you under. you don’t realize you’re crying until it’s your turn to introduce yourself and you’re faced with the tell-tale signs of an emotion that you always seem to see, these days.

pity. pity from the sisters, who you presume is the facilitator of the group, and from the two older attendees. pity from all five of them.

your eyes dart over to the man who couldn’t quit looking at you when you entered. you’re momentarily jarred because he’s not looking at you with pity. he looks intense, yes, but not sad for you. you open and close your mouth and for a second, you think it must be because things are going blurry through your tears– but he gives you a small nod of his head.

your mouth falls open again, still hesitant, and he nods again.

heart tumbling over itself, you rub your hands on your pants and share your name. “i’m sorry, what else am i supposed to answer?” you ask, looking to the facilitator. natasha, her nametag reads to you.

“anything that feels right.”

you’re almost certain there were structured questions, but you feel a distant thankfulness for her flexibility. “um…” you wipe away stray tears. “i lost tucker.” you look back down at your lap. “and–” you’re cut off by a box of tissues being placed on the seat beside you. it’s the man with the staring problem, again. your silent encourager. you take one of the tissues and dab at your eyes. you’re not a delicate crier, but you’d like to pretend you are. “tucker was my husband. and–” your vision is gone again, swept away by salt and the smudging of the mascara you put on yesterday when you tried to fool yourself into thinking you were someone who wore mascara and wore cute outfits and took care of herself. “and i lost him almost a year ago. in a car accident. and– and i’m not doing well.” you laugh a little bit, but there’s nothing funny. not even a little bit. “if you couldn’t tell.”

you manage a crackling inhale before you continue on. “and his mom– god, i love her, she sent me the flyer for this. and i don’t want to be here,” you admit, laughing again. “i don’t want to be anywhere. i want to be where he is. still. and no one seems to understand that. i don’t mean it in a scary, i’m going to hurt myself way. i mean it… i mean it in a, i don’t know what’s left of me without him, way.” you blink and look around the circle. “does that make sense?”

every single person nods their head, and for a moment, you feel comforted. the man with the intense eyes nods with a fervor and you’re drawn to meet his gaze, as sad as you think you must look. the corner of his mouth turns up at you.

“anyway,” you sigh, exhausted from the onslaught of emotional upheaval you’ve just experienced. “that’s me.”

the only person left is him. he clears his throat and says, “man. how do i follow that up?”

it should offend you. but there’s a level of light in his eyes that you hope one day you could achieve again, and it makes you laugh and shake your head and look down at your hands while he speaks.

“my name is jack abbot. my wife, annie, died in 2016. i’ve been coming here every week since 2017.”

the rest of the meeting keeps you quiet. you take a handful of tissues and make your best attempt at cleaning up what you imagine is a true sight on your face. the rest of the meeting passes with very little fanfare– everyone shares, and you half-listen, and you can’t muster up the guilt to feel for being so disinterested in everyone else’s grief. you’d accepted, long ago, that your mourning had made you self centered. where once upon a time, you would be mortified at the thought of anyone thinking you to be selfish– you can’t find it within yourself to care, not anymore. you are selfish. you are self centered. grief had made you someone you didn’t recognize.

by the time natasha dismisses everyone, you all but run out to the street. you suck in a deep breath and you sink into a crouching position, covering your mouth with your hand. heavy boot-clad feet come into your line of sight. when you trail your eyes up, you’re met with that storm cloud gaze. jack.

he doesn’t say a word. but he scoops up your tote bag and he slings it over one shoulder, turns heel, and walks off.

your brows furrow, and you have to decide if it’s worth the effort– but ultimately, you stand, the wind stinging your tear-streaked cheeks. “hey,” you call. “that’s my bag.”

he doesn’t turn around. he keeps a steady, casual pace. not running, but not waiting for you to catch up with him, either. “hey!” you call, growing more frustrated. “what, do you just steal bags for a living?”

jack takes a look at you over his shoulder. “yeah, something like that.”

you pick up your speed so that you can fall into step with him. “what the hell are you doing?”

“i’m going to take you to go eat something. because, no offense, you don’t look great.” he looks you up and down while he continues to walk. “when’s the last time that you ate something with some substance? protein, have you ever heard of it?”

your silence is his answer and he grips the totebag a little tighter. “figured you’d say no if i asked. so…”

“so you stole my bag.”

“not stolen,” he says with a disarming smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “i’m gonna give it back. don’t worry.”

“but…” you try and rack your brain for some excuse.

there wasn’t all too much for you to cite. your work hours had been reduced way back in the weeks after tucker passed. you still worked enough to get by, but not so much that you were drowning in work on top of drowning in your own pain. your friends and family were constantly making attempts to make plans with you, but you were diligent in your efforts to firmly stick out an arm and keep them at that length. easier this way, you told yourself. easier for them to be far far away where they cannot see just how damaged you have become. their worry is the last thing that you want, or need.

coming up empty, jack’s smirk spreads on his face. “yeah, that’s what i thought.”

–

jack’s eyes are like a blanket on you while you push around the eggs on your plate, take a tentative bite of your toast. your stomach is still in knots, as it always is, so ultimately, you set down your fork, your toast, and push your plate away. you turn your gaze to look out the window. your body is there, in that diner, but your mind is far away when jack’s voice brings you back.

“so. husband.”

your eyes snap over to his before they slide back to the window. “yeah.”

“i know a little something about that.”

your brows furrow and your eyes narrow and you lean in towards him. “you don’t know shit about me, or about what i’m going through.” you huff out a disbelieving laugh. “bold of you to think you do. seriously, wow.”

“no, i know. i know this song and dance. i lived it.” he gestures towards you, and then towards himself, and his look is still not pitying. if anything, he seems more annoyed. “it’s addicting, isn’t it? feeling like shit?”

your mouth drops open and you stare at him, trying to muster the words, but they don’t come. he continues talking. “i bet everyone is coddling you. keeping a safe distance from you, lest you snap. not wanting to push you too hard. right? they’re treating you like something breakable. well, you know what i think?”

“you don’t know a god damn–”

“i think that you need someone who’s going to hold you accountable.”

“accountable?” you reel backwards.

“yeah. accountable. accountable of taking care of yourself. accountable of eating. accountable of dragging yourself out of this hole that you’re in. and i don’t think that anyone is stepping up and doing it.”

you grow silent. it’s not that they’re not stepping up– you’re not letting them. maybe jack knows that, too, since he seems to be able to read you like a well-loved and memorized book.

he folds his hands, one on top of the other, staring at you. “and i’m gonna be that person.”

scoffing, you cross your arms over your chest. everything about your body language screams defensive. “why?” you finally ask. you raise your eyebrows up at him.

he shrugs his shoulders. “what can i say,” he stabs his fork into the eggs on your plate, taking a big bite. “i like strays.”

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #jack abbot imagine #jack abbott imagine #jack abbot #jack abbott #the pitt fanfic #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt #dr abbot x reader #my writing #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x y/n #a guard dog with a death wish

824 notes · View notes

pearlieprincess · 4 months ago

Note

HIIIIIII!!!! sorry if this is like a stupid ask lol, but could you do a stamp tutorial? your stamps are always so high quality oml, how do you resize your gifs and images???

HIIII and no worries, I can totally make a stamp tutorial! (⌒▽⌒)

I’ll be going through on how to make a normal image stamp and then a gif stamp. By following these two tutorials, you’ll be able to make stamps just like these!

PROGRAM USED ★ Ibispaint

STAMP TEMPLATE BY ★ AHMED-ART on Deviantart.

To start off, you must find an image you’d like to make into a stamp. Then, find a stamp template you think would pair well with your image. There are many different types of stamp templates out there and you can find a lot of them on Deviantart.

Make sure to read the terms of use for the template before using though! Here is the template I will be using for this tutorial.

Making stagnant stamps is easy once you got the steps down. You can use any art program and follow a similar process, but I only use Ibispaint to create mine.

First, create a canvas that is the same width and height as your stamp template. This one is 97x57. Most stamp templates have super similar proportions. If you are unsure of your stamps dimensions, you can create a 100x100 canvas then crop it around the stamp template once you have inserted it.

(Brush icon -> Canvas button -> Trim)

To get higher quality on the image inside your stamps: the closer the better! For example:

See how the first stamp’s image is rather far away? This makes the quality appear much lower. However, once you zoom in, it becomes higher! So I recommend finding images to create stamps out of that you are able to zoom in on so the quality can pop.

You’ll need to erase the parts of the image that don’t fit inside the stamp so it remains transparent around the border.

If you want to change the border color of the stamp, fill in the canvas with the color you want. Then, clip it to the stamp border. Lastly, go and set it on multiply. This will change the stamp borders color!

If you want to put a line texture on your stamp, you can utilize the ruler tool in Ibispaint to draw lines over your stamp.

I’ll add these every once and awhile to my stamps for fun. If you set the opacity of the lines to 10%, it’ll end up looking something like this.

And that’s the completed stamp!

Changing the border color and adding the line texture is completely optional, though it’s always fun to customize stamps!

PROGRAMS USED: Ibispaint, Ezgif

GIF stamps are a little trickier, but the process is not too difficult once you got it down!

First, find a gif that you would like to make into a stamp. I’ll be using this one!

if you want to have a different colored or customized stamp border, you must edit it on Ibispaint before like explained above.

You can combine the layers and save them transparently so it’ll end up looking something like this.

I made this one blue and added a gradient to it to match the gif I want to make into a stamp! You can add a gradient to the border by adding a darker color onto the multiply layer then using an airbrush to blend both colors together in the middle on both sides of the template.

Now, open up Ezgif and click the tab called Crop. Then, insert your stamp template there. The way I find the dimensions of the inside of the stamp is by cropping my way around the inside of the template.

The dimensions inside this template in particular are 91x51. This is what we will resize our gif to! Before we can do that, click the crop tab again at the top of the page to refresh it and then insert your gif. This isn’t required to do, but I like to crop my gifs a bit so they focus more on what is going on inside my stamp. Like I said before, the closer the better, as it will make the quality higher!

Now that we have our cropped gif, click the tab called resize at the bottom of the page. The dimensions of the inside of this stamp are 91x51, so insert those numbers in the width and height boxes to then resize the gif.

Next step is to click the overlay tab at the bottom. You will need to click the button that says “extend canvas size” so we have room to overlay the stamp template on top of the gif. After extending the size, upload the stamp template as an overlay where it says choose file.

On computer, after clicking upload image, you can just drag the stamp template over the gif and situate it. However, you can also figure out the number coordinations to fix the template ontop of the gif by messing around with it a bit. I make my graphics on my phone so I use the numbers instead of dragging.

Left means to move the template left or right depending on the numbers you insert. Top moves the template up or down. The left for this template is 42 and the top is 21. It takes a bit of messing around to find the exact numbers.

Now that the template is ontop of the gif, all that is left to do is to crop the space around it. Click the crop tab again at the bottom of the page and then click where it says “trim transparent pixels around the image.” This will easily crop the extra space around the stamp.

Click download to save your gif and that’s it! Here is the finished product!

The whole process for making gif stamps is always the same, the only things that can vary or change are the dimensions of the gif (so it can fit inside different templates) and the left/right.

I hope you find this tutorial helpful and if anyone needs anything else explained, let me know. These stamps are free to use if anyone would also like to use them.

Happy stamp making everyone! 🩷

Dividers (c) @coco-coquette

#tutorial #web graphics #graphics #webcore #old web #rentry #stamps #web decor #gif stamps #alien stage #alien stage till #strawpage #spacehey #ᯓ ᡣ𐭩🐚asks

1K notes · View notes

tac-the-unseen · 1 year ago

Note

Could you write slashers with a s/o who’s an artist? You can do with all/any you want but I would specifically like maybe the Sinclairs, Billy Lenz, Brahms and maybe Pinhead?

Slashers x Artist Reader + Pinhead

Micheal Myers:

•Pretends not to care, but he's an artist at heart

•If you sculpt or blind things he will insist on watching you over your shoulders

•Will steal supplies for you whether you ask or not

•if you Draw or paint, it's going on the fridge or wall

•He truly admires your work

Billy loomis & Stu macher:

•Billy and Stu really just lets you do your thing

•Stu suggest glitter no matter the work or meaning

•Billy Suggests You make a lot of gore pieces

•Both of them will go the extra mile to kill models for you, so you have a subject

•Both Jokingly propose to model nude for you

Thomas Hewitt:

•Loves it when you proudly show him your art

•if you draw/paint on paper, He'll build custom frames So he can hang it up

•If you paint on a canvas, He'll make you canvases so you can make more art

•If you sculpt/Make pottery He'll make a display case for your work

•He's very proudly flaunts it to the family

Bubba Sawyer:

•Shows you his Bone art

•Wants to make art with you

•No matter what you do, He wants to join

•Will be as happy as can be if you make crafts with him or use his supply of bones in your art

Bo Sinclair:

•His Brain immediately connects you to Vincent

•He subconsciously starts treating you like his brother, no matter your relationship with him

•When he goes to other town he grabs you and his brother some supplies

•kinda just plops you down with Vincent and expects you to to get along, especially if you sculpt

•That's about as nice as he can get

Vincent Sinclair:

•He's excited to have somebody who understands

•Will silently sit next to you well both of you work on your craft

•Feels oddly comforting to him

•His family has always been connected by art, even though they're not great people. So having you make art with him solidifies your position as family to him

•shows you his technique with wax working, and wants to teach you how to sculpt with wax

Lester Sinclair:

•pt. 3 of familial bond

•because he didn't receive much attention as a kid, He desperately tried to be an artist to gain favor of his mother

•It didn't click with him the way it clicked with Vincent so he was shoved aside for “real artists”

•If you sit down and make art with him, he will cry

•constantly seeking your validation and praise

•holds your art very dear

Billy Lenz:

•Yet another creature looking over your shoulder

•He's fascinated by your ability to create

•You have hands And he has hands, yet your creations are always different than his

•He's a little jealous

•demands you teach him how to be better

•If you already don't know he'll show you how to crochet in return

Brahms Heelshire:

•In All his time locked away He has had plenty to make art

•He focus on the more classical sides of painting and traditional drawing

•He makes stunning portraits, So if you have a different art style it confuses him

•He's lived his life very sheltered so at first he might not even consider it art

•He later learns how much time and care you put into these works and starts to appreciate your dedication

•He also steals some of them to put up in his room

Hannibal Lecter:

•Very excited

•Starts showing off his own private art collection

•Takes it upon himself to teach you “proper technique”

•Gives you random history lessons on your choice of art form

•buys you very expensive supplies

Will Graham:

•Okay dude

•Doesn’t really care

•Just happy that you're happy

•Secretly admires your work when you are away

•Always make sure your work is safe and undamaged

The Lost Boys:

•Marko is immediately grinning ear to ear

•David pretends not to care

•Dwayne silently watches you

•Paul is all up in your personal space while you work

•No matter what you make or how proud of it you are, It's going in the horde pile with all their other treasures

•Paul and Marko asking you to draw them all the time

•If you do it's being hung up on the wall

Pinhead:

•Another artist in his own way

•He prefers body modification and rigging as his art form

•Will creepy watch you work from a distance

•He’ll give you polite criticism from time to time

•Seeing you so focused and dedicated makes him think of all the other past artists he's met

•Decides fairly quickly that you are his favorite

Thanks for reading <3

2K notes · View notes

earlgreylatte · 3 months ago

Text

Loverboy

(Kyle Rayner, Peter Parker, Johnny Storm x Reader) When they’re really into you.

