#INSCRIBED (musings)

[ziodyne-amax]

Kotone.Shiomi has been removed from the blog.

Kotone.Shiomi has been added to the blog.

Wait this isn't my Tumblr. What's going on here?

[amischiefofmuses]

Emperor Belos Starter Call

LIKE for a random starter or REPLY if you want me to jump into DMs to plot!

[basketonthedoorstepofthefbi]

“hungover” - hotch x fem!reader

after a girls’ night in, you wake up next to your boyfriend.

1380 words - FLUFFY FLUFF

cw; mentions of alcohol and food, implied age gap?, typical hangover, jemily agenda (sry not sry)

a/n: I wrote this on my phone on vacation bc I have a serious problem

———————

The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you are not in your clothes.

You aren’t in your clothes. And you only realize it because of the scent wafting up your nose. Sea Salt Breeze - the cologne you’d gotten him for Christmas last year - emanates from the t-shirt that envelopes your upper half. You dip your chin for another whiff, breathing him in deeply. You want the smell inscribed into your brain.

You feel the bed dip and creak and you instinctively shut your eyes, playing possum as Aaron pads into the bathroom. The door whines as he shuts it most of the way, not totally closing it because he thinks you’re still asleep and that the sound of the door shutting will wake you.

Each of your senses turns on one at a time, like your brain waves run on dial-up Internet. You open your eyes and the room is mostly dark, save for the sliver of light creeping in through the outline of the curtains. You run the palm of your hand along Aaron’s sheets and marvel over how soft they are - Egyptian cotton, he’d told you once before.

Your head hurts, but only mildly. You’d certainly been drunker before, but last night was still up there. Penelope made her mojitos strong.

You slowly sit up in the bed as Aaron opens the door, flicking the bathroom light off in the same motion. Your eyes meet his and he cracks a small smile. “Thought you’d still be asleep,” he muses. You love his pale blue boxers and seeing the hair on his legs. His calves are crazy defined - he’s a runner, after all, but still. You rarely see him in anything but a suit and tie, so it’s always a treat. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

You shake your head, wincing slightly at the movement. Maybe you’re a little more hungover than you thought. “I was already awake,” you mumble, running a hand over your face. “Did you put me in your own clothes last night? I have pajamas in my drawer,” you point out, gesturing to the second drawer of Aaron’s dresser, the one that contains your set of pajamas, a few spare pairs of underwear, and a couple of emergency outfits, just in case you end up sleeping over at his place.

It happens more often than not, so you keep the drawer decently stocked at all times.

“You insisted,” Aaron climbs into the bed, reaching for you. He tugs you to him and you roll over onto your side, and then halfway onto your tummy so that your leg drapes over his and your palm rests flat on his chest.

You can hear his heart beating. It’s like a metronome, steady and guiding and calm. You feel his pointed chin nuzzle into your hair and then, his lips, quick yet effective, against your forehead.

Flashes of last night run through your head. You, Emily and JJ, over at Penelope’s apartment. A symphony of girlish giggles, talking about Emily and JJ’s upcoming wedding date, drinking at least three pitchers of mojitos among the four of you. Watching Dirty Dancing and gabbing the entire time, realizing it’d be a bad idea to drive yourself home, and calling Aaron to come get you.

When he arrived, you called him Hotch and apologized for him having to come get you, and he reminded you that he was Aaron and he was your boyfriend and he would pick you up anytime you needed it. You were determined to play the Dirty Dancing soundtrack on the ride home, fumbling with his phone until you found it.

You belted out (I’ve Had) The Time of My Life and demanded Aaron sing along. He admitted that he didn’t know all the words and you gave him a stern lecture until you started laughing so hard that you were in tears. Traffic lights reflected Christmas ornament colors in Aaron’s brown eyes as he drove, occasionally glancing over at you.

You swore you saw the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile as you berated him for not knowing the words to such a classic song.

And then, once you were back at his place, you sat on the edge of the bed and stared at your shoes dumbly until Aaron offered to help you take them off. “Laces too hard,” you mumbled, and Aaron just hummed in agreement before kneeling down to help you.

And then he helped you out of your clothes. He went for your drawer, and you threw a pillow at him. “The college t-shirt,” you demanded with these Bambi-esque eyes.

“Arms up, baby,” Aaron said as he slid his law school t-shirt onto your upper half. He saved that specific term of endearment for times like these, when he was taking care of you, when he himself was exhausted. You could tell he was, too, not only because he kept yawning, but because of that glazed-over look in his chestnut eyes.

You glance down at the words George Washington University, printed over your chest.

Aaron’s arms around you tighten for just a moment as he embraces you, and you dig your face a little further into his chest. “No Jack today?” You ask, your voice coming out croaky.

“At his grandparents’,” Aaron murmurs, and you yawn. He strokes your hair. “How’s your head?”

“I haven’t had any complaints so far.”

Aaron’s hand freezes in your hair, and you lift your head, smirking at him. His mouth has formed a straight line, but you snicker and you can tell he’s trying not to smile at your dirty joke. “Degenerate,” he calls you.

“Prude,” you tease back, inching closer to kiss his jaw briefly before laying your head back down. “It hurts,” you answer his question. “But not as bad as it could.”

“That’s good,” Aaron comments, his hand running through your hair again, gently, the world’s most relaxing and least effective hairbrush. It feels nice, but his hands are so big that his fingers snag on the tangles, accomplishing nothing but making you feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Nothing wrong with that, though.

“Do you want some Tylenol for your headache?” Aaron asks, and you just curl up into him even more. He’s so warm, and sturdy, and it’s so rare that you get mornings like this. Either you’re both working or Jack has a soccer game or there’s something else going on. It’s nice just to lay around with him, to be mildly hungover and pretend like that’s the only thing going on in either of your lives.

“That would require getting out of bed,” you protest, and feel Aaron’s arms tighten around you. He’s a very doting boa constrictor.

“How about I get it for you, then?” He offers, and you shake your head and shift all your weight onto him. He chuckles, a deep, throaty noise you know you’re only privy to for about twenty minutes right after he’s woken up. “So that’s a no.”

“That’s a no,” you confirm, settling back in to your original position.

You lay like that with him, in comfortable silence, for a few minutes. Until it feels like you’ve melded into one being. Then Aaron finally shifts under you. “Honey, my arm’s asleep,” he whispers, as though he’s afraid to disturb you.

You slither off of him, then clamber out of bed with no amount of grace, going so far as to trip over the corner post of the bed. As Aaron sits up, you exclaim, “I’m okay!” and hold your hands out to steady yourself.

Aaron stifles a laugh and you watch him stand from the bed and he walks towards you, steadying you with one of those gargantuan hands on your shoulder. He then lifts that hand to tip your chin up. You step forward in a silent dance, wrapping your arms around his neck and standing on your toes to kiss him. “Oh, shit,” you murmur. “I bet I have really awful morning breath.”