Kyle Rayner:

It was clear to anyone that Kyle was particularly indulgent to your whims, lenient and giving in a way that was reserved only for you. From creating constructs of flowers, animals, and beloved characters to see your face soften with joy to drawing mpreg fanart of whoever wronged you (usually Batman) to ease the scowl on your face.

There’s a certain gentleness in his touch, as if unsure if you’re real, if you’re permanent. So when you find yourself nude and lying on your stomach as Kyle applied barrier spray to your back, humming softly as music played from his chipped CD player, your breath could only hitch at the feeling of his hands moving across your skin with a firmness you’re not entirely used to.

“Still good? Not too cold?” He asks, hands rubbing at your side comfortingly.

“I’m fine, just hurry up, will you? If you can’t keep your hands to yourself, the longer this takes,” you complain with a huff, burying your face into the pillow Kyle placed for you.

You hear his laughter ring from above you, and you already know he has the same dopey smile he always gets whenever you mouth off to him.

He joins you on the bed, rolling his paint cart closer, his knees straddle either side of your bottom as he hovers above you, grabbing a paintbrush.

You flinch when you feel the wet paint spread across your skin before stiffening.

“Relax,” he mumbles, free hand moving to rub at your scalp.

“Focus,” you chide.

He sighs before continuing as you clench your fingers against the sheets.

“You need to stop squirming,” He says, pulling the brush away.

“You know I’m jumpy,” you reply, before shifting to turn back to look at him, “Why do you even want to do this? I’m going to wash it off, anyway.”

“That’s, uh,” he seems to fumble for a moment, tossing his brush back into a cup of water, “Artistic expression is…fleeting! And you, my muse, are the canvas——and you have a nice back…”

A beat of silence passes before he coughs, “You know, you’re usually pretty lax after I tire you out, so if you want to finish this quickly…”

“I knew it was a sex thing,” you say, as he shuffles back a bit more bracing an elbow next to your head, so he can nuzzle his face into your hair as a hand dips between your thighs. His chest brushes against your back, and you huff, knowing he was going to have to restart.

Even during moments of firmness, at least he was more than willing to make it worth your while.

Peter Parker:

The sheer depth of Peter’s brown eyes never fails to drown you, intense enough to have you freezing in your tracks. And right now, they had you hovering at the door frame of your shared room.

“You’re freaking me out with those hunter eyes, Pete,” you cross an arm over your chest, your brows furrowing. With how still he was, you’d have thought he was lining up a gun to a deer.

He jolts, snapping out of his reverie, before sheepishly coughing, “You look—— well, there’s a reason why Johnny says you’re out of my league.”

You fiddle with the blue hem of your sheer babydoll, “Ha. Ha. Such a charmer, you are.”

His eyes soften before he envelops your hand with his, “You really are beautiful, makes me want to keep you all to myself.”

“Okay, that’s enough of your mushy shit,” you deflect, but he only squeezes your hand with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, really, enough to make flowers bloom when you walk by—“

“Ah! I’m going to be sick, eugh!” You cry, pressing your hands to your ears, but he only laughs, hooking his arms under your knees and lifting.

You plant your hands on his shoulders, looking down at him with a scowl while he only smiles up at you, “Just beautiful.”

“Loser,” you scoff.

With four brisk steps, he reaches the bed and bends to gently deposit you onto the sheets, hands sliding up to caress your thighs before kissing you with a contented hum, lips moving against yours languidly.

“Peter,” you try to say between kisses before finally nestling your fingers into his hair and pulling him away, “We’re doing this for a reason, you know.”

He groans pitifully before pulling away to grab his camera from the closest, “As cold as ever…”

“This was your idea?”

It takes him another second before returning to your side to fix your hair and smooth out your gown. “Some things are easier said than done, clearly.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re used to toughing things out,” you grin, pushing him away, forcing him to move to stand at the edge of the bed, fingers moving around his camera, adjusting the settings before pressing it near his face.

“Definitely going to buy you more of these,” he decides.

“The perks of being a CEO after getting hijacked; buying lingerie,” you laugh, leaning back on your hands.

“Smile,” he teases.

You furrow your brows, shooting a petulant glare at the lens.

“Perfect,” you can see him bite his lip to resist grinning, and a flash goes off.

“Peter?”

“Yes, bug?”

“You have my permission to masturbate to these if I die.”

“…let’s stop talking for a while.”

Johnny Storm:

While the media loved to depict him as someone that lived in a world of flashing lights and gold, Johnny’s a romantic at heart, the type of guy that wants to settle down and dote on his own kids. So it’s no surprise to anyone that actually knows him, that Johnny’s kind of whipped.

A single glance is enough to deter him from his usual mischief, much to the continued amusement of his family.

He’s sweet on you, he always has been, according to Ben.

You weren’t entirely sure of that, knowing Johnny had a habit of diving in headfirst when it comes to love. You’d never doubt his sincerity, but his optimism was a different story.

But in a rare show of vulnerability, he was more than willing to show that the two of you were something he was willing to stake everything on.

Despite what others may think because of his easygoing disposition, you would never find a more devoted partner, with Johnny more than willing to shout his love for you from the rooftops for all to hear.

…Or just posting about you everyday, every innocuous pic having a caption alluding to you. Yes, that’s definitely less embarrassing and not as likely to have you face Sue’s exasperation.

Johnny’s soft at his core, warm and safe, like a fireplace to seek comfort from on a cold, winter day. That is more than apparent when he has you splayed on his bed, his hips stuttering against yours, as hitched breaths and gasps filled the room.

The only thing you can focus on is his warmth, from the heat of his fingertips gliding against your skin, to the elevated temperature of his length creating a sensation deep inside of you that has your mind going blank.

“Tell me I feel good,” he pants against your neck, a crack of insecurity in his tone, “T-tell me I’m good—“

Ludicrous that he could doubt himself when he had you feeling so much of him, having you only being to focus on how hot he is, and how good he feels—

“So good, you’re so good for me, Johnny,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, “you feel so, mm, good—“

“I love you, fuck, love you so much,” he near whimpers, pressing open mouthed kisses to your neck as you both come undone.

Yes, this was a side of Johnny only you were privy to.

“Down, boy!” “Arf!” is so Johnny coded…

Masterlist

#dc x reader #dc imagine #dc smut #marvel smut #green lantern x reader #kyle rayner x reader #marvel comics x reader #marvel x reader #marvel rivals x reader #peter parker x reader #spiderman x reader #johnny storm x reader #fem reader #afab reader

473 notes · View notes

astrotruther · 3 months ago

Text

Astro Observations

of personal, real-life relationships

𓆩♡𓆪 Venus Square Mars / Venus Opposite Mars ≠ Instant Chemistry

These aspects are not the fiery, passionate indicators they’re often portrayed as. In real-life couples (I've noticed these aspects in arranged marriages), they bring challenges. The "challenge" is often physical: different sexual preferences, lack of satisfaction, or difficulty creating a spark. ♡ These people often have to learn to be attracted to each other. It’s not instant — it's intentional.

𓆩✦𓆪 Moon-Pluto / Venus-Pluto ≠ First-Time Magnetic Pull

These aren't active during the initial attraction phase. They kick in after a relationship begins, and how they show up depends on the rest of the chart. If the chart lacks loving, passionate and attraction-based aspects (especially in composite), Pluto energy can turn obsessive but not sexy.

✦ It’s not the "argue then make out" kind of vibe — it's more like arguing, annoyance, and eventually the realization that the connection isn't what you hoped it would be.

𓆩☹︎𓆪 Sextiles = go girl give us nothing

Soft aspects like Mars sextile Pluto or Lilith sextile Pluto don’t bring chemistry in the way some think. Their effect is minimal and subtle to the point of being barely noticeable in real life. ☹︎ They're like background music: might support the vibe a little bit, but definitely not what creates it.

♡ Venus–Lilith Aspects → aesthetic resonance, non-existent love

Soft Aspects (trine, sextile) ➤ You look good together. You feel good together. But... it’s not love.

Hard Aspects (square, opposition, conjunction) ➤ It isn’t a relationship. It's an endless game of who’s more unbothered.

🎭 In synastry, Neptune issues can be worked through. For instance, Venus square Neptune must be reality-checked in order to avoid over-romanticizing (Venus romanticizes Neptune). Moon square Neptune - Moon must not treat Neptune like a blank canvas for over-idealization; Neptune isn't special. If left unchecked, this relationship will dissolve slowly while you’re still in it.

On the flip side, Neptune aspects in Composite Chart is where it gets brutal (Especially if Neptune is dominant).

Mars–Neptune = sexual confusion, off-timing, lack of direction Juno–Neptune = “we're meant to be” — based on delusions, not reality

✘ Some of my least favorite aspects are (hard) Venus-Uranus, Moon-Neptune, Venus-Neptune. Venus-Uranus (square, opposition, conjunction) in synastry is like a layover, not a home. It creates a spark like best friends who could fall in love but lacks romantic rhythm. One person wants closeness, the other is detached by nature.

💬 Ascendant-Pluto aspects & 8th house-Pluto overlay in synastry - makes the ascendant / 8th house person visible to the Pluto person.

→ “I don’t know why I noticed you, but I did.” → They watch you, pay attention, even if they’re not interested in dating you. → You hear things like “you’re different” or “I feel like you see through people.” → Some might want to own your energy, label you, or define you.

🍭 2nd House + 6th House Overlays = Situationship Soup • Add 3rd house overlays — you talk all the time, check in constantly, feel weirdly emotionally dependent... → But no romance. No desire. No plans for the future. → One or both of you might literally be entertaining other people while being each other’s emotional comfort pillow. ➤ Moral of the story: don't let regular texting fool you into thinking it's love.

⚠︎ Venus Square Mercury: Emotional Expression Malfunction • Mercury fails the assignment of communication. • Venus is left feeling unwanted, unattractive, or emotionally deprived. → The love is maybe there, but it's getting lost in translation.

🩸 Aries Stellium in Composite Chart - feels like your whole world while it’s happening… but the minute the illusion breaks? Boom. Detached. Embarrassed. Maybe even a little mad at yourself for falling for it. You might have this with your first love, or the person you thought was your first love.

🎀 Lilith-Sun (square, opposition, conjunction) in synastry - When Lilith clashes with the Sun, its ego doesn’t walk away unscathed — especially if Lilith is the woman, Sun the man, and she initiates the breakup. Even if the connection had already gone dull — lacking love, passion, or real chemistry — the mere act of being left by Lilith bruises the Sun’s ego. He may have felt validated just by “pulling” her in the first place, so when she walks away? It’s not heartbreak — it’s humiliation. Lilith doesn’t just exit. She emasculates the Sun on her way out.

Donate 💌

619 notes · View notes

avolicis · 6 months ago

Text

Triple Self Portrait

Parody of Norman Rockwell's Triple Self Portrait.

Yes, I know it's not really a self portrait because I am not Niko OneShot.

I've always liked this piece but never got around to making a parody of it until now. I don't think I managed to capture the humour & spirit of Rockwell's work but I still had fun! I wanted to mirror the narrative in the original where the painted bespectacled Rockwell was intended to be looking at the viewer, Rockwell himself, to use as reference for the canvas painting, but Niko looking at the "camera" worked for a different thematic reason because of the fourth-wall-breaking nature of OneShot. Happy accident!

I also didn't capture some of the funny details like the drink glass almost tipping over on the chair and the cigarette burning in the trash bin, and that is because Niko is a very safe and cautious child and would never leave things in such a condition.

The little mini paintings are a few characters from games that nightmargin cited as inspirations when creating OneShot, to match what was there in Rockwell's painting. Top to bottom: White Face from imscared, Madotsuki from Yume Nikki, Irisu from irisu Syndrome, and Embodiment of Spirit from Ib. Madotsuki is supposed to be in the pose of the Mona Lisa and Irisu the pose of Girl with a Pearl Earring, though I'm not sure how well that comes across, lol. (The leftmost drawing is just a poor rendition of the canvas portrait in Rockwell's original).

Did you read this far? Thanks! Have a progress gif and an alt with a portrait Niko who thinks it's time to fight crime.

#2025 #art #pixel art #niko oneshot #norman rockwell #triple self portrait

572 notes · View notes

blueberrypancakesworld · 3 months ago

Text

Erik in a relationship

warning : fluff, hurt/comfort, kissing and cuddling, mention of death, written before the film came out

Summary : Part of the new generation of the Campbell family, the black sheep that everyone likes, covered in tattoos and piercings, Erik is not only an excellent artist but also an excellent partner in every sense of the word.

info : A nice little drabble for sweet Erik, I can't wait to see bloodlines. I wish you dear readers a lot of fun reading :)

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

°He might have a rough exterior, the jet-black hair, the silver piercings in his skin and the tattoos running down his body, but such an exterior was deceptive. Erik may have had a strange exterior but his interior was all the softer and gentler, at least most of the time.

°The outside could be deceiving and at first his partner thought that Erik was a taciturn, withdrawn tattoo artist, which was only half the truth, because after she got to know him she saw that his smile made him even prettier and his cheerful demeanour so inappropriate for such a dark exterior.

°Dark and cheerful was the best match, Erik was a man of many pleasures, he loved to draw on new designs, loved to spend time with his love and his family. Whether it was at garden parties, simple walks, a chat or just being together in silence, he enjoyed many things as long as he knew his loved one was with him.

°He had given her a sign of his love, ‘Forever with me’ and showed her the tattoo of the black rose with her name engraved on the stem. A gift with a touch of the macabre, but it wouldn't be macabre if it wasn't Erik, it was his way of showing that he loved her. He loved her endlessly, a kiss when they woke up, one when they said goodbye, one when they got home and just his hand on her whenever he could.