He just blinks a few times, and then offers you a shit-eating grin. “Yeah, honey, you kind of do,” he admits. You lightly punch him in the pectoral and then head to the en suite to brush your teeth.

[coolseabird]

Random Musings on Gale and His Relationship With Mystra

I find Gale's relationship with Mystra to be one of the most fascinating parts of his story. It’s a dynamic that can be viewed in many different ways, depending on how you approach it and I think that’s part of what makes it so compelling. While some might see it literally, I’d like to explore it through a more allegorical perspective, though I want to be clear: this is just one way to interpret their relationship, and other viewpoints are just as valuable. This isn't even the only way that I personally interpret them haha. (I just have to be nuanced, it's a compulsion truly.)

In literature and mythology, take Greek mythology, for instance, relationships between gods and mortals can often carry deeper, symbolic meanings. The gods aren’t always just powerful beings they can represent larger forces like nature, fate, or human desires. This approach, called allegorical interpretation, is something I find really enjoyable! It adds layers to a story.

Consider the famous story of Paris’s judgment of the goddesses. The goddess Eris, seeking to sow discord, throws a golden apple inscribed “for the fairest” into a wedding attended by Athena, Hera, and Aphrodite. They decide to have the mortal Paris judge who deserves the apple most out of the three of them and is thus the fairest.

Each goddess offers Paris a gift in exchange for the title. Athena offers great tactical ability, Hera promises leadership over vast kingdoms, and Aphrodite tempts him with the love of Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world (who happens to already be married). Paris chooses Aphrodite, gains Helen as a lover and this leads to the Trojan War. Beyond the literal reading, this story can be seen as desire (Aphrodite) overcoming both wisdom (Athena) and marriage (Hera). Paris's fatal flaw is his lust for Helen. The story can also be interpreted as Paris losing due to declining to accept both of the other offers. He fails strategically in the ensuing war and also causes the collapse of his own kingdom.

Mystra, as the living incarnation of the Weave, can be interpreted similarly. She isn’t merely Gale's ex-lover. She is magic itself, the force that gives Gale his entire identity. Their relationship transcends romance; it’s more like that of a man consumed by his craft to an unhealthy degree. Like a mathematician to mathematics, or a physicist to physics, he's in love with something that can't love him back.

His attempt to give Mystra a gift she's never received before, something truly incredible, is due to his belief that transcending all limits to somehow earn Mystra’s (and thus, magic’s and his life's work's) recognition is both possible and necessary. It was 100% done with the best intentions but tragically any all-consuming passion carries the risk of blowing up in your face. (Just look at Alfred Nobel, pun intended) And, due to the aforementioned "blow up", his emotional low and his measurable low in his abilities correspond quite directly

There is a cut dialogue from early access about how much of his power he lost after this:

You see, this fire – there was a time that I could make it come alive. That it would take the shape of a dragon and roar in delight. There was a time I could silence a Beholder with a word, and lift a tower from its foundations with a flourish. There was a time I was all but one with the Weave. But no more – a mere shadow of the wizard I used to be. Why? Because I’ve lost.

A key theme in their relationship (in my opinion) is not just Mystra’s rejection but what her rejection represents: The collapse of Gale’s identity as a powerful magic user. (An identity he's built his life around and sacrificed for ever since he was a child)

Without this, he starts self destructing. He has to make do with consuming scraps of magic rather than the all encompassing sort he used to receive from Mystra's presence.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

While Mystra’s treatment of Gale is undeniably harmful, I think it’s important to recognize that she is not cruel in a personal, calculated way. She is so out of touch with normal people that she’s more akin to a force of nature. As an arbiter of natural laws, she wants to control him/kill him because he represented a destabilizing influence, not out of any targeted animosity. (Which is arguably worse than outright hate depending on your point of view)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Now for a bit of a change in topic I wanted to go over his different endings:

His "good" ending comes from the realization that magic, or any external force, cannot be the source of true self-worth. The deeper theme here, beyond just getting over an ex-relationship, is that Gale must learn to build relationships with people and and find a healthy balance between his work and personal life, rather than devoting himself wholly to impersonal things at the cost of his well-being. He has to learn that he is "Galenough," as @ekansbot once put it. Ultimately, his growth in this regard is best shown with his choice to embrace his ordinary, human last name "Dekarios", rather than defining himself solely as the archmage "of Waterdeep."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

More evidence about the meaning of names to him, earlier during the conversation with Mystra in the tabernacle, she will either call him "Gale Dekarios" if she's displeased to remind him of his humanity, or"Gale of Waterdeep" when pleased to inflate his ego with a title. This shows how revolutionary it is for him to willingly forego having a title at all in this ending as it had been something he sought in the past.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alternatively, and more fun for my tragedy-loving psyche, he can totally succumb to his flaws and lose himself. In this case the orb's desires fully supplant him as a person. He becomes a power hungry god, doomed to perpetuate the same callousness Mystra showed to him. His grand dreams of bettering the world fades, and his only goals shift to slowly gathering more power and followers and eventually challenging the rest of the gods. He entirely gives up on being a "person" he's the god of ambition now, and you can see it in the way he speaks how much he has mentally separated himself from the mortal world. He has fully given up on having a life outside of his obsessions. It’s quite dark. (Though not quite as dark as my absolute favorite, the Absolute ending, where you use thousands of mind controlled innocents to become Kratos.)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Something that's extra sad for you. If the player character chooses to break up with him after becoming a god he says "so I'm still not enough for you" Aghh it's horrible. His insecurities only get worse as a god.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Or... he could kill himself. Literally destroying his darker hungers (the orb) for an altruistic purpose, but he also, obviously, destroys himself in the process. Very sad indeed.

Now, here’s something I find fascinating:

If Gale chooses not to use the crown, nor to surrender it to Mystra, but instead lets it remain in the water, the orb stays within him but rather than being a catastrophe it actually becomes harmless and inert.

Why does this happen? Gale speculates that it's because he has found contentment due to the player character's romance with him.

Clip sourced from this video: https://youtu.be/gikRKEIpvQs

This reveals something crucial: the orb, from the very beginning, was tied to his own emotions. It was basically an extension of him all along. He was inadvertently the one driving the orb’s power. It was his own despair and obsession that were indirectly killing him the entire time! It's very tragic but also supremely interesting!