°He was a tattoo artist and the skin of his clients was his canvas, but her skin, her skin was sacred, it was warm and soft, his love made him paint on her, he created individual designs just for her, one after the other. ‘For the most beautiful canvas,’ he joked as he finished painting the ornate pattern on her arm, a pattern that she later actually had engraved.

°Of course, he tried to make the tattoo as pleasant as possible for her, the best couch, snacks before and after, a gentle voice and his most precise work. ‘Done! You're beautiful’ he said as he put the tattoo machine aside and gently took her hand to lead her to the mirror. Seeing her radiant face meant everything to him. Knowing that she was happy, that she was enjoying his art showed him that he had done everything right.

°But he did everything right too, the morning was always an amusing sight, the tousled dark hair, the tired look in his eyes as he adjusted his piercings which had shifted slightly due to his moving sleep. But with a coffee in his hand, her kiss on his cheek and a little light, the world looked different to him. They woke each other up and kept each other awake because they both loved to fall asleep cuddling just as quickly instead of going to work.

°Erik was a person who didn't look like one, but he loved cuddling. After a long day at work, he would just come home, put his things down and fall onto the couch, snuggle up to his girlfriend under the soft blanket and close his eyes. ‘Don't wake me up, that's for the best’ she heard him murmur as she closed her eyes too and was just happy to have Erik with her.

°Life wasn't always rosy, but even in the dark moments he was there for her and she for him. When the accidents became more frequent, the fright grew bigger and bigger and she saw how nervous he sometimes seemed, she took time for him, held him close and calmed him down. But that's exactly how he reassured her, knowing how quickly she got stressed about little things, ‘We will manage this together,’ he promised her and pulled her into his arms as well.

°Erik was the perfect example of a hard shell and a soft core, he would do anything for his love and his family. He would do anything to make them happy, he loved to be held and to feel and most of all he loved to see his love smile because then he knew that everything was alright and if not they would solve the problem together and a long hug had solved a lot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@porterroths , @starry-eyed-wild-child , @edeniacloud , @forestfiregirl

#final destination #final destination bloodlines #final destination bloodlines erik #erik campbell #erik campbell x reader #male x female #reader is female #richard harmon

513 notes · View notes

moonmaiden1996 · 4 months ago

Note

Helloooo is it okay to ask for a part 2 of the monster Maomao creates? I'm curious to know how everything plays out and I love your writing style! :D

The Monster Maomao Created Part 2. Redemption

Okay, I didnt plan on writing a part two but....... SEASON TWO IS SOOOOO GOOD ------Part 3 out now!

Maomao sat alone that evening, a rare occurrence in the ever-bustling labyrinth of the Inner Court. The amber glow of dying lamplight cast long, wavering shadows across her notes and the mortar-stained fabric of her sleeves. The scent of powdered ginseng and steeped licorice root clung to her skin like memory—bitter, sweet, and impossible to scrub away.

Her hands, usually steady as a surgeon’s, faltered slightly as she crushed a dried root into fine powder. It wasn’t the task that troubled her—it was the silence. The kind that makes thoughts fester like untreated wounds.

She supposed someone like Suiren—or one of the high-ranking consorts—would, at this point, sigh softly and whisper of guilt and pain before crying themself to sleep but Maomao did not sigh prettily nor did she cry.

What she felt was not guilt. It was rot.

A slow, creeping decay that had taken root in the hollow beneath her ribs and was now curling its way up her throat. It choked her with a thick, acrid bile no amount of dried plum or sweet cherry blossom tea could wash away.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the hairpin Jinshi had given her. She hadn’t even meant to touch it, yet there it was—cold silver from the Western Mountains, shaped like a chrysanthemum in mid-bloom, each petal curling against the pin.

A gift no one refused, even she had accepted the pin that day on the pavilion. But you had decline the pin.

And he had loved that.

You had snubbed him and he basked in it. You had refused or rather tried to—till a member of the Moon Prince’s private household delivered you a more elaborate ornate pin, not any pin—his pin. The prince's.

Maomao pressed her fingertips to her temple. Her thoughts were loud now—too loud. Unclean. She was rotting from the inside out. She wanted to flush it out the way she would a festering wound—cleanse them with logic, with distance, perhaps with a stiff dose of alcohol.

But there was no remedy for this.

Her adopted father had always said the only cure was confession—to lighten the soul. So late that evening, Maomao found herself slipping beyond the walls of Jinshi’s residence and making her way through the quiet gates of the Imperial Court. No one stopped her. The guards were used to her odd comings and goings, her robes always smelling of tonics and tinctures, her arms often burdened with strange offerings.

Tonight was no different, her offering discreetly placed her sleeve.

The hour was late, the sky a canvas of thick ink. Servants scurried through the halls rushing to wrap up the last of the day's duties. But the light in your chamber was still lit. Of course it was. Your father, the Chancellor, was away at court again—yet another meeting ahead of the looming war.

The room was warm—too warm for the late hour. Drapes of silk stirred faintly in the breeze from the half-open window, lantern light casting shifting shadows against golden walls. The faint hum of crickets echoed from the garden beyond.

You sat by the window, bathed in moonlight, posture regal but relaxed. From this height, the palace grounds looked peaceful—placid even. A lie, of course. Nothing in the Inner Court was ever truly at rest.

“Mistress,” came a voice, soft as smoke. “Forgive the intrusion. But I must speak with you.”

You turned, slow and deliberate. Maomao stood at the edge of the lamplight, half-shadowed, robes slightly rumpled, hands folded before her like she had arrived from a battlefield rather than the apothecary. Her face was unreadable, her eyes darker than usual.

“Then speak, Apothecary,” you said, tone calm. Cool, but not cruel. “What does your master want now?”

Her eyes flicked, just briefly, to your hair. To the silver pin twined in your braid—your father’s gift, not the Moon Prince’s.Then she dropped. Knees to polished floor, forehead nearly touching it, her bow so deep it was almost theatrical. But you knew better. Nothing Maomao did was without calculation.

“I’ve come to apologize,” she said, hands resting in her lap. “To beg forgiveness.”

You raised a brow, leaning an elbow on the windowsill. “For what, exactly?”

“It was I who put you in Master Jinshi’s path.” The apothecary spoke softly, but clearly.

That drew your attention. A pause. Stillness, sharp and sudden. You did not speak, instead you waited for her to continued.

“I used you,” she continued, voice even. “He took an interest in me. A dangerous interest. For someone of my station… such attention is rarely a blessing. I feared what would follow. So I shifted his gaze. Toward you. Someone far more suitable.”

You studied her. The way her fingers curled just slightly in her lap. The way she refused to lift her gaze. Like a criminal already bracing for the blade.

“I understand the instinct to survive,” you said mildly. “But there’s no need for dramatics. Your master is… harmless. Beautiful, yes, but a eunuch, nonetheless. the only fear I have is him attempting to put me the Emperor's garden.” you voice amused at the young woman.

Maomao lifted her head—and now there was something sharp behind her eyes. “He’s not.”

The words struck. Your back straightened.

The apothecary didn’t blink. “You must have noticed. The resemblance to the Emperor. The way even high-ranking officials lower their eyes around him. He is no more a peacock than a tiger in painted feathers.”

You said nothing at first. Just the faintest tilt of your head, moonlight catching on your cheek.

“…Are you saying—”

“There is nothing I can do to save you, my lady,” Maomao interrupted softly, her tone too level to be comforting. “Only offer my services.”

You arched a brow, resting your hands against the silk of your robes. “What need have I for an apothecary at this hour? Are you here to offer me poison to end my worries?”

Maomao blinked. A faint twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her surprise—not at the words, but at the lack of alarm behind them. She had expected gasps. Outrage. Perhaps the clatter of summoned guards. Not that.

“Nothing so dramatic,” she said, smoothing her sleeves with measured calm. “I simply wish to correct a wrong I’ve done… to lighten me guilt by offering what skills I possess. Being an apothecary is only one of them. I was raised in the Verdigris House.”

You didn’t flinch.“A brothel,” you replied evenly.

She inclined her head with all the grace of a court lady, though her robes still carried the scent of herbs and iron. “Yes.”

You exhaled slowly, as though growing weary of riddles. “And how is that supposed to help me?”

Maomao’s gaze flicked up—briefly, precisely. “Master Jinshi has… particular tastes.”

The corner of your mouth twitched with dry skepticism. “And I fail to see how that is remotely relevant. What do I care for the Moon Prince’s appetites?”

“I won’t insult your intelligence,” she said, her hands now folded neatly over her lap. “Your family stands on a precipice. Your father leaves again soon, to meet the war gathering at the borders. Your mother is at home, wrestling with conspiring Lords. Your brothers is young. Too young. And while you are capable, formidable even… the Inner Court is no place for women who stand alone.”

“I need no protection.”

“Agreed,” Maomao said, without hesitation. “But even tigers must sleep. And snakes wait for that moment to strike.” Her words hung in the still air.

“Master Jinshi—or the Moon Prince, if you prefer—could protect you. But Master Jinshi is the safer path. Childish at times, yes. Overbearing… obsessed… but devoted. You could do worse than align yourself with him. If you chose to wield your influence over him… there would be little in the court beyond your reach. You could protect your family.”

You narrowed your gaze. “And if I wished to be Empress? Your plan would hurt your own dear lady.”

“You don’t want the throne,” Maomao said flatly. “The Emperor knows that. Which is why he encourages this match. It keeps Jinshi happy and strengthens his court. You want safety. For your brothers. For yourself. This is how you get it.”

A heavy pause. The lantern crackled softly.“And how exactly, am I meant to wield a prince like a dagger?”

Maomao’s voice dropped lower—softer, but somehow more unsettling. “He is a masochist.”

You blinked once.

“Raised to be revered, yes. Worshiped. But what he craves… is surrender. He wishes to be beneath someone. To kneel. To suffer. To worship.” Her lips curled faintly, not in mockery but grim understanding.

You stared at her. “Interesting, if not mildly disturbing,” you said slowly, your tone hard and biting. “But hardly useful to me.”

“He desires you,” she said simply. “For your ability to look at him and not be moved by his beauty. For the way you do not melt beneath his gaze or fawn at his presence. Your aloofness only feeds the flame. A flame that has become an inferno within him.”

“One that you started,” you couldn’t help but snap.

You regretted it immediately. For all the danger the strange girl brought, you could not hate her—not completely, anyway. In this world, women occupied a delicate position. And for a girl of Maomao’s station, Jinshi—or whatever name he wore—was dangerous. You could not blame her for that. Not really. You might have done the same thing if you were her.

Maomao leaned forward slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. “He takes a tincture. An old compound, used by monks—designed to suppress certain urges. But if he were to stop taking it… his body would catch up. His restraint is borrowed. Not natural. It is not hard to believe that his appetite would be as the Emperor…”

You said nothing, but your lashes lowered ever so slightly. Not enough to show interest. Just enough to not deny it.

“I have served him for years,” Maomao continued. “In all that time, not once has he ever forced anything upon me. Not when he could. Not even when he wanted to. He is… loyal. Deeply. And if you wanted him—truly wanted him—he would not only obey, he would be devoted. Utterly. Insatiably.”

You looked away. Briefly. Then, “What makes you think I want that? A husband?”

Maomao tilted her head. “You remind me of my sisters.”

Your eyes flickered to her sharply.

“Pairin and Joka,” she clarified, voice soft. “Two of the three Verdigris Princesses. Pairin is warm, affectionate, with a dangerous appetite for pleasure. Joka is sharp, with a scholar’s wit. She advises ministers behind beaded curtains.”

Your expression betrayed a flicker of recognition. You had heard of them.

“I meant it as a compliment,” Maomao said, bowing her head again. “You are not limited to one role. Not just a noble daughter. Not just a strategist. Not just a woman, You are all these things and more... and it is for that reason I offer this.”

She reached inside her sleeve and drew out a leather-bound tome. The binding was frayed with age, its surface worn smooth by hands long dead. It bore no title. Only a seal pressed into its cover— a Western design.

“A gift from the West, from the land of your mother,” she said, offering it in both hands. “A book of pleasure. But also one of control. The women of the Verdigris House guard it jealously. And now—I give it to you. The beginning of my apology.”

You reached for it, fingertips brushing against the old leather. It was heavier than expected.

“So you come to apologize,” you said slowly, “and instead you offer me a strategy. A lover. A husband. And compare me to courtesans.”

Maomao lowered her eyes. “I offer you tools. I offer you freedom, should you choose to take it. And, if you’ll allow it… I offer my service too, as a sign of penance.”

You stared at her, silent. Then you nodded, once. “Very well. Leave it.” You did not smile. “Should I find the need of you again,” you said, turning back to the window, “you will be in my service.”

Behind you, Maomao bowed again. Her footsteps—soft, sure—faded into the corridor beyond. Only the scent of crushed herbs remained, leaving you to stare out of the window, waiting for your father to return. There would be much to do. So much to prepare. You would need to speak with Empress Gyokuyou. Discuss what came next. Weariness settled in your bones. Your eyes flitted over to the book laying on the table, its presence heavy, full of silent promise. Much to do. So much to do.

But for now, you let the breeze lift the edge of your sleeve and close your eyes. For now, you allowed yourself to rest. If only for a few hours.

Okay hear me out! Jinshi is not going to fall for the naive easy reader, he is going to fall hard for the aloof baddie with attitude. For a women in this period the only way to get power is to marry well. The reader is stuck by society and expectation. Just like all the characters are really.

Also if Jinshi falls for anyone he would be a Yandere, sweet and loving but obsessive and forceful just like we see in the frog scene(sooo good) He needs someone that can control or at least deal with his yandere-y nature. So the reader would definably be in for a ride...then again so would Jinshi. However their love would be as beautiful as Jinshi himself, if not more so.

Hope you enjoyed it.

#jinshi apothecary diaries #apothecary diaries #the apothecary diaries #jinshi x reader #jinshi

1K notes · View notes

cumtastiics · 5 months ago

Text

tw ( yandere. nsft. )

mdni / g/n reader / join my server plz

a/n: can you guess which one shot this is a p2 of

you thought it was funny.

everyone admired his work, wondering how did he create such a masterpiece?

other than him of course, only you knew how.

"oh... my- my precious muse..." he shuddered, his cock reaching deeper inside you. you were simply a complete mess beneath, having turned into jelly from his touch alone.

the paint on the back of your body, spreading itself on the canvas you laid on, his thrusts guiding the paint as if it were a paintbrush.