It is this somewhat gut wrenching realization, though, that makes this the best "good" ending. He doesn't have to apologize to Mystra to get a happy ending out of pity. Instead, it is his own emotional catharsis that resolves the problem of the orb internally, rather than it being fixed through external means. It also has a sort of Jungian quality to it that I really like. With the idea of integrating and accepting all parts of oneself (allowing the orb to remain, but becoming settled and integrated), rather than trying to shed them being a theme I think fits his character well. Additionally, he keeps the orb scar, which looks pretty neat. :)

[ink-n-shadow]

after a while angel gets comfortable enough with demon ghost to ask him for a bigger cage.. because her poor wings are too big and they hurt..

anon, it’s like you took the words right out of my mouth

𝜗𝜚 pairing: broken angel!reader x demon!ghost 𝜗𝜚 cw: mature themes (no smut but minors still DNI), reader being locked in a cage, reader being referred to as demon!ghost's pet, handfeeding, demon!ghost kinda being a simp in his own way, unedited (of course) 𝜗𝜚 link to all my works in the demon!ghost au can be found here

after a couple weeks of the back pain and wing contortion from cramming yourself into the intricate gold cage ghost’s made your home, you eventually mention it to him while he’s handfeeding you dinner.

peach juice is dripping from his onyx claws, indiscriminately smearing it down your chin as ghost stuffs another piece of the peach flesh between your parted lips. it’s quiet between the two of you, as it usually is, with only the faint crackle of burning wood from the fireplace and the distant cacophony of hell in the background.

“where did you get this cage?” you muse quietly from where you’re perched on ghost’s lap, nestled in the crook of his free arm while the other busies itself with tearing off another chunk of fruit.

“made it m’self,” ghost grumbles out his answer, brows pinched taut in the middle of his forehead as he brings you another piece of your dinner for the night. “wanted a pet—figured it’d need a place to sleep.”

you hum softly around the piece of fruit on your tongue, nodding your head gently as your hand reaches up to caress the intricate welding holding the gold together. “s’pretty—did a good job. wish it was a bit bigger though.”

ghost just grunts softly in response, handing you the rest of the peach he had sloppily pulled apart for you before locking the gold cuff around your ankle once more and setting you gently back inside the cage. and you almost think ghost just simply ignored you (like he usually did), until one morning when you’re woken up from your peaceful yet uncomfortable sleep by the sound of heavy metal hitting the ground. you peer through the bars and down at the floor below you, eyes widening a bit at the sight before you.

a brand new handmade gold cage sits idly next to the crank on the wall, shimmering as the fire bathes it in soft light. this one’s bigger though, a hefty amount of gold and steel alike melted together to form its wide dome shape—wide enough that you could spread your wings a bit more, give you easier access to the pin feathers and such that need plucking.

there’s even a little plaque on the bottom, inscribed in warbled handwritten engraving—GHOST’S PET. DO NOT TOUCH.

[pwlanier]

BERMAN, EUGENE (1899–1972)

The Decapitated Muses III, signed with the artist's monogram and dated 1967, also further signed with initials, inscribed "Roma", titled twice, and dated on the reverse.

Oil on canvas

Macdougalls

[bruhstories]

Muse II

p.1 && p.3

summary: a knock on your door, an envelope and a dress pairing: viktor x painter!reader && jayce x mel warnings: swearing, angst, descriptions of anxiety and depression, quite a lot of dialogue, veeeery slow burn, jayce being a good friend, canon divergent w/c: 3.7k

a/n: this part is a little more reader-centric, but i will fix that in the third (and potentially the last) part. liking and reblogging is encouraged and appreciated!

"May I leave now?" The bright lights of the infirmary forced Viktor to squeeze his eyes shut.

The doctor nodded, but the nurse gasped, then shook her head. She seemed to want to see him all the time, always finding a reason to stall, to buy time. Viktor never understood why, but then again, he never understood why you wanted him to be your model. 

"I think it would be prudent to run a few more tests." The nurse suggested.

Her name was Sky, and she had been nothing but kind to him. But weren't all nurses supposed to be humane? To care for the sick? Unfortunately for her, the doctor was adamant on dismissing Viktor.

"I'm afraid not, Sky. Viktor's condition isn't improving, but it isn't advancing either. It's as though his condition simply stopped. You're free to go, but please come back if you notice any changes, positive or otherwise."

"Thank you, doctor." Viktor gripped the handle of his cane and left the infirmary, strolling down the streets of Piltover. 

He had been thinking about you, about how the rune you inscribed in his portrait changed him, but his ego brought out the worst in him, and he refused to search for you, to apologise for misjudging you. Besides, you were probably busy with commissions anyway. You wouldn't make time for him after he stupidly, arrogantly tore down your pride.

You weren't busy. 

It had been days since you left your apartment, weeks since you last touched a paintbrush, months since you saw Viktor. Not having a muse incapacitated you, turned off your creativity, destroyed your imagination. You stared at the blank canvas in front of you — empty, just like your mind and your heart.

Abandoning the attempt to paint, you tried to draw instead. Fiddling with the pencil in your hand, you took a look at your previous sketches, desperate to do something, anything. But nothing came out of you. Not a single line, or dot, or sliver of hope. The sudden knock on your door had you recoil and drop your pencil. Expecting your landlord, you swung open the door. 

Jayce stared at you, at your dishevelled hair and the state of your clothes, before he peeked behind your shoulder to see the mess in your apartment. Papers tossed on the floor, clothes piled up on your bed, spoiled food on your table. He hadn't seen anyone so... pitiful. 

"Can I help you?" Your monotonous voice sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard.

"I just wanted to check on you. Y/N, what happened?"

"Ask your partner." Venom dripped down your tongue as you closed the door, only for Jayce to stop it with his foot.

"Please, let's just talk."

"Why?" 

"That's what friends do!" His warm smile was supposed to offer you comfort, but it only offered you hate.

"We're not friends, Mr. Talis." You tried to close the door again, catching his fingers in the doorframe. The sudden shriek of pain made you violently open it, eyes wide at Jayce who was on the verge of tears. "I am so sorry, I didn't think you'd put your bloody fingers in the way!"

Ushering him inside your apartment, you kicked away the piles of clothes from the chair and sat him down. He winced, watching his fingers slowly turn purple and swollen.

"It's alright, it's nothing." His voice cracked like some prepubescent teenager, and you ran a handkerchief under cold water then gave it to him.

"I'm really sorry, Jayce."

"Aha! You used my name! Ow, shit."

You tried to stifle the chuckle that erupted from your throat, but to no avail. He managed to make you laugh, but the sweetness turned sour.

"Why are you really here?" You asked, avoiding his gaze.

"I told you, I wanted to check on you. And to ask you something."

There it was, the true reason.

"How did you do it?"

"Dunno what you're talking about." You shrugged. 

"That portrait, it somehow stopped Viktor's affliction from advancing. It's not regressing by any means, but it's keeping him in a stable condition, and I can't explain why. No one can." His forehead creased, unable to find a scientific reason.

"Maybe he got lucky." You simply said.

"Don't be modest, he told me you put some kind of magical rune in it." Jayce scoffed. 