"too- too much-!" you barely managed to cry out, your head going back. your hands were tightly holding onto his arms for support, while his hands were on you.

"ah, yes... my- my sweet creation..." he groaned, his hips pounding against yours, the sound of the paint squelching beneath you filling the air.

your body arched, a canvas of colors, as his fingers dug deep into your skin, leaving trails of vibrant hues in their wake.

"you can take it... i-i know you can, you're good for me, always. a-aren't you, my dear?" your moans were music to him, taking them in. "you can cum early today, you- you'd like that, yeah? cum for me...!"

he was such a mess for you. the way he'd scratch his skin till it bled when he wasn't with you, or how he- that doesn't matter now. he's holding you right now... and you're creating his next masterpiece. only you matter now.

"it's a beautiful piece. he's truly a master at his art," you heard someone at the exhibit say.

you could've sworn you saw a cum stain on the canvas.

#yandere #yandere x reader #tw yandere #yandere x darling #yandere oc #yandere x you #yandere male #yandere x y/n #male yandere #yandere writing #yan blog #yandere painter #painting #yandere x g/n reader #i am cumtastic

931 notes · View notes

tojicide · 9 months ago

Text

FRENCH BOYS! ☆ RAFAYEL.

summary. when your paintings were featured in the same gallery walk as rafayel’s, he can’t help but commission you with an oddly cheeky request — ❛ paint me like one of your french boys. ❜

warnings. fem!reader, artist!reader, body appreciation, reader paints rafayel in the nude, terms of endearment, oral ( m. receiving ), cowgirl, p in v, unprotected but he pulls out. wc. 3.6k. portrait inspo!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

❛ Paint me like one of your French boys. ❜

You feel like you’ve read the line enough to have it engraved into your skull by now. You were still having trouble assessing whether or not the words were actually printed on the page or if you’d somehow misread them a million times over.

After all, who in their right mind would add that at the end of a memo for an art commission? Rafayel, you learned. That’s exactly who.

Rafayel has heard of you in passing, of your astounding professionalism and the unique ways in which you depict your subjects. He didn’t know you personally though. In fact, he’s only ever seen you at the art exhibitions that your promoters put on for you.

And even then, you never truly gave him the time of day. Why should you? In the grand scheme of things, he’s a stranger.

Rafayel has never been the biggest fan of the unknown, which was why it surprised him that he was such a big fan of yours.

Call him crazy, but he wanted to get to know you. He’d even reached out to your studio a few times on the basis of collaborating on an art piece together, but when he was met with the generic excuse of your busy schedule preventing you from meeting with him, he was left to resort to the extreme.

He was quite familiar with the art style that you possess. He thought that your knack for figure painting made you interesting, made you admirable. Paying homage to the Renaissance period was a lost art in and of itself, and you managed to do so with nearly every single piece you created.

Now, here’s why he would absolutely understand if you called him crazy…

He would even understand if you called him self-concerned, if you called him vain—if you called him anything your heart desires, because all adjectives of the like are spectacular words to describe him… especially after he sent you that forsaken commission.

A commission that piqued your interest enough for you to accept, but a forsaken commission nonetheless. He knew that it made him look like an arrogant fool, because all things considered, who commissions a nude portrait of themself?

He tried not to dwell on it, because that was exactly how he ended up here, in your presence. Sure, he was posing nude in front of the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on, but at least you were here…

“Soooo… how’s it going?” he asks, desperately trying to fill the silence between you two that only the sound of your paintbrush scraping against the canvas interrupted.

You peek your head out from behind the canvas, catching another glimpse of him sitting on the grand throne that he had custom made just for this moment.

(He was paying good money for this, alright? If he was going to have a painting of his naked body lying around, he wanted it to depict him in his godliest form.)

“Pretty good,” you shortly answer, sweeping your tongue over your bottom lip as you paint the shadow of a particularly sharp line on his abdomen. Seriously, he was absolutely jacked. At least you had that to keep you from growing bored.

Rafayel smiles as you keep your answers to his questions brief. That’s about the third ‘pretty good’ he’s gotten out of you in the last hour, and don’t even get him started on the sheer number of ‘alright’s you’ve given him.

So, he presses on.

“Not much of a talker, are ya?” he asks, absentmindedly tilting his head to the side as he speaks, only for you to quickly lean around the canvas to look at him. “Uh oh. Am I in trouble?” he asks with just about the cheekiest grin you’ve ever seen.

You sigh. “Yes. You should really stop talking.”

Rafayel raises an eyebrow at you, his smirk still tugging on his lips. “Should I? Here I was, thinking that you were enjoying this dazzling conversation of ours.”

That earns an eye roll from you, which is about the most expression he’s gotten out of you thus far. “You’re too expressive when you speak, Rafayel. You’re a horrible subject.”

He huffs at that, knitting his eyebrows together. “Am not. You mean to tell me that this body of mine makes for a horrible subject? Tsk tsk.”

“That body of yours?” you echo with a small breath of laughter. “Please. Am I supposed to be fawning?”

Rafayel gives you a sulky expression. “Puh-lease,” he mimics you, “I have abs, okay? I’m not saying you have to do anything with that information, but if you were to fawn, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“You think quite highly of yourself,” you say, tucking behind the canvas as you stroke the paintbrush over the area that you were currently working on.

He rolls his eyes at that. “Jeez, woman. Sue a guy for being confident.”

When he’s met with your silence and the sound of your paintbrush splashing in a nearby cup of misty water, he sighs. “I’m just joking with you. I’ll—”

“Even when I give you the silent treatment,” you lean out from behind the canvas to look at him, “you still won’t stop your yapping.”

Rafayel furrows his brows, cocking his head to the side as he gives you a deadpan expression. “Lady, please. I was about to tell you that I was going to shut up from now on, but come to think of it, I don’t wanna.”

You found it ironic that your own inability to shut up is what led you to this position. You bite your tongue, shifting to sit behind the canvas again, but his voice is what reminds you that he’s still there.

“Anywho,” he continues. “You’re a hard woman to track down. What made you accept my commission?”

“Good pay,” you deadpan, though a smile curves on your lips. “And the final line of the memo you sent me.”

Rafayel is doing his best to keep his stoic demeanor, but once he finds out that his risky behavior has paid off, he’s internally celebrating. Very much so.

“Tell me,” you continue, peeking at him. “Are you even French?”

He shakes his head, the soft strands of blue hair that hang just above his eyes moving just the same. “No,” he admits. “But my tiny fib got you here, didn’t it?”

You press your lips into a line as his movement ruins the stillness of his pose, but you try not to scold him for it. “Sure it did,” you answer. “Some nerve you have.”

“The nerve,” he echoes through a soft chuckle.

However, the nerves that he’s truly concerned about right now are the ones in his cock that are very quickly waking up. He does his best to not shift around in his seat, but once you disappear behind the canvas again, he does just that.

He really hadn’t thought this through. How embarrassing. Not only is he erect, but he’s erect from purely talking to you. What a mess he is.

The bright side is that there’s a thin layer of silk fabric draped over the lower half of his body, but with the rapid swelling of his erection, he’s realizing that it’ll do very little to help him out.

“Uh…” he clears his throat. His ears are as red as a fire truck, he’s sure of it. “Can we take a quick break?”

You don’t look at him from behind the canvas as you answer. “I’d prefer it if you gave me a bit longer. I’m almost done with this section, I don’t want to disturb the pose just yet.”

He curses himself for hiring such a professional. “Alright,” he murmurs.

You continue working for a few seconds before you speak up this time. “What made you seek me out, Raf? I mean, you’re a pretty good painter yourself.”

Raf. He didn’t think that he’d done enough to earn that level of familiarity to get you to give him a nickname, but he’ll gladly take what he can get.

“I dunno,” he lies. “I guess I just wanted to be the muse for once,” he adds. That time, however, he was being truthful.

He’s always wanted to be the subject, the one in front of the easel, the one who is paid attention to. Call him an attention whore if you must, because he’ll gladly claim that title. Especially if it’s attention coming from you. He’ll pull out all of the stops to get it, just like he has today.

“That’s almost poetic,” you joke.

“Almost?” he repeats. “Alright, you’ve really hurt my feelings now.”

You shortly hum. “If that’ll get you to stop talking and sit still then I’m glad.”

He huffs quietly, sitting still and silent for a grand total of two minutes. He tried to keep it up, but the silence was gnawing at him.

“What are you currently working on?” he eventually asks.

To answer his question, you’d have to blatantly say that you’re painting his crotch… so instead, you stand up to turn the easel around entirely.

Rafayel takes a moment to gaze at the canvas, his eyes blown wide in wonder. You really were talented, and you’ve managed to make him look absolutely unreal in a way that he believes only you can.

His eyes settle on the section you painted last, judging by how most of the wet paint conjugated in that area. He swallows the growing lump in his throat, studying the way you even painted the faint outline of his length beneath the silk cloth.

“You’re finished with it?” he asks, raising his eyes to meet yours. “That part, I mean.”

You nod, turning the easel around to face you again. “Yeah,” you answer.

Rafayel clears his throat as he glances down at his crotch, which was sporting a full erection beneath the silky fabric. That had changed since you began to paint him, which wasn’t exactly your fault, but he curses his horny brain for what he says next.

“You got it a little wrong,” he tells you.

Your eyebrows raise as you drop your gaze down to the part of the canvas he’s currently correcting. “What? No, I…” you say as you peek at him from behind the canvas.

He shifts a bit under your gaze, watching quite intensely as you eye compare your painting to how he looks right now.

“Hm. I guess I did get it a little wrong, yeah,” you murmur, more so to yourself than to him.

Rafayel nearly smiles at your tone of indifference. “I hear that visual learning is the most efficient,” he suggests, cocking a brow at you. “Gets you well acquainted with the… material.”

“And by visual learning do you mean physical learning?” you counter.

…So yeah, physical learning definitely sounded more appealing to the both of you, which is exactly how you wound up kneeling in front of him with his cock in your mouth.

Your tongue flattens on the underside of his shaft as you sink lower, prompting him to collect a bit of your hair in one of his hands. “Gods, woman, are you trying to kill me?” he huffs, a sly grin on his face as he keeps his eyes closed.

Unsurprisingly, he can’t bear the thought of seeing your beautiful face be made of a mess of. He knows he shouldn’t feel this way, that he’s the reason you’re in this position, but he still does.

His large hand on the back of your head guides your movements as you suck him off, his head tilted back as you use your tongue on him. His stomach muscles are taut, and you’re finding yourself fawning over him after all, because his abs truly are that magnificent.

“Holy shiiiit,” he pants, finally cracking his eyes open to look down at you. He really shouldn’t have done that, because now he feels like he’s about to cum in your mouth. “Fuck, ‘m sorry, pretty,” he stammers, closing his eyes again. “Can’t… can’t help it. Feels too good.”

You don’t think he has anything to be sorry about, and if anything, you should be assuring him of the opposite. It was one thing to stare at him from afar, but it was another to look at him from this angle—with his eyes screwed shut while his forehead glistens with sweat especially.

He almost feels embarrassed for how loud he’s moaning, his thick thigh tensing as you rest your hand on it to brace yourself. You’re making him feel like a virgin with the way you take him in, the sensation of your tongue making him feel fuzzy.

“Just like—shit—just like that, cutie, yeah,” he babbles, hardly sure of what he’s saying anymore. All he knows is that if he opens his eyes and sees your gorgeous mouth stuffed with his cock, he’s going to cum.

You pat his hand on the back of your head as a means of getting him to guide your movements to his liking, noticing the way he so clearly hesitates with you. You can’t blame him. He doesn’t know you well enough to know that you actually like this sort of thing.

But with the way your mouth feels around his cock, he’s in absolutely no rush to deny you or himself this wish. He pushes your head a bit faster now, listening to the lewd sounds of your spit sloshing around with every thrust he gives you.

“Too fucking good,” he rasps through a moan. He’s almost too lost in you, his lips permanently parting as he lets his vocal cords roll out the most filthy words you’ve ever heard. “Mm-hmm, use that—fuck—pretty mouth of yours, gorgeous.”

As if the sight of him reacting so visually to your mouth wasn’t enough, the words he gives you are more than enough to have your heat pooling between your thighs. You’re both a mess here.

He flings his head back, his eyes shutting even tighter as your nose brushes against the tufts of dark purple hair at the base of his cock. It was safe to say that the curtains certainly matched the drapes…

You gag as he pushes you a bit too far on his length, his eyes snapping open almost immediately. “Oh, honey, ‘m sorry,” he huffs out, releasing your hair to let you off of him.

You shake your head as you cough, pulling your mouth off of him for a brief moment. A thick string of saliva still connects your bottom lip to the base of his shaft, and that alone has his cock twitching right in front of you.

“You’re so pretty,” he breathes as he shakes his head, almost dumbfounded by the sight in front of him. He may be out of breath, but he’s still very in tune with his abundant attraction for you. “Come up here, gimme a kiss.”

Rafayel is pulling you and you’re complying, and his lips are slotting against yours within seconds. He holds your jaw in his hand, his other moving to the small of your back to pull you closer until you’re kneeling between his spread thighs.

The kiss is sloppy, the saliva on your face immediately transferring onto his skin, though he doesn’t seem to mind. Not one bit. Instead, he’s slipping his tongue into your mouth, gathering more of your taste on his tongue.

“Don’t think I’m well acquainted enough,” you murmur against his lips, planting your hands on the back of the throne while you shift to straddle his lap. “Do you?”

He shakes his head without thinking. “Nuh-uh. Think you need a little more,” he replies, running his hands along your thighs until they slip beneath your dress.

One of his hands cup your mound while the other rests on your hip, and he nearly moans at the feeling of the sopping wet fabric clothing the needy area between your legs.

“This all for me?” he asks with a lopsided grin, his eyes hooded as he looks at you. You nod your head, a soft whine leaving you as he pulls the fabric to the side, running two fingers along your slick pussy. “Mm, I wanna taste her.”

You shake your head, your hand reaching to stroke his throbbing cock, brushing your thumb along the tip as a spurt of pre-cum leaks from it. Denying head isn’t exactly your go-to, but you can’t help it. You want to feel him inside of you.

He follows your hand down to his shaft before he raises his eyes to meet yours again, giving you the sweetest smile imaginable. “Alright, silly girl. Pussy’s all mine next time though, promise?”

“Promise,” you whisper with a smile.

Rafayel seems pleased with that, so he gives your thighs a light squeeze as he shifts to stand up, only for you to gently nudge him back down.

He raises a brow at you, a smirk quickly growing on his face. “Oh? Pretty baby wants to ride me, is that it?”

His pet names for you nearly make you buckle, and you’re not sure how considering you’re already sitting down, but it almost happened—you’re positive.

“Yeah,” you answer, slowly rubbing the head of his cock along your folds. “Look me in the eyes this time?” you tease.

He’s too drunk on the feeling of your pussy teasing his tip to realize that you’re joking with him. “Huh? Oh right, yeah, cutie, whatever you want.”

If you thought he was whiny there, it was no match for the man he became once the head of his cock pushed into your hole.

“Holy shit, woman, you really are trying to kill me,” he moans, resting his head back. “I was only joking before.”

You chuckle as you slowly lower yourself on his length, feeling the way his girth stretches you out, earning a whine from your lips in return. He smiles at you, cupping your cheek with his hand.

“You feel so good, pretty,” he whispers, his other hand resting on your hip as you begin to bounce on his cock. Up and down, up and down. “Shiiiiit, baby. Fuck me like that, yeah, just like that.”

A smile stretches across your lips as you watch his expression go from one of eagerness to one of absolute bliss, his eyes half-lidded as he watches you.

“Gods,” he breathes as his cock slides between your walls. “Pussy’s so tight—fuck,” he gasps out as he grips onto your hips, slowing your movements. “Gonna want more if you keep doing me like that.”

And by more, he means he’s going to start fucking up into you. He really didn’t want to, not with how pretty you looked riding him on your own, tits bouncing in his face and all.

You whine as he slows you down, and you come to a complete stop for a moment as you sit in his lap, cockwarming him. “Is that not the point?”

Rafayel raises a brow at you, a lazy grin on his lips. “Pfft. Alright, woman, you asked for it.”

You really did ask for it, though when he grasped onto your hips to make you slightly hover over him, you’re quickly realizing that his words were anything but empty.

His cock rams into you before you can even register that he’s moving beneath you, his thrusts hard and fast. You moan nearly every time the tip of his shaft reaches the back of your walls. Without much thought, you lean forward, resting your head on his shoulder as he continues to fuck into you.

“Ah-ah,” he playfully scolds, leaning forward to nip at the neckline of your dress. “Pull ‘em out for me, cutie.”

You do it without hesitation, shrugging the straps of your dress off your shoulders just enough for your tits to be revealed to him. He moans at the sight, leaning in to press a kiss on your perked nipple.

“Such pretty tits, honey,” he murmurs against your skin as he sucks your nipple into his mouth, the pace of his cock pushing into you not letting up whatsoever.

It’s your turn to moan embarrassingly loud now, your eyes squeezing shut as you feel heat pool in your lower stomach. He’s far too preoccupied with sucking on your tits to notice, but once he does, he nips at the sensitive skin of your breast.

“I thought we were looking each other in the eyes this time,” he says, leaning up to press a kiss on your cheek. And when you open your eyes, he smiles. “Thaaat’s more like it, pretty.”

You return the smile, but not for long. Another moan rips through you, your forehead moving to rest on his, though you keep your eyes open.

“Oh… ‘m gonna cum,” you choke out, earning a chaste kiss from him.

He nods. “Let me have it, baby. Need you.”

And it’s not like you had a choice in the matter. You’re shaking in his lap as your orgasm washes over you, another airy moan leaving your swollen lips as you find your release on his cock.

“So perfect, so beautiful,” he coos, leaning forward to kiss you again, slowing the pace of his hips down as he fucks you through your high. “Mhm, so sweet for me too.”

A soft whine leaves his lips as he pulls out of you. You watch as his hand strokes along his cock, a guttural sound leaving his mouth as he paints his own stomach with thick, white ropes of cum.

He pants as he keeps his eyes on yours, leaning forward to press another kiss to your cheek. You lean into his touch while your other hand threads into his hair.

“Well, won’t you look at that. Guess you’re your own muse after all,” you joke, giving him a suggestive wink. “Y’know, since you painted your own—”

“Mhm, I got the joke, gorgeous,” he deadpans, leaning in to press a kiss on your lips. “You’re just hilarious, aren’t you?”

“…Yeah, I think I’m pretty funny.”

note. helloooooo! i really enjoyed writing this lol, i like the lightheartedness of it all. i might write a pt2 for the hell of it buuuuut i hope you enjoyed reading <3 all interactions are greatly appreciated :)))

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

#♥︎ tojicide #rafayel #rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #rafayel x y/n #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel l&ds #rafayel qi #rafayel smut #lnds rafayel #l&ds rafayel #l&ds #love and deepspace #love and deepspace rafayel #lnds smut #(safety first)

743 notes · View notes

leyiorr · 11 months ago

Text

i wonder what i look like in your eyes.

gojo ⋮ geto ⋮ sukuna ⋮ toji ⭑ how they see you and what you are to them.

¡! wc: 1.1k

¡! genre: tooth-rotting fluff, awful + contagious cases of lovesick men, you're literally their reason for existence

¡! an: i dropped this on another account but then abandoned it so its being posted here lolz!

☆ - satoru gojo ⋮ a nebula

when it comes to satoru, he's always been alone in his orbit. a level of his own. he's a god among the mortal race; both blessed and cursed to walk the earth. he's his own galaxy - the brightest and the boldest.

yet his galaxy is unbearably lonely. it's expansive, a cosmic canvas of infinite possibilites. it's an inky black celestial wonder, one that leaves a hollow feeling in his chest.

until he meets you, and you become the only being in existence allowed to orbit with him. you're his nebula, chaotic and disorted yet so effortlessly the most beautiful element of his galaxy.

you blaze in brilliant, radiant light; core searing it's permeant place in the midnight backdrop. you illuminate the space with shades of the deepest indigo and violets, mingled with wisps of turquoise and teal. crimson and oranges are vibrant in your centre.

the colour stretches into the void forming intricate patters, ones he finds himself untangling to better understand you.

in the silence of space, your nebula spoke volumes; comforting him at his worst, lulling his mind into dreamless sleep. your edges are softer, the colours more muted as you bleed into him. no one can tell where you begin and he ends.

you are so so small in comparison to the void, but so unbearably bright that you light it all with practiced ease. he tends to watch in awe as you decorate his solar system; nursing new stars to weave into his soul.

with you there, his universe becomes easier to live in, easier to navigate. you're a cloud of interstellar stardust - held together by the gravitational attraction of satoru's galaxy.

☆ - suguru geto ⋮ the artist

to suguru, you're the best thing that's happened to him. ever.

anyone who sees him with you knows. they know he's infatuated, enamoured. he's so far gone that people often think that he's been blinded by love, but he has simply never felt an emotion so intense.

with you he thinks he truly sees the world in all it's glory, innocent and pure. with you he traverses unpolluted by the atrocities of the world, you who colours his world.

he looks at you like you personally hang the stars in the sky when night rolls around, like you paint the sorbet sunsets by hand. he stares at you adoringly, as if you chose the colour of the sea and dusted white on the peaks of mountains to keep them warm.

he peers at you like you solely gift the flowers with their petals, dipping them in shades you deem beautiful enough. like you create the sand from scratch and lay it in pretty semi-lunar shapes next to the ocean.

he gazes at you like diamonds were invented in tribute to your tears, like you drew the prettiest landscapes alone in the quiet, before the age of humanity.

he studies you like you've sculpted the very shape of his heart - every ventricle and atrium handcrafted with your pretty fingers. as if his very existence was molded by you, hence why you fit so perfectly together; two pieces of a puzzle.

he could stare at you for hours and days on end, eyes full of love for the person who introduces him to a plethora of hues and tones that he imprints on the back of his eyelids when he sleeps.

☆ - ryomen sukuna ⋮ the breath of life

sukuna is not a good person. everybody knows that. he's taken innocent lives, sapping their energy like it's nothing. he's all-powerful; he stands amongst the deities - gods who have the capacity to bend fate to their will.

but after millennia of having everything under his rule, he's gotten bored. he has servants to order as he pleases but nothing they do entertains him. the god of death is bored, embarrassingly so.

until he acquires something known as a significant other, the other half of his soul as the humans say. you're his breath of life, a release of old, stagnant energy. it's as if you breathe vitality into everything you touch, all life forms flocking to you naturally.

you're so much softer than he, touch delicate yet profound, an ethereal caress that lights sparks in his eyes. he tends to linger quietly by your side when you walk in the garden he constructed just for you - though he would never tell you that.

wildflowers are coaxed into bloom with you around, their colours a testament to your nurturing touch. the dew-laden grass basks in your presence, gleaming a shade brighter than before. even the trees seem to gravitate toward you, branches reaching for you as you pass by, their leaves sighing in contentment.

sukuna's convinced the waves follow your pace, each push and pull matches your breathing.

you were the essence of renewal. his world had found it's pulse, it's rhythm, as you dance the unending dance of life in the centre. you sustain his beating heart, so sukuna's oddly content with merely watching.

☆ - toji fushiguro ⋮ a lover

toji sees you as not only a lover, but the lover. the only one he will have in this life and the next. there's no after you. it's a forever kinda thing.

something so simple as the title of 'lover' is so complex for toji, a man who's a veteran assassin, a man who previously had no regard for anyone else.

you're the only person toji promises to protect, to never lie to, to make happy for as long as his heart pumps and his chest rises with each breath. you're a miracle gifted to him by the gods - though he doesn't know what he's done to deserve it.

he's rough around the edges but with your standing as 'lover', you smooth him out.

he subconsciously thinks of you, always worrying for your satefy. you must be a deep ocean of the emotion known as 'passion' because he's willingly drowning, not even looking for shore.

toji looks at you like you're an extension of himself, the other half of him that the deities intended for him to find. he can't remember times before you or imagine a future without you.

he makes a deal of reminding you that you are his, just as he is completely and utterly yours. as his lover you hold his bloody, beating heart in your hands; he knows you'll keep it safe.

he stares at you like you'll disappear; like he's not even sure you actually exist. you love a man like him after all - that's a miracle in itself.

868 notes · View notes

salemlunaa · 6 months ago

Text

౨ৎ why a “void state pact” isn’t gonna work ౨ৎ

no drama, just saving you from waisting your time.

When the idea of people joining a “pact” to induce the state of pure consciousness for each other first came up, many bloggers have come out to debunk this view that we can all enter the void state for eachother, because you can’t.

And the person who brought up a… lemme just be nice and say a thoughtless idea, and decided to make this post ,with multiple comments agreeing under it, sighhhh

“these bloggers talk about how we are limitless yet we apparently can’t enter the void for others”

“not everyone is the same”

“So nothing is logical, but it’s apparently illogical to manifest others into the “I AM” state?”

I will say this now: the void state pact cannot exist, why? because what you are doing is quantum jumping, reality shifting. For example if i want to manifest my friend Joey to induce the void, I will quantum jump to a reality where she induces the void, she won’t come with me. The reality where she hasn’t managed to induce is still a thing. What i’m experiencing is a reality where Joey induces, but she cannot share my experience. It’s not possible to share an experience with someone as it is our “I AM”. You’re not going to change because of someone else’s “I AM” state intentions.

This may be triggering to read, but to better understand: in the same way, it’s like if someone hated you so much induced void pure consciousness so you could die (like top tier level hatred 💀) , you wouldn’t just randomly drop dead. You’d still be here. But them? they have quantum jumped to a timeline where you’re not here. It’s not a limiting belief, it’s just fact that it’s their experience, you’re not going to die because of someone else’s experience.

Here’s another analogy, let’s say you’re painting in class with your friend, and you all have big canvases to paint many little pictures. Your paintbrush only works on your canvas, it’s not possible for you to paint on your friend’s canvas or anyone else. You can create a small drawing on your canvas depicting your friend eating an apple, but it’s not on their canvas. You can’t paint that picture on their canvas, And it’s not a reflection of their own experiences or preferences. They have to do it themselves or their canvas will NEVER contain a picture of them eating an apple, the version of your friend that is on your canvas is eating an apple but the version of your friend on their own canvas isn’t.The outcome of your friend having a picture of them eating an apple on their canvas is 0, unless they paint it themselves. It’s not a limiting belief because you can paint ANYTHING you want on YOUR canvas, it just won’t show up on theirs.

Again it’s not a limiting belief because you CAN do anything, but YOU are the one who is everything, therefore YOU are the one who experiences everything, and let me just preface: that doesn’t make it any less real and it doesn’t make the loved ones in your life disposable. It just means that you and you alone can experience every single version of someone. You can experience a reality where all your friends induce the void, but only you experiences that. They don’t induce the void with you so they can’t go anywhere with you.

Again, if you would just read bloggers posts and stop trying to force things you would see that the state of pure consciousness is not hard at all, in fact it is first nature to you.

If you believe that this is something you need to work hard for, you don’t understand the void state. If you can’t grasp the fact that no one else can trigger your “I AM” experience, you don’t understand the void state. If you believe that you genuinely can’t do it, you don’t understand the void state. If you believe that there are other people “more capable” than others in doing this, you don’t understand the void state.

If you don’t understand you’ll never get in. It doesn’t take alot to understand. Truly

And as a blogger, I can speak for a lot of us when I say I feel disrespected when I and a lot of others try and explain the state of pure consciousness, and it’s like you completely ignore the help. As if you’re a child blocking your eyes telling yourself you can’t do it on your own. We try and break down the simplicity of it all and it’s like you completely disregard everything we say. I’m not gonna lie, it’s very, very frustrating.

And if you’re feeling even a little bit swayed, where do you see their success stories??💀💀 if one person had already induced then all of that pact should’ve induced right? im waiting for the influx of success stories….but notice how all they’re doing is waiting and complaining… no success in sight

so i’m urging you to please do not follow this void pact thing before you’re still here with them in 2030 relying on others to help you experience YOUR OWN dream life.

Lets be serious pls

🩰🍨do it yourself, it’s the only way

441 notes · View notes

syluses · 1 day ago

Text

MY LAST DUCHESS

𓍯𓂃 older! rafayel x reader

SUMMARY: when a longtime friend of your father sees the rocky start to your art career, he does what he can to help it along. there is an unnamed price, you’ll learn.