"He spoke about me?" Was all you could think about.

"Yes, but you need to tell me how you did it."

You sighed. His scientific brain could never comprehend the intricacies of magic, the elegant enchantments, or the intuitive spellwork, but you tried your best.

"The Academy of Arts in Ionia trains artists to incorporate spells, runes and sigils into their work. Some can bring their paintings to life, others can use them to deal damage." You looked behind Jayce at the blank canvas. "I can heal. Sort of."

"That's fascinating!" He beamed at you like a child who just got a new toy. "So why didn't you fully heal Viktor?

"Ah, but what would life be if all our problems disappeared? We're all the product of our experiences, aren't we?" You mused. "I can't heal illnesses if people were born with them, I can merely hinder them, stop them from advancing, because even ailments serve a purpose. Would Viktor had become the scientist that he is without his condition?" You quirked a brow, and Jayce frowned, not in anger but in contemplation. 

"So, you could heal my fingers, then, yes?" He nodded, but you sighed again. It was something you found yourself doing quite often.

"I haven't touched a pencil in weeks. I'm useless, as you can probably tell from the state of my apartment."

"Why? Because you don't have a muse?" Jayce asked, and you nodded. "That's bullshit."

"Excuse you?" Your words came out a lot more condescending than you wanted.

"I said it's bullshit. You're a damn artist, you find beauty where others don't. You don't need a muse for that." He scoffed.

"It's not that simple-"

"It is! Science and art are not that different, Y/N! They're both attempts to comprehend the world around us. They require research, analytical processes, resilience. Not a muse." Jayce picked up a sheet of paper and a piece of coal and slammed them on the table. "Draw my hand."

You stared at him, dumbfounded by the sheer willpower that this man had. No wonder he was an innovator. You could've kicked him out of your house, shut the door and never look back, but you didn't. Picking up the coal, you studied his hand first — the length of his fingers, width of his palm, the swirls of his fingerprints. Then, you let the coal glide down the paper, tracing lines, smudging them with your index finger and thumb. Your own fingers were sore from the lack of practice, but you sketched his hand nonetheless, and just as you did with Viktor's portrait, you scribbled a rune in the corner of the paper.

Showing Jayce the sketch, he could feel his numb fingers return to their normal size, the black and blue disappearing by the minute. He knew you could do it, you just needed a little push.

"See, that wasn't so hard." Jayce grinned, but you stared daggers at him. "Oh, before I go, Mel wanted you to have this." He reached into the inner pocket of his cream jacket and handed you an envelope. 

"What's this?"

"An invitation. I hope to see you soon." 

You locked the door after he was gone and studied the wax sigil on the envelope. Red and golden, with the head of a wolf embedded in it. It was too beautiful to tear it open, but curiosity got the better of you, and you used a knife to cut open the envelope, not wanting to ruin the sigil.

Just as Jayce said, it was an invitation to a fundraiser. All of Piltover's finest would be there, and you were asked to attend as a guest of honour, to be appointed the Master of Arts, the head of Piltover's Guild of Artists. Disbelief settled in your mind, despite rereading the same words, over and over again. Every councillor agreed to that, you could tell from their signatures. But you haven't painted in weeks, so how could you represent all the artists in the city? You were a hypocrite at best, a failure at worst. 

And yet, you were chosen for that. Not your colleagues, not someone from the Academy — you. Did you need to prepare a speech? Bloody hell, you did. No one went up that stage without delivering one. But there was time, the fundraiser was only in a few weeks, right? Wrong. Your eyes scanned the words once more — it was three days away. Panic seeped into your veins. You had no dress, no shoes, no speech, no muse.

No, fuck the muse. Fuck Viktor. 

You were still bitter about the last conversation you exchanged with him, but you couldn't throw away such an opportunity, such an honour, for some guy. A very handsome, very clever guy, but still a guy nonetheless. No, Jayce was right — you didn't need a muse. You didn't have one in Ionia, didn't have one when you taught yourself how to draw and paint. You were your own muse. And you needed a damn good dress to impress. 

Forcing yourself to clean the mess in your apartment was easy. But showering and going out wasn't, not when the probability of bumping into Viktor was there. A slim chance, but not impossible, and you couldn’t afford to get distracted. You wrecked your brain trying to remember his schedule, because he never deviated from it. Thursday — he would have a doctor's appointment in the morning, then he would have lunch, and go to the lab. Or was it the other way around?

"Ugh!" You kicked the foot of your bed in anger and disgust. You were disgusted with yourself for even sparing him a single thought — the man who insulted you and your work.

So what if you bumped into him? He wasn't going to talk you, anyway, he made that quite clear when he didn't even say goodbye to you. Ungrateful fucking prick. No more. No more wallowing in self-pity, no more victimisation, no more emotion. How foolish of you to even think he'd see you as more than some dumb painter, that you were his equal in any way, shape or form. It was a facade, a mask, playing the innocent sick man when behind that mask was a god complex.

You found a dress, purple and golden. It reminded you of Viktor, but how else were you supposed to get over him if not by proudly wearing the colours of the enemy? Were you overreacting? Perhaps. Too dramatic? Definitely, but it helped process the pain attached to those stupid colours. Spending time to write a speech also helped take your mind off of him. It gave you a purpose, something you thought was lost.

There was one thing you didn't like about the dress — it was too modest. And while it wasn't a gathering of prudes, you wanted to find the perfect mix of elegance and vulgarity. Studying the dress that was hanging on an iron hook on the back of your bathroom door, you grabbed a pair of scissors and cut a slit up its side. You wanted to stop at knee's length, but something possessed you to cut higher, stopping well above the knee. Was it too much? Maybe, but you were about to become leader of an entire guild, and you needed to look your best. Besides, the thought of hooking up with someone at the fundraiser didn't sound so bad. You had needs after all, and you were going to satisfy them.

"There she is!" Jayce spotted you through the crowd of people, with Mel's arm looped around his.

You were glad that they were officially together. Too long they played pretend. You greeted them, deciding to be their third wheel since you didn't know that many people there. The life of an artist was quite lonely.

"I'm so glad you accepted my invitation." Councillor Medarda smiled. She seemed happier, and you wondered what it was like to have someone who made you laugh, who supported you and your work.

"It's an honour, Councillor. An unexpected one, I'll be honest." You quickly snatched a glass of champagne from a waiter. "But I've had something on my mind since I received your invitation. What exactly is the fundraiser about? The letter didn't mention anything."

"Ah, I must have forgotten to write that down." She scoffed. "The University of Piltover has decided to create a new department of arts and science combined."

"Oh, that is intriguing." You pondered the innovative idea. "How will that work?"

"Well, Jayce has been inspired by your talent. He believes that there are plenty of future students with the potential of incorporating both arts and science in their work." Mel said. "He'll explain more in the following days, but for now, enjoy the event."

"Thank you, Councillor." You nodded with a smile. "Are you alright, Jayce? You look impatient."

"Yeah, I'm just keeping an eye on the entrance. Viktor should be here soon." He nonchalantly said.

"Sorry? Viktor?" The smile disappeared from your lips as quickly as it appeared. 

"Oh, I didn't tell you?" Jayce avoided looking into your eyes, fearing for his life. He could feel you seething at the mere mention of Viktor's name.

"No. No, you didn't fucking tell me." You whispered the obscene word, not wanting to draw any attention. "What else haven't you told me?"

"Well, um-" He fumbled for words, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. 

"Spit it out, Talis."

"You'll be working together."

"What? We'll be what?" You couldn't believe the words that came out of his mouth. And it didn't help that you heard his familiar voice and thick accent creeping behind your back.

"Good evening, Jayce. Councillor." Viktor greeted them, but you couldn't turn around. You couldn't face him.

So much for being tough. Your heart was beating against your ribcage, desperately trying to crawl out of your chest and run away from him. The pit in your stomach made you sick — you could actually taste bile on your tongue, and the champagne glass slowly slipped from your fingers as your palms became clammy with sweat. Not even the exams in Ionia made you feel as panicked as he did. But you were a grown woman. You couldn't let him put you down like that.

"Viktor." You articulated his name without an ounce of anxiety in your voice, then turned around to look at him.

You were pleased to see he was just as shocked to see you there as you were to see him — even more shocked to see you dressed so differently than how he remembered. Good. The bastard needed a reminder that you weren't a coward, nor a prude. And it made you consider that he also didn't know you two would be working together. How convenient for you.

"Miss Painter." Venom dripped down his tongue. How dare he be affected by your presence? "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He didn't know. You thanked your stars for that. A shit-eating grin crept on your lips, and just as Jayce was about to open his mouth, you said it.

"Oh, you didn't know? We'll be working together. I'm absolutely thrilled!" You lied through your teeth and Jayce slowly turned his head to glare at you. A minute ago, you looked like you were about to have a heart attack, now you were thrilled to work with him?

"How utterly... terrific." Viktor forced a smile. "No, I didn't know. Jayce, a word?"

"No need, I'll leave you to it. Gentlemen, Councillor." You nodded and stepped away, blending with the crowd, eyes set on some poor man who was about to be your distraction for the night.

His name was Alfred, or Arthur. Something with an A. It didn't matter. He was good looking, with broad shoulders and much taller than you. But he talked. A lot. You politely nodded at everything he said, trying to keep up with the conversation, but anything he said fell on deaf ears. You weren't interested in him, not after seeing Viktor, who looked much better than last time, healthier. He went so far as to adjust his cane to look similar to the one in your portrait — the fucking hypocrite. And even the suit he was wearing was purple. You matched, and your stomach churned at that epiphany. What if people thought you were together?

You rolled your eyes when Arthur, or Alfred, spoke about how ridiculous the idea of combining science and arts was. The desire to pour your champagne in his lap was great, but your self-restraint was greater. Somehow. Paying him no mind, you dissociated, daydreaming of being in your atelier and working on a new painting, of buying new materials, new canvases. Yes, that was much better than listening to Alfred, or Arthur, yap about something his small brain couldn't comprehend. 

Even amongst hundreds of people, Viktor only saw you, and the thousand-yard stare on your face. You were quite obviously bored, and there was an impulse, an instinct to go and save you from the dull conversation that you weren't even a part of. But he couldn't. Deep down, Viktor knew he might have overreacted when he last saw you, but you made it quite clear that you wanted nothing to do with him, and he respected that. It pained him, because he grew used to your presence in the lab, but what could he do? 

He found it comforting that you wore the colours of his suit — of his portrait. It gave him hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a minuscule possibility that you weren't upset with him anymore. But Viktor wasn't an idiot. He knew all too well that the wrath of a woman scorned wasn't something that passed so easily. And he felt the spite in your voice when you blatantly lied about being thrilled to work with him. Oh, right, he forgot about that when he got lost in your eyes, even from across the ballroom. 

How were you going to work together when neither of you wanted that? Surely you could set aside any grudges, he thought. But could he? While the portrait did hinder his illness, Viktor still assumed that you weren't serious about him being your model. Your muse, even. How could someone like him be the object of your artistic desire? No, that was improbable. Impossible. 

"And that's when I said what do you call a woman who has lost 95% of her intelligence? Divorced!" Arthur, or Alfred, slapped his knee, laughing at his own sexist joke, and that was enough for you to regret your decision of approaching him.

"Excuse me, I'm going for some fresh air." You walked away from him as fast as you could.

Stepping out on the balcony, you shivered when the cool air kissed your skin. A coat would've been smarter than a slit in your dress, but freezing to death was better than hearing one more fucking joke about women. You just hoped Alfred, or Arthur, or whatever the fuck his name was, wasn't going to come looking for you. Leaning on the handrail, you sighed. What were you going to do? How were you going to work with Viktor for an indefinite amount of time? There was so much uncertainty about the future, and it scared you. The responsibilities of leading a guild scared you. The changes in your routine scared you. The idea of working with someone who hated you scared you.

The speech! You forgot about the blasted speech, and you ran back inside at the right time. Councillor Shoola invited you on the stage just as you entered the ballroom, and with a fake smile and complaisant nods, you walked up the few steps, blinded by the lights directed on you. Shoola shook your hand, and awarded you with a silver pin — a symbol of your new status as Guild Leader. The amount of people staring at you was overwhelming, but you took a deep breath in and adjusted microphone on the stand. When you looked down at your hands, you were surprised to find them empty. Where were the cards you had prepared? Where was your speech?

Then you remembered the balcony. You had forgotten the cards outside. Shit. Fuck. No matter, you could improvise. Even if your throat was dry, and your legs were numb, you could improvise. You did that before, plenty of times. But the hundreds of eyes that stared into your soul made it impossible to think, to breathe, to exist.

Um, good evening, everyone." You started, eyes narrowed down on Mel, who nodded in encouragement. Licking your chapped lips, you continued. "It brings me great honour to stand here in front of you..." Cringing at the crack in your voice, you found Jayce, who beamed at you, like he always did. That gave you a bit more hope. "...as the new Master of Arts."

You couldn't do this. 

They weren't looking at you, they were looking inside of you. They could see every fibre of your body, every imperfection, every weakness. You tried closing your eyes and pretending they weren't there, but when you opened them, it was worse. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you tried to steady your breathing, to stop yourself from hyperventilating. 

A pair of soft amber eyes found yours, and you couldn’t believe how calming they were. Even after the fiasco that was your meeting with Viktor, you still found inspiration in him, and that offended you. 