✦ CONTENT: 9.1k words. older! (mid 30’s) rafayel x younger! (21y) fem reader, dubcon, nsfw/smut, manipulation, obsessive/yandere behaviors, naive mc, power imbalance, non-evol au (wouldn’t be me if i didnt write non-evol) but the element of past lives/soulmates remains, noncon touching/groping, ‘shushu’ used as an honorific (chinese address for older men such as an uncle or family friend), mentor / student dynamic, generally dark content, nonlinear timeline

✦ SIDENOTE: older raf is inspired by this wonderful nonnie! ✨ soooo ngl this one bit a chunk outta me :,) kinda hate this kinda love it. rafayel’s characterization is sooo tricky esp after months of not writing him! but i hope u enjoy friends 💗 for the sake of immersion, pls picture our fishie as above! 😮‍💨

An hour left. Give or take.

And the crowd is already thinning.

How many actually acknowledged you again? Was it… four? Or- Or three-?

Altogether, you’ve counted dozens that have come through the door, filtering in and out over the span of the two-ish hours you’ve had your station set up. There’s been a few people that have drifted by and- maybe just out of pity, that’s a very likely possibility at this point- thrown your artwork a cursory glance.

But no recognition’s been given beyond that, and nobody has cared enough to stop and really look.

To call it hurtful is an understatement.

It’s a blow to your pride, yes. But you’ve only been preparing to show your art for ages, and the painting you’ve designated as your magnum opus- the big one in the center, a depiction of an ocean at dawn with blood in lieu of water- could’ve very well carved off years of your lifespan, it was so onerous.

You’ve framed this thing. Made it into a masterpiece— or what you were eventually able to convince yourself was, anyway, only after months of hemming and hawing and contemplating if all the time you spent on it was actually meaningful-

And it is. It is meaningful.

It meant something to your heart. Even if all the insecurities floating within your brain, the thoughts that said it’s stupid or ugly or nobody could possibly understand the intention in which you swept that brush across the canvas, have their foothold somewhere in you— at the very core of your person: that’s where this creation exists most.

It’s special to you.

You couldn’t pinpoint where the inspiration came from if it meant saving your life. It blew in out of the blue and for whatever reason, you listened to it.

And how compelling that little spark was… Urging you to paint for sometimes days on end before scrapping the piece entirely and starting anew. But despite all the wasted efforts, the product was something you could finally say you resonated with.

You’re not one of the greats, you find yourself bitterly thinking as day darkens to night outside the building, dusky hues seeping into the floor-to-ceiling windows by the front. You’re just an idiot with the brush and canvas your father bought for your twenty-first birthday. Before then, on your eighth, it was chalk and an easel. You were just as passionate then, too.

But clearly, your ability to appreciate art doesn’t conflate with your ability to create it, regardless of for how long you’ve enjoyed it as a medium.

The longer you stand here, the longer you make a fool of yourself.

With a soft sigh, now ten minutes before the gallery is over, you hang your head and prepare to begin packing everything up.

…It’s fine.

It really, really is.

Balling your fists so tight your fingertips go white, you will yourself to pretend it doesn’t feel like a slap to the face as tears well in your eyes, your little spread of art blurring before you.

You’re so lost in your own mental efforts to compose yourself that you don’t notice the figure that glides down the walkway, past the other extravagant works of suddenly quiet attendees, and stops behind you.

“Cutie?”

A rather concerned voice pulls you from your thoughts. You whip around, quickly blinking away the looming tears, and pause.

Rafayel, one of your father’s friends- and Linkon’s most talented painter without question- greets you with a sort of bemused look.

Yet it’s not directed towards you, no- it’s directed to the portion of the wall in front of you under your name.

Suddenly aware of your slight slouch in the presence of a man that is both a celebrity in your city and a prominent, respectable friend of your dad’s, you pull back your shoulders and plaster on a smile.

“O-Oh, Mister Rafayel-“ before you can punch out a proper greeting, or even hope to steady the slight warble in your tone, his eyes widen and he murmurs something beneath his breath. Along the lines of disbelief.

“Did you make these?”

Admittedly, you don’t see an extreme amount of your uncommon shushu, but still, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him so…

Stunned.

Feeling all but embarrassed after the whole gallery has made a fool of you unknowingly- you hasten to shake your head and prepare a fervent denial. You’re not so sure you want to be associated with what’s behind you anymore, not after being made to feel like the one outlier to this creative, special event- the one that doesn’t belong.

“I- uh, well, I was just testing out some new brushes and-“

Finally, Rafayel spares you a glance, fast but sharp as he interrupts you. (Not that you’d ever dare to call him rude for it or anything…)

“The ones your father got you for your birthday?”

You blink slowly. “Yeah…”

It’s true you held a small celebration for your twenty-first, with only your closest relatives and friends as guests, but you suppose his hearing of it through the grapevine isn’t an impossibility... He’s a buddy of your dad’s, after all, and they’ve always gotten along well during the occasional get-together.

His lips, plump and pink, part to let out a short breath, and then he’s back to gaping at that main painting, eyes as wide as china plates as he pays you no further attention.

His hand, a warm weight on your shoulder, remains there like he’s forgotten to move it, and as you begin to feel slightly uncomfortable, you remind yourself of his absent-minded personality.

Clearing your throat softly, you offer a polite smile (one he doesn’t even notice) and overlook the innocent but persisting touch.

Your cheeks are warm: along with your skipping heart, you ignore that, too.

It’s more than reasonable to be a little nervous, a little girlish, when stood beside someone like him- all the glimpses you caught of him throughout your childhood be damned.

You’re just a plain, homespun thing in comparison.

“It’s… uh, really nothing special, so…” Your attempts to distract him from your stupid illustrations are carried with a trembling voice, and you don’t think he’s listening to them anyway, so- still ignoring his hand on your shoulder- you try a new angle at small talk.

“I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Thankfully, he actually gives a response to that- nonchalant as it is.

He hums, only kind of focused on whatever you just said, “Yeah. Me and Thomas were driving by. I remembered you’d be showing your art this evening and told him to pull over.”

“O-Oh,” you say with the appropriate amount of shock.

You knew he ran in the same circles as your father, yes, but you didn’t realize he’d be privy to your participation of this art gallery or actually remember your birthday; and tonight is baffling you in several regards.

What he’s doing here, why he wanted to see your side of the exhibit and why he even valued the information that you’d be doing it is, to say the least, a surprise.

Well, you suppose quietly as he eventually turns over to look at you again, a bit more composed this time, your shushu has always been nice. A little eccentric, yes…

But nonetheless nice.

Maybe this is just part of what he does. Perhaps this is… normal for him.

To attend art galleries for the simple purpose that he felt like it in the moment; yet, to hardly give the participant he’s apparently there for any consideration beyond a hand placed on their shoulder—

and you don’t take that hand off your shoulder, heavy as it begins to feel—

Gawking at some amateur’s painting like it’s the runner-up to Van Gogh or Picasso and not the work of some bungling young newbie.

All of this is just his thing.

It’s on brand for him.

…And you guess- as you distantly recall those vivid conversations he shared with your parent years ago and his inclination to cartoonishly tune his manager out and procrastinate on his deadlines- that the shoe fits.

He’s incredibly talented (and everybody and their mom knows it- how important he is), but that doesn’t mean he can’t be bizarre at times.

To be clear- when he gives you his full, undivided attention, suddenly staring at you like you hung the damn moon in the sky, and you balk accordingly-

That is very, very bizarre.

A small lump forms in your throat. You swallow it down. His hand, still perched on you, gives a little, harmless squeeze as if to emphasize whatever amazement he’s feeling inside, and you don’t do anything but stand there and stare back at him, agog.

“It’s incredible,” he finally breathes.

“W-What-?” You stammer owlishly, “What’s incredible?”

“Your art you created, silly girl,” he adds, looking a bit dizzy as he lets out a soft laugh, marbled eyes softening at you. Light from the golden-white fixtures overhead catch on his pupils and make them shine. They seem to ripple and inflate the longer he holds unbroken contact with you.

“It’s…” his indigo-red gaze scours your face for something.

“Perfect.”

You’d be lying if you said this whole interaction isn’t just a touch unnerving. Not a lot, but a little. But then again…

As you remind yourself of his natural, exaggerated persona, your dad’s longtime friendship with him, and his critical acclaim in Linkon, you feel a bit comforted by those things.

Besides, up until now, in those uncommon brushes you had with him, he was never anything but civil and friendly- so there’s no reason to let your own leftover unease from the past couple hours sully your image of him just because he won’t get his stupid pretty hand off your shoulder is acting a little touchy.

You know the guy. Not too well, but you know him. He’d say the exact same for you.

You bow, “Oh, thank you, S-Shushu,“ and as five minutes remain on the clock until you’re meant to wrap it all up and go home- pretend you’ve not felt this close to throwing up since that bad hangover you had the morning after your first drink- Mister Rafayel gives you the most charming, easy smile and finally withdraws his hand from you.

He uses it to lift your own and kiss the knuckles of it. The epitome of a gentleman.

“What’s with the formalities?” He tilts his head. “Just Rafayel is fine with me, cutie.”

You’ve always been something close to just distantly involved with one another, but after tonight, you can’t help but wonder if his opinion of you has changed. Because when he asks if your painting’s for sale and how much it costs, he follows it up with a request to see what else you have in your collection- as enthusiastic as you’ve possibly ever seen him- and you reluctantly agree to have him over at the house on Friday.

For the first time, he will not be visiting for your father.

✦

He does have a discussion with him, though, over the table.

You’re shy, feeling just a little bit like a bug under a microscope as two sets of eyes trail over you, evaluating you on occasion.

One does so more than the other. You cant count the amount of times your Shushu- or, Rafayel, he says to call him- looks for a little too long before refocusing on the other man.

Although to be fair, you try not to pay much mind to it, instead occupying yourself with your plate as you pretend to find their conversation only half-interesting.

The last thing you want to seem is rude during Mister Rafayel’s visit. But they’re speaking about you, the art he’s suddenly so interested in, like you’re not even there, and despite feeling left out, you can’t deny the excitement.

I mean, any young, fledgling artist would be positively thrilled at the idea of being mentored by Linkon’s greatest. This isn’t something to scoff at here.

What he’s proposing to your father now is personal, one-on-one lessons over the length of a few months. A ticket to success, by the sounds of it. Your parent listens in, nodding every so often, and he seems as interested in propelling his daughter’s passion forward as much as he does wary.

Three months is… a long time, after all. And to be sharing them under the same roof with someone who is more or less a stranger to you—?

Whether he’s your dad’s longtime friend or not, that doesn’t make him any less of a man.

That fact isn’t lost on either of them.

It’s not until the very end that your father finally pulls you out of the little reverie you’ve deliberately sank yourself into in an attempt made against boredom, calling your name rather cheerily.

You lower your fork, perking up, yet you simultaneously try to remain civil and sophisticated as a concoction of nerves and excitement dances in your chest.

Just about every single one of your dreams and aspirations hinges on the conclusion they’ve made.

“So?” He goes, putting down his drink with a soft clink.

You haven’t touched yours. Your twenty-first birthday brought lots of fun crafty gifts, but also the realization that liquor does not like you- and you do not like it.

You startle slightly, promptly raising your shoulders under his gaze. “Y-Yes?”

Your father blinks at you, shares a momentary, just marginally amused smirk with his pal, and then proposes, “Do you want to start pursuing art under your Shushu’s tutelage?”

The lights shine brightly overhead and Rafayel’s expectant, patient look towards you is perfectly lit.

Awaiting your answer- your mouth flopping open like a fish- he takes a slow drag of his flute of wine before the ends of his lips quirk up at you. His hair is like purple satin, and even despite being well into his thirties now, his appearance is an overall pretty, almost delicate thing. His eyes twinkle with golden threads as highlights, his stare dazzling.

It reminds you of a tranquil, starlit pond up until the moment you zero in on the reddish hue below the pupil- and any comparison you can draw to something peaceful is broken.

He’s… pretty, yes— But something about those colors- that scarlet splash amidst otherwise serene pools of blue- reminds you of blood in the water.

His behavior was nothing but pleasant when you’d shown him your scattered collection upstairs in the attic you use for crafting.

An hour later, he’s still just as friendly.

Nice.

Reaching over the table, he nudges your glass closer with a finger.

You hasten to throw him a reassuring smile and, deciding tonight is special, pick it up to drink at once.

Before you do, you timidly peer above the rim, “if Mister Rafayel would be okay with that,” you say, trading between their gazes, “then I’d like that a lot, yes.”

Glancing to your lips as you tilt your head back to take a long, although trickling sip of your wine, your guest smiles to both you and your father.

It’s a real thing.

In the moment, you make the quiet realization that everything else, every other mild or delighted expression made from him before now, has looked very much the opposite.

“Wonderful.”

✦

The first month you spend under him is…

Interesting.

But that much makes sense, you suppose. It fits the shoe that is his whimsical persona.

It’s a whirlwind life that he lives.

For days on end, he’ll drag you from exhibit to exhibit- leaving you little time to rest or so much as jot down notes as he raves on and on about an exquisite piece on display at one of his friend’s private collections, flitting between the busts and statues.

You’ve shared more meals with him and his manager, Thomas (the poor, poor guy; he has a backbone, though, you’ll give him that) than you can count- and though you didn’t grow up anywhere near lower class, it’s still a humbling experience whenever Rafayel has to teach you how to eat a certain dish because you’ve never even seen it before.

His lifestyle is lavish and, if you’re being honest, a tiny amount hedonistic… With a side of superficial.

When the pesky camera or two isn’t tailing him, he’ll loop his arm around your waist in public, sticking closer than what might seem inappropriate to those unaware of your strictly professional tie, and you’ll quietly wonder if this is how he’s always been.

A bit two-faced, you mean.

Other days, it’s a chore to even get him out of the bathtub and motivate him to check your work at the living room’s easel.

Sluggish— And then awake. Back-talking some other poor party-goer as soon as they waltz off to the drink bar- but just as quickly, spinning around to take your arm in his and whisper about just how gorgeous you look in that new dress he bought for you, saying in cliche manner that you’re the star of whatever show you attend.

Capricious as a cat, the guy. But he’s always been good to you, your shushu, and despite all the to-ing and fro-ing he does- and his ever revolving door of moods- he’s taught you invaluable lessons thus far.

As an up and coming artist, you wouldn’t trade what you’ve learned for the world.

Make no mistake- what you want to do, what you want to become, might as well mean that much to you.

Sometimes you have to pinch yourself to know you’re not dreaming. It’s all so glamorous and exciting (albeit, it comes with the tasks, the learning curve) as to be unreal.

You’re on a metaphorical ship sailing to artistic eminence and Rafayel, the best possible mentor your father could’ve ever bought for you, is pioneering it.

So yes, maybe he can be a bit… Eccentric sometimes—

With the piercing glances thrown across the studio room, the needless touches to the small of your back or shoulder that linger, the weird breathy tone he takes on with you sometimes and then the sudden distance he applies between you whenever a lens flashes- as if he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar—

Sure, his behavior is just a touch creepy (although, for obvious reasons- the main one hinging on your veritable career- you’d never say that aloud), but there’s a reason why he’s Linkon’s number one, undisputed painter and a contender for the country’s overall best. You have an inkling that each of his quirks, some endearing, some confusing, and others irritating, have contributed to that shining reputation.

Peels of laughter echo from the front door- and then, Rafayel, with a mild, friendly smile a touch too mannered to be real, turns around to join you at the car.

A sleek, black thing: as expensive as his wristwatch and as spotless as his get-up for the night, a creme-colored button-up and slacks with polished shoes.

His collar hangs loose as a stylistic choice, and with the balmy breeze blowing in, you think he’s wise for that.

In the too-short dress he all but coerced you into wearing before you left, your thighs on display like an opus at one of those art museums he’s taken you to, you still find yourself sweating. Feeling too hot.

Maybe he’s partly to blame for that.

He helps you into the passenger side without your asking, releasing your hand once you’re in- but not before giving it a squeeze and a fleeting kiss. When you shyly thank him, offering a laugh so patently nervous it’s as if you forgot how to, he sends you a wink that- despite your considerable age gap and the grounds on which you know him- your animal brain can’t quite overlook.

An inner part of you, as a base instinct, perhaps, trembles.

He’s just being playful. That strange fluttering of your gut is a clear sign of your giving into his flirty persona, which is… admittedly, not to your delight- the last thing you want is to be one of the preening women he butters up at the gatherings- but hey, the point is—

That flip of your belly isn’t a sign of discomfort.

It’s just you being excited and secretly kind of crushing on your amazing shushu. Right?

That’s what one of your cousins said at a get-together the other night, at least, and you think her suggestion is as good as any. The epithet ‘naive’ has been given to you by more than one relative throughout your childhood, and maybe they were right to call you that.

But you really don’t think Rafayel— a minor celebrity to the world and quite possibly the best that Linkon’s ever produced (alongside that heart surgeon making headway in the papers)- a trusted, longtime friend of your father— has any weird intent with you. Seriously.

It’s just…

Well, it’s just how he is.

On the drive home, midway through your vivid retelling of unexpectedly bumping into the nice lady who used to babysit you, Rafayel’s hand finds your thigh and stays there.

Oh, to God you pray he doesn’t hear the delicious little gasp you let out in turn- but you know, what with his sitting a foot away, that there’s no way he doesn’t.

The breathy, soft chuckle he responds with solidifies your quiet fear.

But he doesn’t mean it in any weird way, he- he doesn’t.

It’s not possible. You’re a silly, sometimes embarrassing newbie, not the worst of your craft but a definite ways off from being even remotely considered as one of the greats; on top of that, you’re the rather clumsy daughter of one of his good friends- overall, a very bland girl despite the abundance of opportunities her cushy upbringing offered her, and—

Did you already mention the age difference?

Yeah, no. He’s way too mature for all that.

For you.

His curious, quirky, sometimes even petulant personality nudged to the side- Rafayel is a grown man, well into his adulthood, and he wouldn’t suddenly throw his whole luxurious life to the side just because- because what?

Because he woke up one day and decided he wanted to risk it all for some young pussy?

Come on. Be real here.

Not that you want to throw yourself under the bus, but you’re not particularly special, and he’s way too good for you. Moreover, he might act a little funny on occasion what with the way he stares at you- sometimes like you’re the long lost love of his life; at others, like you’ve done something terribly wrong to him in a past one- but the guy has morals.

Geez. Get it together, you tell yourself in an instant, briefly shutting your eyes as if the darkness behind them can bring you clarity, before opening them back up again, redirecting your focus to the bustling city around you as the lights smear behind the window.

Pretty, to say the least.

Pretty and a good distraction from the hand that creeps just a little higher up your thigh, slender fingers curling in almost possessively.

Swallowing down the kernel of unease that sits in your throat, you cover up the sudden loss of your train of thought with a dry cough and resume your story.

A good chunk of you has lost the enthusiasm over it, though. You become aware of how stupid you must look- babbling to your poor mentor whom you’ve quietly shoved all these accusations onto in your head- and feel overwhelmingly small.

Your voice shrinks along with your confidence.

With the last of it, you risk a look down to your lap, and your breath catches when you realize just how fucking scandalous it looks. Your shushu’s hand disappearing up the glitzy skirt of this whorish dress he bought for you- all for the sole reason that you might look good in it as he tugs you alongside him throughout the evening.

As his palm, warm and broad, rides just a smidgen higher, it’s like he’s not even aware of what he’s unknowingly doing. How this could make you feel or how badly this could bounce back on the face of his career and prestige if anybody else so much as caught a glimpse of it.

…Conveniently, though, they never do, do they?

No,.. he always releases you right beforehand or swiftly loses interest in your side-profile whenever the paparazzi swings by; in particular, however, it’s your ever the pest father that weasels his way in between more often than not, forcing your shushu to be on his utmost best behavior—

A shaky breath in, and then out.

This past month of learning under him has been great, really, it has. It’s just…

You just…

Wish he’d get his fucking hand off you

You just wish he was a little less eccentric and a tiny bit more aware of his frivolous, unthinking behavior.

That’s all…

The wind whips outside the window.

Willing yourself to focus on the sound of it, you close your eyes again and think of homeward.

How four turns ago, if Rafayel had just taken a left instead of a right, he would’ve steered you both on track for your father’s estate and his open arms rather than Mo Art Studio, the inexplicably distant place you’ll be staying at for the next couple months.

Beside you, a voice, Rafayel’s, murmurs something- your name, you realize- and your gaze snaps over to him accordingly. His own is expectant as he risks a quick look in your direction, otherwise focused on the road ahead.

He chuckles lowly, amused by this or that. “Lost in thought, cutie?”

Perhaps you’ve learned more than artistically advertised from your teacher, because when you plaster on a tight smile and laugh, it’s mimicking his reception to the nosy press. Maybe you’ll be good at the whole publicity thing.

“S-Sorry, what?”

“I said that dirty old bald guy was staring at you the whole time. It was almost like he couldn’t take his eyes off! …Were you not listening to your shushu?” he pouts. And that much is to be expected from him.

The undeniable streak of jealousy in his seemingly unbothered tone, however, a detail that, for all your naivety, you can’t quite overlook, isn’t.

“No, I-“ you settle for a sigh, fidgeting with your purse as you pull it closer, discreetly trying to angle your hips away from his hand; anything to distract you from it in the meantime.

“I didn’t see him. I didn’t see anybody. I was looking at the sculptures.”

He hums, apparently placated by your answer. You catch a flash of his smile- rather smug, mind you- from the corner of your periphery before he responds with a soft, breathy chuckle.

“Spoken like a true artist,” he comments, lighthearted as ever. But right as you start to forget the warmth of his hand on your leg, harmless but niggling, it coasts higher up, his long, attentuated fingers curling into the plush of your inner thigh- brushing the seat of your panties.

Your heart, galloping in your chest at race horse speeds, sinks to your stomach.

This time, you don’t gasp. But in your frantic efforts to keep from doing so and maintain a straight face, you definitely forget to breathe.

It takes every fiber of your being not to shiver and throw a confused, hurt look his way.

Rafayel’s tone lowers, then, dipping into territory you would consider as absolutely possessive- although you inwardly fight tooth and nail to understand why.

“Why don’t we stay at the Studio tomorrow?” He broaches. “After the night I had watching all those creeps sniff around you, I feel like we should take a break from all the events for a bit, yeah? As a newbie artist,” he spares a brief look over to you just to wink, “You’ve definitely explored outside of your comfort zone enough.”

He gives your upper thigh a squeeze you can’t pretend to be anything but hungry. “It’ll just be me and you, cutie.”

✦

A little funny.

Going your whole life, some odd 35 years, being acutely aware that something is missing in the bigger picture, but not knowing quite what—

And then some girl’s picture, some ocean full of blood, with its scarlet, lapping tide made with amateur strokes at best and a clearly limited palette, comes along, and it confirms that niggling feeling in the most bizarre way possible.

She comes like a lightleak into his life. Out of the blue like a meteor hurled from the sky; but the joke in it all is that she’s been under his nose for the past decade.

Just… the timing was all wrong.

All those years go by, yielding no result, it’s hard not to think you’re starting to go a little crazy… Besides, Rafayel knows the artists of olden times (Van Gogh, Picasso, Munch, the list goes on), all the greats, were a little mentally unstable, too, so maybe those delusions he’d been having—

That cold, unforgiving blade. Her hair between his fingers, slipping like quicksilver. A shapeless but soft face with blue lips- his name on them like a prayer. Luxurious silks and flaming, sweet incense with a beautiful sunset as a backdrop to their evening chats—

Were all pretty par for the course.

Convincing, but ultimately meaningless. A product of his own, very vivid imagination. Maybe the lack of being understood had something to do with it, too.

And then lo and behold… spitting in the face of his dismissal, he has some dream of her days out from her twenty-something-th birthday, successfully planting the seed of suspicion in him- and then he happens upon her gallery just a while after, hitting the gold he wasn’t even fully sure existed.

Yeah. A little funny sounds about right.

The cherry on top is the fact that she doesn’t remember what he’s beginning to.

The origins of that blood-red sea she thinks to be merely fantastical; the dagger at dusk and the underhanded, downright cruel method she used to go about delivering that fate to herself and him.

If the universe is having a laugh at Rafayel- God, he wants it to stop already.

Because he’s trying to be patient with her, he is.

It takes time to adjust, after all, especially to something so world-altering. He’s become acquainted with those visions of his apparent past life to an uncomfortable degree- so he gets it, he does: the initial sense of uncertainty and doubt. And maybe this much is one-sided- but what it feels like to be stabbed by the knife of pure betrayal, the endless fear of being abandoned again that crushes him from all sides—

It’s safe to say that Rafayel tried denying it at first, too.

That he resisted.

But regardless of the slight grudge he’s developed for her over a number of very valid reasons, he’s nothing if not a good lover. The memories of his past life directly prove that.

They also prove that she is meant to stay by his side- be his perfect bride, fulfilling her duty to love and remain loyal to him- forever and always. And vice versa.

But this is all a process, of course, he knows that. Even if it feels like whenever he sees her his soul might jump out from his mortal skin or he might press too hard too fast and scare her away and end up all alone again.

Pining for her. Yearning for her. Praying for her. Painting and hurting and searching because it’s all he can possibly do without her.

Within due time, if the vow he made to himself means anything, Rafayel will make her remember him, too.

…In the meantime, though, Rafayel knows by now that the world will stop at nothing to tear them apart and drive a wedge in between them. Inevitably, it’ll make its wretched attempt on the blood of their covenant using some person or thing, and…

And Rafayel is so, so terrified that it might succeed.

But it’s okay.

He’s got an idea or two on how to keep her safe.

For good, this time.

✦

Loud squelches ring between your bodies. His hands underneath your back, pressing you into an arch for him, and his tongue laving attentively along your neck make you feel like you’re floating.

Adrift over the ocean. Like a message in a bottle- waiting to be opened. Violated.

…And when you close your eyes, you even think you can see the water.

As gory as a wound. Taking you in like an offering.

Rafayel moans in your ear, “My bride.”

‘Bride’ is perhaps the single most intriguing name he could’ve given you. But if his desire is to prove you’re more than just a quick fuck to him, what you thought you were initially, then he’s succeeded with that title.

You’re tired. Already spent from the however many orgasms he coaxed out of you within an hour or more while he laid on his tummy to eat you out, using worship as foreplay.

Though he’s far from finished with you, it seems.

“You’re getting closer,” he murmurs into your collar, voice thick and unswerving in his goal to break you and reshape you into-

Into what? His quote on quote bride? You can’t be sure.

He keeps you all but hidden from the outside world now, your family just an echo that’s made its rounds and faded to silence. Your father never cared much for supplying you with a phone- seeing it as a distraction from your classes- so there’s no real way to access him save for writing.

For as far as they all know, you’re happily schooling under Rafayel’s roof as his epigone to-be.

But whatever it is he wants from you, you’re not certain if you can bend that way. And all those promises he pours down your throat with his tongue, each of them hammered into your conscience via fervent kisses and repetition— they all might as well be hogwash to you.

It’s entirely too confusing. The things you’re supposed to remember but your mind continually draws a blank on.

He spells it out for you. Paints it out for you. Leads you by the hand to the sculpture of a woman who vaguely resembles your features, her white grooves flowing like a veil from her head, and with a kiss to your temple says it was you on your wedding day.

However many centuries ago that was.

If misery loves company, insanity must love to be lent an ear. ‘Cause you didn’t believe him at first, you swear to God you didn’t.

…But then he starts to explain this supposed timeline with you, sketching some of the points out for clarity or just to invoke something within you, and all the meandering little tangents he goes off on are too intricate to simply ignore.

Somewhere along the way, you started to listen to him. If his intent is to spread his madness like a contagion, then it regrets you to say it might be working.

For the final months of your tutelage, he’s kept you almost exclusively inside Mo Art Studio. Barred you from the rest of society and even your father.

Over the course of several long weeks, he’s only allowed you to write him a few letters— all just as long as it’s under his close supervision, of course.

In all this time, he’s sat you before a canvas and forced you to paint, draw, sketch— there’s no medium he hasn’t provided you with to help remind you of your apparently shared past, yet it’s not enough to make you a full believer in it despite your spark of interest, and it’s never enough to satisfy him.

Waves at night, the tranquil surface lit by a marble white moon overhead: you’ve worked on something identical before (the piece now framed in his bedroom for you to look at glumly while he drapes an arm over your waist), yet along with a few other descriptors he’s given you to conjure something to mind, you can’t seem to illustrate it.

Not like before, at least. The inspiration is fleeting at best. Here and then gone.

Your so-called husband doesn’t explicitly say how upset it makes him... If anything, you spot the signs that he’s trying to be patient with you; encouraging.

But when he takes the brush from you, uncaring of the wet hues dying his hand, and drops it to the floor before dismissing you without a word, not meeting your eye, it’s obvious you’ve scarred him in some way.

And you loathe to tell him for the umpteenth time that you just-

Can’t fucking remember.

Part of you thinks he’s crazy.