"We are here to celebrate a marriage." You spoke with newfound confidence stemming from sheer anger. "A marriage between science and art. A sacred union that some find ridiculous, others impossible. I find it a splendid symbiosis of reason and emotion. Too long art and science have mutually excluded each other, and while they both individually progressed immeasurably, their union has the potential to break boundaries, to make new discoveries, to bring people together. I will proudly represent the Guild of Artists in this new and fascinating adventure. Thank you, Councillors, for the distinction bestowed upon me. Thank you to Professor Heimerdinger for allowing this journey to happen. And thank you to everyone who believes in this pursuit of knowledge."

[petalbcrnes]

hey, I don't know if you take requests but could you write an AU where Jason is phantom of the opera and christine is reader?? ;))

❛ 𝓑eloved 𝓖host .ᐟ ❜ — phantom of the opera!j. todd

── SYNOPSIS: 𝓙𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 as the phantom of the opera and you — his angel of music.

── 💬 a/n: did a double take when i got the request for this work because i vaguely remember writing a small blurb about this. this was read by a beta reader (first time for me so the writing style might be different since we changed some things).

⋮ ⌗ MAIN DIRECTORY.

JASON TODD comes back from the lazarus pit changed: his body and mind feels contorted; the scars on his body run like restless rivers across the rocky shore—he came back, yes, but returned wrong.

He is a man presumed dead, scarred and hiding beneath the crumbling theater, surrounded by old books, forgotten sheet music, and the past he left in the casket he broke out of, buried under dirt and the earth he crawled from. He wears a dark half-mask to cover the damage—tainted and marred. No longer the boy he once was, he’s raw, angry, and obsessive.

In his mind, the only semblance of touch he’ll receive is the torn-open surface of his bloody knuckles across his jagged skin.

But then, you appear.

A new understudy to the lead soprano, you’re reserved but talented, your voice gentle and aching with emotion. You come from humble beginnings, and no one expects much from you. But he hears you. The Phantom.

When he sees you—a face he’ll never forget, because to never see your face again is what grief is. Jason sees your halo and he wants it, desperately craves for your tender hands to cup his face and for your innocent eyes to cut into his soul.

It’s a complicated and tangled kind of love. He doesn’t find himself worthy of your light. Being fully vulnerable under it makes him shake, but for once the feeling isn’t born out of fear.

Jason sees you as one of the holiest beings in the world, you’re his muse, his lifeline, his hope and tether. He’d do anything to keep you here.

That’s when the letters—elegant and precise—start showing up. The cursive letter ‘J’ is inscribed into every one of them. There’s a different kind of intimacy woven into these letters. You find them tucked away in your private room, away from the rest of the bristling opera. You feel as if you’re touching the sender’s skin when your fingers glide over the letter’s surface—expensive paper, only the best for you.

They sometimes contain vocal tips and sometimes cryptic warnings about the opera: ‘stay away from the man with the pretty suits’ (your patron, possibly Bruce or another Wayne).

The notes never stop. They keep showing up. Your vanity always holds a message from the voice you’ve grown so used to—‘don’t let them drown you in their gold and jealousy, you were made for the stage.’

Jason would slowly start showing himself to you. During your practice you’d hear a voice—hoarse but gentle—“You’re pushing too hard in the upper range. Relax your throat. Let it break if it needs to.” And you listen. He watches his muse—you—molding yourself in his eye. You welcome the voice now. It is your only comfort in this opera—the one thing truly yours.

The roses only further this. They appear all over, but for only you to see. It is as if no one else notices the blood-red roses across the building. But you do. You know they’re meant for you—only for you.

Jason swears he’ll have his angel, and you don’t mind being with the phantom either.

The first time you catch a glimpse of him, it’s a shadow darting behind a column, a flash of dark fabric disappearing into the darkness. The theater staff whisper of a ghost, a specter haunting the halls, but you know better. You’ve felt his presence, read his words, heard his voice—this is no ghost, but a man, flesh and blood, hiding from the world that once abandoned him.

One night, after a particularly grueling rehearsal, you find yourself alone in the dimly lit practice room. Your voice had faltered on the high notes, and the director’s criticism still rings in your ears. Tears threaten to spill as you gather your sheet music, when suddenly, the air shifts.

“They don’t understand what you’re capable of,” the familiar voice whispers, closer than ever before. “They never will.”

You turn, heart racing, and there he stands—partially concealed in shadow, the white half-mask gleaming in the low light. His eyes, sea-green and luminous, watch you with an intensity that steals your breath. The scars on the visible portion of his face tell stories of suffering you can barely imagine.

“You’ve been watching me,” you say, voice steady despite your trembling hands.

“I’ve been teaching you,” he corrects, taking a cautious step forward. “Guiding you.”

The distance between you feels electric, charged with months of unspoken connection. His hands—scarred, calloused—clench at his sides, as if he’s fighting the urge to reach for you.

“Why me?” you ask, though deep down, you already know the answer.

“Because,” Jason says, his voice breaking slightly, “when you sing, I remember what it was like to be alive.”

In that moment, standing in the half-light with the Phantom of the Opera House, you realize you’ve already fallen—not with fear, but with a strange, inevitable gravity, toward this broken man who sees in you something no one else ever has.

“Teach me more,” you whisper, extending your hand into the space between you, an invitation he never expected to receive.

Your eyes truly do cut into him like razors. He can feel the blood tickle down from his being—a painful ecstasy he has never felt before. The way your thighs pull closer into eachother and the dim, but dangerous way your eyes trail over him tells him you want this too.

And when his trembling fingers finally meet yours, it feels like the beginning of a dangerous, beautiful melody that neither of you can resist playing to its end.

♥︎ . .. ♥︎ .. ♥︎

© 📞 petalbcrnes | all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, or modified. viewer discretion is advised.

[xoxoskai]

NIKOBRAN HEADCANNONS

to keep you going this last week before God of Fury drops<3

Between all his sons-in-law, Brandon is Kyle's favorite.

Levi's is Mia (cousin-fuckers who stole his son and daughter he'll always beef with)

Brandon and Niko are the type of relatives to wear matching clothes on Christmas because Niko would take up any chance to wear matching anything with Brandon.

If and when Brandon bakes, no one gets a chance to even taste what he made before Niko devours it all.

The only place Niko can fall asleep in at record speed is Brandon's arms.

The only reason Niko teaches Brandon how to drive a bike is so he can put his arms around his boyfriend's slutty waist boyfriend.

Remi is terrified on Brandon's behalf.

"Bran, yes, he's hot but mate, look at that guy! He has some skin on those tattoos!"

Astrid shares Remi's concerns but soon comes to find out that Niko is the biggest goofball of sunshine and almost adopts him.