The other recognizes those little crumbs of deja vu scattered amongst your memory bank and it cautiously follows them. Stooping over curiously (albeit desperately, because your career- yes, you still have hope for one- relies on how obedient you are, after all) to pick them up.

So maybe you’ve lost it together, then. Your minds.

But when his cockhead hits a particular, spongy spot inside you and your walls respond with a torrent of arousal in turn, his tone as seductive as a siren’s as he murmurs in your ear, your working brain thins out and you swear you see it. Even if only for a split second.

You. There. Under the gleaming with his hands in your decorated hair, hugging you close to his breast as- rising up from beneath the cool, luminescent water- a scaly appendage curls along your torso to support you as your limbs fall at your sides.

His eyes— oh, you could lose yourself in the anamnesis they bring sometimes. But the moment you try to focus on that strange sense of familiarity, it’s gone.

Like sand falling through the fingertips, whisking away in the wind.

Red spilling into blue. Carving wriggling lines along the surface like watercolor fissuring through a page. The pearlescent sheen of his eyes when you cup his face to cry.

You shoot your eyes open with a gasp, nails digging into his back, and he gives another moan for that, too.

“R-Rafayel-!”

“M’ here,” he murmurs, teeth nipping your neck cheekily. He lets out a heaving sigh, and when he clumsily rests his forehead to yours, you drink in the sight of his face as he does all he can to mentally record yours.

His cheekbones, flushed like twin cherries as his brow pinches in a way you can almost call cute, regardless of the fact he’s over a decade older than you; His wavy, lavender hair and the delicate shadow it spills over his brow. His mouth parts open to loll out his tongue, and then he’s erasing those couple centimeters in between to hungrily lick into yours.

In a word, his treatment of you is… possessive.

Possessive with the addition of reverent.

It’s only when you’re on the brink of suffocation that he pulls off your lips with a wet ‘pop’ and thumbs aside the hair clinging to your forehead, now peering into your eyes unhindered.

If it’s true that they’re the window to the soul, you wonder just what it is he’s witnessing as he holds your gaze for a certain amount of time, apparently starstruck.

Maybe it’s just your imagination or the fatigue bogging you down to the mattress, making you compliant under his hands, but you swear he finds a new angle- a more dizzying one- his strokes somehow hitting even deeper as he takes the moment to simply admire you.

If he really is your soulmate, if the concept is more than just a myth crafted by hopeless romantics and fools, then you suppose it’d only make sense that he’d know your body so well. Like a potter does wet clay.

And you suppose (or maybe justify is the better word), that it makes sense you’re a margin off from coming harder than you ever have before because of it.

“Hold onto me,” he heaves out, “M’ gonna go faster. Gonna make you feel so good you won’t remember anything else but me afterward,” broad hand splayed out over your collar, trailing down down down- impishly aware of the effect it has on you, tortuously slow- to rub at your poor clit.

Already puffy from his earlier treatment, every nerve ending alight with need and sensitive, it doesn’t take long at all for him to make you whimper. Pretty little calls of his name that make him shudder.

His breath is at your ear, the frenetic, heavy sort of rhythm to it reminiscent of rolling waves. Perfect, pink lips descend on your neck to kiss and suck and nip and then he’s picking up the pace, rutting into your velvety heat with a new groan for every thrust he makes inside.

“You’re so rude, princess, y’know?” Rafayel murmurs ruefully. You feel his lashes fluttering against your throat where he bows his head and tucks it underneath your jaw.

“More than that, even,” he chuckles darkly, “I can’t believe you’re leading me on like this... Why else would you have- ngh, fuck- painted our ocean if you didn’t remember? …I’ll buy you that special dress. Find someone to tailor it just right for our…” another grunt; you shut your eyes, realizing he’s getting closer and so are you— your impending orgasm approaching like a plane nosediving from the sky,

“ah- Wedding.”

The room spins when your eyes fling open again. Rafayel moans louder, the sound a dulcet, low drifting sound, when your nails, perched on either of his shoulders, embed themselves deeper, but otherwise he doesn’t care.

“Wedding?” You gust out.

He hums. Purrs, really, nuzzling into your warmth as he suckles another bright, rosy splotch into your décolletage. Anything to show he’s been there.

“Yeah.” He withdraws just enough to stare at you some more, monitoring your windswept look with soft delight.

His pupils dilate; a black moon hanging amidst that sea of blood, swallowing everything.

In the reflection of them, a very uncertain girl stares back.

His bride-to-be.

“It might be a little lonely without your family and all,” he chuckles, propping his elbows either side of your head now to lean his forehead against yours again, smiling an otherwise cheerful, albeit somewhat tired smile.

He brushes aside your wayward hair once more to trace under your lower lashline, quick to collect whatever wells up and falls from there, “But we’ll have other things to witness us, cutie, kay? Like…”

His lids droop as his gaze dips over your face, examining it like gold to turn over in his palm as he formulates the word.

There can only be one for what’s brought you both together.

He decides, “Fate.”

✦

White linoleum floors stretch down the aisle; with equally white walls to match them.

Dismal, to say the least. Maybe even a little mundane… as much as that’s in bad taste to say.

Saturnine visitors walk slowly, weaving in between the decorated partitions, and murmur amongst themselves.

Rafayel, with a friend close by, oversees the event with a sobered look.

Tucked to the far side, he’s safe from the main throng for now. But he received a flurry of questions and platitudes upon commencing- all of which he either returned with a obliging, weak smile, a slight nod of his head, or a low dip before excusing himself- and he doubts it’ll end there.

They’re all staring at it. Part of him is very, very pleased with that fact. Another is green with envy. Possessive. This is not theirs to gawk at, he thinks. But he holds that thought exclusively to himself: considering the grounds of this memorial of sorts and the propriety required of him, it’s better to keep it…

Captive.

Though, as more and more form a cluster at her display, perhaps that ugly thing festering in his chest is a sign of his indignance as well— but of course, he lets none of that show on his face. No, he keeps it chiefly stoic with the appropriate amount of despondence.

This is a terrible thing that’s happened. Really.

A tragedy.

Beautiful. Young. Full of potential and then gone.

There’s several artists on display tonight- just as planned. Rafayel had made the agreeable suggestion that it would’ve been what she wanted. Maybe that’s true.

Her work, hauled out from his studio in careful hands, is ribboned off as a means to preserve it, but that doesn’t stop some woman- a nosy, conspiring aunt, maybe- from trying to step around it and analyze the signature from up close, as if the scrawled initials could somehow reveal a clue as to her niece’s whereabouts.

If that final, meager note she sent her and her other relatives, however, held any water, then that’s exactly where she is. At the bottom of it. Somewhere off the Whitesand Bay Bridge.

A tragedy. A blindsiding and devastating thing.

Who could’ve known?

As that pest of a lady reaches her fingers out to brush the dried, multihued swaths of paint, her eyes shining like pearls as unshed tears cling to the clumps of mascara, Rafayel is a blink off from striding forward and smacking her hand away with a scoff.

If he had it his way, he would’ve kept all of it in his bedroom or living space with the countless other projects, some finished, some hardly just begun and others somewhere in between. But he’s willing to swallow this temporary upset down.

It’s a one and done kind of thing.

Within a couple days, he’ll be gone, anyway. Linkon will soon be a yellowed page in the big chapter book of his life. A stop along the way.

The destination is not a place he always knew at first, but now he does. Home is where the heart is, they say.

The letter was perfect.

Not just a good replica of her handwriting: it was her handwriting. Prim and proper, albeit a little heavy-wristed as her hand gave out. Clumsy on her K’s and R’s. With nothing left to be deciphered (not that she could’ve done much on the cunning front, anyway, what with the state she was in).

The truth of her demise is far more dark intricate than anyone could possibly know. Rafayel decides it’s better that way.

His name being called in a low, dreary ask alights his attention.

He straightens accordingly, “Ah. My apologies. Would you mind repeating that again?” and then gives the necessary, rather morose acknowledgment to the girl’s father.

The latter hums. Stuffs his thumbs under the straps of his tight suspenders. When he responds, he’s not looking his way, but rather engrossed with the distant section under her name in grandiose, golden-plaque letters.

“I said, now that I think about it,” the older one starts slowly, his furry brow corrugating.

There is a distinct note of sadness in his voice. Distant, like he’s but a spectator to his own person as he stares at the assorted paintings with a frown.

“Her art could have been a reflection of what she was feeling on the inside. A… silent cry for help,” he settles on, “That went on without being understood.”

When he turns over to the lilac-haired man, it’s his cue to sigh softly, nodding back. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “it might’ve been. She was… happy, though, that’s the part that shocks me. Our mentorship was almost over, but she couldn’t stop talking about how much she wanted to stay for longer. She told me she even wrote to you about it. Is that true?”

Another sage hum. The host readjusts his hands around the flat bands containing his belly and gives his agreement, “Oh, yes,” he gives a low but hearty chuckle, too crestfallen to do much of anything but laugh at this awful reversal of events.

“That she did. But fate is cruel, my friend,” edematous eyes hold Rafayel’s stare for but a moment or two before he claps him on the back.

“And what do you plan to do now that so much of your time is freed up? Hm?”

Marbled eyes widen imperceptibly at that.

…What does he plan to do?

The apple of his throat bobs as he swallows.

He wants to see her again, for one.

It’s an exaggeration to say it’s been eons since they last met face-to-face, but it feels like that anyway.

Gentle, hushed humdrum of the event drifts around the ornate, limestone pillars erected throughout the room. Rafayel thinks it’s one of her cousins that he spots vanishing behind one before reemerging on the other side of it, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue she supplies from the flowery satchel at her front.

She catches his cool gaze for a second. He breaks it off in favor of replying to the man making his acquaintance.

“I think I’ll leave for a bit. The studio is…” He tightens his jaw, starting anew, “Quiet. Too quiet. I don’t want the reminder of all that happened anymore. And right now? seeing all those half-finished canvases of hers in my living room? Well, it’s impossible to think of anything else.”

Another hum of acknowledgement.

Hm.

A very odd, somewhat depressing conclusion to a very odd, somewhat depressing 35 years.

The pretending, the womanizing, the innumerable distractions he crafted for himself and others…

For the sake of civility, and for the sake of relying on his good, longtime, ever magnanimous friend, the artist asks, “What do you think?”

The hand on his back gives him a good-natured, if not slightly sorrowful shake, and then it withdraws.

“I think that would benefit you. You… You deserve the rest.”

Rafayel is just glad it’s over.

✦

Waves.

That’s the first thing you hear upon waking.

You feel them, too, undulating beneath the boat, sloshing against the side of it with gentle, dragging fingers.

The second thing you hear, coming to in a lush nest of bougie blankets and fluffy pillows, silk to the touch, is a familiar voice, going back and forth with another- one you can’t quite pick up- over the phone.

You groggily blink. Thomas.

“…Yes, yes, all’s well. I told you already, she’s safe. The captain wasn’t very pleased with the unconscious girl I had in tow, but an extra coin helped just fine. Which, by the way…”

As the sounds swirl around you (none particularly harsh)— the muffled ocean, what seems like gulls squawking somewhere outside, and Thomas’s conversation set to the tune of a classical record on the vintage phonograph you blearily spot across the lavish room— a chord of dissonance plays within you.

No… Wait- this isn’t…? You were just in the studio before this. Whatever this is. You’re almost certain of it.

How many days ago? Wasn’t it… yesterday?

Or perhaps this afternoon? You… can’t be sure of that, either, time just a ball of fuzz in the bulwarks of your brain. But what you do know is that you were led to the sofa by a warm hand after lunch, quick to doze off as soft lips pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead, praising you on the correct choice you made- as if you really had one to begin with.

Oh.

Oh, no.

…And the ballpoint pen you’d used moments before to seal your death note- you remember that now, too. Lying on the table before he capped it.

Rafayel.

Where is he?

No, more importantly: where are you?

A chuckle. More like a snort, really, and you hone back in on the chatter on the other side of the door- hanging partly ajar as if someone has been entering every so often to monitor you.

“I did take from your pocket, I hope you don’t mind? Your manager went through all this trouble for you, after all. Which, very illegal, might I add!” He tuts. “Yet I can’t even get an answer on your deadline…”

Troublesome, indeed.

You go to sit up and immediately regret it. Your head throbs with something worthy of a motrin or two and another long nap to sleep it off. Behind your brow, a weight settles- reignited by your sharp, sudden movement- and it sends the expensive decor of the suite spinning until you’re facing the ceiling again, wincing.

Your trachea burns.

Water, you think, but can’t check the nightstand at your side for anything to soothe the ache as your vision swims and you shut your eyes- using the same force you would if all the concentrated, unmatched power of the sun blasted your cornea.

When he snips something back to the person on the phone, huffing under his breath, exasperated, is when you make an attempt to call for him.

“Thom-“

The croaking word dies in your throat.

Something on your hand glistens, drawing your attention to it like a magnetic force.

Big and shiny, a wedding ring sits on one of the center knuckles of your finger.

The band is studded with brilliant, intricate gems— the center a pearly, iridescent thing. The fit is… perfect. Wrapped around your digit like it truly belongs there.

But it can’t.

There’s no way he actually-

No.

No- this is all, all, all wrong.

He didn’t. This is all a bad dream. The letter never happened- and the blackberry tea. The long, warm, never-ending nap and the dumbed-out state of bliss it tossed you in.

None of it.

With a startled gasp, you pry your scandalized gaze off the opulent jewelry for just long enough to register a massive, rectangular frame propped against the wall opposite of the bed you lie on: a vivid, three quarters portrait of a woman who looks identical to you— a work so extravagant it had to have taken weeks and months of unbroken concentration.

As well as the painterly hand of someone who truly loves her.

In an instant, you shriek for your father.

Nothing comes out, you’re so horrified. Yet the vaguely conscious piece of you knows it’s futile anyway; you’re under no illusions that he’s aboard this ship on its path to hell.

When that produces no result, you yell for the man loitering outside your door, voice ragged from disuse and on the verge of an emotional breakdown, desperately trying to keep the hyperventilating breaths at bay.

“Mhm. I hardly want to be stuck with the two of you anyway. The soonest you can come back: do it. And then you can have your long, lover’s honeymoon without me. Aren’t you doing it… kind of backwards, though? Anyway- just focus on planning her tribute and then get that painting out before—“

“THOMAS!” You holler.

“Oh, hold on a moment- I think she’s awake-“ the door pushes open on two fingerpads, a concerned, but notibly curious face peering through the widening gap. It glows as it finds the opportune moment to shirk Rafayel.

“Dear? I’m coming in- I have someone on the line for you!”