Surprisingly, the one who takes the longest to accept Brandon is Rai. Because it's not her first time meeting the Kings (hello, she's a far relative) and she's worried that her oldest who is actually tender hearted and plagued by demons of his past, might be crushed beyond repair if Brandon hurt him.

Brandon and Landon think they can get away with tricking their in-laws by dressing as each other but they underestimate the Sokolov-Hunters who told them apart the moment they walked in.

Brandon tried it on Niko once when he first divulged about how Maya and Mia used to do it, but Niko could tell Brandon apart from his "psycho" brother in a heartbeat.

"It's your eyes" He had murmured. "Yours sparkle"

Glyndon is weary of Niko but as long as Brandon's happy, she's happy.

Landon is supremely unhappy.

When Landon first opposes their relationship by threatening Niko, Niko flings back "Remember who you're dating and what I mean to them" back at him.

Niko and Landon almost kill each other multiple times.

If there's someone even more unhappy than Landon, it's Crieghton.

Creighton: "Does this mean I can't fight him anymore?" Elsa: "Why were you fighting him before this?!" Creighton: "Is anyone else hearing this buzzing? I should go check."

Niko goes feral whenever he sees Brandon shirtless and vice-versa but

Niko is always shirtless, so Brandon is always suffering.

Unlike Niko, Brandon doesn't carry him into a dark corner to immediately fuck.

If there's no scene of Brandon asking Niko "Who's fucking you?" Rina, you'll hear from my therapist. And if there's not a single, evil, unhinged Brandon moment where Niko is flabbergasted at the change and is accusing him of being two-faced at which Brandon will laugh, lean in and ask tauntingly "What are you going to do? Tell on me?" I will sue.

Brandon's muse is Niko. (Bitch, I said what I said)

Unlike Landon, Brandon doesn't divulge this piece of information to his boyfriend because he does not want to give Niko even more reasons to walk around with lesser clothes.

Brandon gets a tattoo for Niko on his ribs. (cue feral Nikolai)

After which Niko tries to get Brandon's name tattooed on his favorite organ, but Jeremy literally deadlocks the door to his room to keep him inside after Niko asked for opinions in their group chat about his decision.

Niko: You don't think it's romantic? Jeremy, Killian, Gareth, Landon, Eli, Creighton, Remi:

They've definitely rolled around in paint and fucked on a canvas after it. Niko would display it in the entryway of their house if Brandon let him.

They've also joined the mile high club.

After they get engaged, Brandon calls him by his full-name as in "Nikolai Sokolov-Hunter-King" just to piss him off but Nikolai loves being associated to Brandon in every possible way, so it backfires.

Their wedding bands have each other's name inscribed in them.

As does the underside of their ring fingers in the other's handwriting.

Nikolai tries drawing a heart over the i in his name and almost gets smacked.

[arylleth]

" the hand hs twenty—seven bonese. each of mine missess each of yours "

in that stark declaration, i find the quiet agony of separation—a reminder that even as we reach out, the structure of our flesh, the very architecture of our bones, delineates us into islands of solitary experience. i think of marcel proust’s meditation on time and memory, where every tick of the clock reminds us of irrevocable distance between moments, and in this case, between our very selves.

consider the hand: a marvel of evolutionary geometry, a structure wrought with precision and mystery. twenty-seven bones, each a silent testament to the journey of life, each one a cryptic syllable in the language of our corporeal existence. yet, as the phrase suggests, there is a cruel irony in the fact that despite their shared form and function, no bone in my hand finds its perfect counterpart in yours. It is as though the human condition itself is inscribed in our anatomy—a relentless dance of symmetry and divergence.

i recall the words of shakespeare in hamlet: "there are more things in heaven and earth, horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." so too, do we find that the structure of our being belies a hidden complexity. our bones—each slender, each curved—are not mere relics of physical form, but living symbols of our individual narratives. they whisper of our unique journeys, of the paths we have taken and those left unexplored. In their very absence of overlap, there lies a testimony to our social, philosophical, and even anthropological divide.

in the grand tapestry of humanity, our disjointed skeletal melodies speak to the core of what it means to be human. we are, like the fragmented metaphors of t.s. eliot’s modern verse, a collage of broken pieces yearning for connection. our bones, disparate yet intricately intertwined in the dance of evolution, remind us that our differences are not failures of unity but the very pulse of existence—a singular beauty in disunion. each individual, with its unique assembly of twenty-seven bones, carries the legacy of ancestral stories, of struggles and triumphs woven into the fabric of our species.

yet, this very divergence calls us to an introspective inquiry: can the recognition of our profound physical distinctions foster a deeper empathy, a more intricate understanding of the human condition? the sociologist zygmunt bauman might argue that our modern society, in its ceaseless quest for sameness and unity, often forgets that our differences—much like the unmatching bones in our hands—are what truly bind us in the human narrative. they are the silent muses of our cultural and existential dialogues, urging us to celebrate not the mimicry of the identical, but the unique cadence of each individual life.

thus, in this reflective solitude, i am drawn to the inescapable truth: that in our distinct, unaligned structures, there is a sublime call for a communion of souls—a gathering of fractured elements to form a mosaic that is richer and more resonant for its very imperfections. the bones in our hands, forever unpaired, stand as a metaphor for the inherent beauty of our separation and the hopeful promise that, despite the gaps, our lives can converge in a symphony of shared meaning. just hold my hand, and i 'll hold yours.

[preraphaelitepaintings]

A Vision of Fiammetta

Artist: Dante Gabriel Rossetti (English, 1828–1882)

Date: 1878

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Private Collection

Description

The painting was one half of one of Rossetti's "double works", accompanying his Ballads and Sonnets (1881). Maria Spartali Stillman modelled for the painting. The subject of painting is Boccaccio's muse named Fiammetta.

The frame of the painting is inscribed with three texts: the sonnet by Boccaccio entitled "On his Last Sight of Fiammetta," which inspired the painting; Rossetti's translation of it, and his own poem mirroring the painting:

Behold Fiammetta, shown in Vision here.

Gloom-girt 'mid Spring-flushed apple-growth she stands; And as she sways the branches with her hands, Along her arm the sundered bloom falls sheer, In separate petals shed, each like a tear; While from the quivering bough the bird expands His wings. And lo! thy spirit understands Life shaken and shower'd and flown, and Death drawn near.

All stirs with change. Her garments beat the air: The angel circling round her aureole Shimmers in flight against the tree's grey bole: While she, with reassuring eyes most fair, A presage and a promise stands; as 'twere

On Death's dark storm the rainbow of the Soul.

[6ixtoru]

TRADITION SAYS ᝰ K. NANAMI

w.c 585 ꒱ fem! reader

ᯓ★ nanami's temporary silence humoured her

“It’s bad luck to see me before the wedding.” She softly mused.

The man in question remained remorseless.

His soul, nestled with tradition, which would have typically reeled back in disbelief, succumbed to his unusual impatience by pardoning his decision to dishonour decade-old customs.

His heart was soon to be legally roped by an endless scripture inscribed with not only his consent to this union - but with cursive letters strung to formulate paragraphs brimmed with gratification for the day he was to home a diamond atop her fourth finger - which was finally today.

As her palms manoeuvred south, soothing over the chapels of his exquisite suit of identical textiles, his organ restrained beneath the ensemble of his wedding attire, gently thrummed, reciprocal of her touch as her dainty hands rested a few centimetres above his pectorals

“I’m aware, love,” he expressed lowly, hazel eyes strewn from a melodic harp’s chords studying the orbs, still somewhat surprised he had wandered away from his station, which was to be at the end of the alter, awaiting her presence.

Nanami’s own hand placement remained stitched to her hip, savouring the blanche satin tailored to snuggly sculpt her heavenly silhouette and the stark contrast of the silky fabric enticing the calloused landscape of a working man.

Shame almost derided him and the slight discomfort stirring in his lower half as in a couple of hours; he anticipated the lustrous cloth of white balled within his grasp: the semblance to chaste caressing his thick digits, which had not remained as such, a divine envision.

The opulent fabric was a mere distraction by cloaking practice vows his ardent mouth had smooched against her body during their sexual rendezvouses during their time as boyfriend and girlfriend. Every amorous advancement was instead a bout of devotion he murmured against her soft flesh that permeated beneath her skeletal protection, garnering a shudder, a delicate moan, or both.

As y/n subconsciously nabbed at the navy handkerchief peeking out his breast pocket, she chuckled to herself, visualising Nanami plucking the neatly folded material from its suffocating confines to dab dry the prick of a stream nourishing his waterline whilst witnessing her poised figure leisurely unite with his embrace, the bop of his Adam’s apple a hefty gulp of finality she was to be his under legal pretences, a long-awaited moment and insinuation no man beside himself could sincerely or even attempt to state she was theirs. 

Alternatively, Nanami took note of the minuscule embellishments of priceless pearls adorning her customised gown, a semi-extensive width of fragile tulle delicately draped atop her head partnered to complete her wedding look.

He reached behind her head, stepping back once acquiring the matrimonial headpiece whilst she and the time glaring behind them, which had been ushering them to respect both their time allocated slot for this venue and their guests’ effort of reaching here on time, both paused.

The clock’s arms softened, hesitating by a mere second to witness the intimate ceremony between themselves before being observed by a swarm of onlookers.

Her vision became obscured by ivory netting, mascara-coated lashes tickling against the diaphanous veil that now vaguely concealed her beguiling portrait.

In return, she lifted her gaze onto the man she would meet once more in a few minutes to officiate their companionship.

“But forgive me, dear,” Nanami spoke, seeking remission, although his expression of adoration illustrated he didn’t quite care whether his repentance was acknowledged. “I just couldn’t help myself.”.

a/n: reblogs and hearts appreciated

a/n: reblogs and hearts appreciated!

© 6ixtoru all rights are reserved. do NOT repost or copy my work

[seethesin]

rotaries and roses

pairing: Tattoo Artist!Corky x Florist!F!Reader

tags/warnings: modern au, tattoo artist/florist trope, first time tattoos, suggestive themes, cursing, teasing

a/n: requested by anonymous here. this was my biggest challenge yet because... this is smut free and i don't have tattoos 😭 i hope you guys don't mind how many liberties i took with this! as there are no gif hunts of gina as corky, this will have a gifless format. enjoy! 🥰

You found yourself at Corky's by the recommendation of a close friend. Every time you mentioned your desire for a tattoo, they would practically beg you to give the tattoo shop a chance before pulling up their Instagram page. The first thing you noticed was the address. The tattoo shop was on the same street as your flower shop; how you hadn't noticed it sooner was beyond you.

Your friend was right. You needed to take your ass over there. And now, there was no excuse not to.

Out of all the artists featured, the owner, Corky, had your favorite designs. Her Neo-Traditional style blew you away, and it was the post featuring a canvas with an array of roses that sealed the deal. They had always been your favorite flower, regardless of the stereotypical label they held. Every bouquet of roses that leaves your shop always receives your special attention. They never fail to bring a smile to your face, regardless of the color, quantity, or occasion. To have them on your body felt right to you and you wanted them in Corky's signature style.

You spent the rest of that evening mulling over what you wanted. It took you a few more days, but finally, you came to a decision. You wanted a ram surrounded by Corky's roses. A ribbon would wind around the portrait of the ram with the phrase: My will is sturdy inscribed on it. The design was perfect and you knew Corky would do your vision justice.

Your consultation was the first time you meant Corky outside of emailing her. A studded leather jacket was haphazardly thrown over her white tank top. You couldn't tell what brand of jeans she wore, but they did wonders for her legs. Her steel-toed boots clicked on the hardwood floor as she came to greet you. You accepted her offered hand into a shake and couldn't stop yourself from memorizing the callouses on her palm within those few, fleeting seconds. Her brown hair was perfectly unkempt and a permanent, knowing smirk was glued onto her face.

"I'm Corky."

She was hot. You were fucked.

After your initial greetings, she brought you to the back where her desk was so you both could work through your design. You found as many references as possible, including the same array of roses you saw on her shop's Instagram page. Corky chuckled fondly as she examined the canvas, lips quirking into a genuine smile.

"This is some of my older work," she mused as if she was warning you. Her gaze flickered through her lashes, brow quirked inquisitively at you.

"It's one of my favorites," you admit and Corky's smile only grows at your confession.

The close proximity allows you to catch onto her scent: fresh smoke and citrus. You want her to tattoo it into your lungs.

"Give me an hour and I'll have something nice for you. I'll call you when I'm finished."

One phone call later and you were back in her shop. Unsure of proper etiquette in the tattooing world, you had brought back coffee for both yourself and Corky. You needed a pick me up and it felt strange not to share with her. Shyly, you offered her a cup which she graciously accepted. Your guess of Corky taking her coffee black was right; you swallow a smile at the thought. She leads you back to her desk so she can present you her work.

It's overwhelming how beautiful Corky's art is. Everything about it is perfect and truly, you can't think of anything else to add, remove, or change. The roses woven through the ram's horns, the brilliant blue outline, and the delicate font she chose for the banner were small details you would have never considered on your own.

Your lack of a verbal response makes Corky laugh, leaning in closer.

"Stunned ya speechless, huh?" she teased and you can't help but laugh with her.

"It's gorgeous, Corky."

There's something on Corky's tongue as she pauses. Silently, you watch her shake whatever thought it was away before refocusing on you.

"Where do you want this?"

You pause to think.

"I think my thigh would be the best. I've read that it's one of the better places to get your first tattoo."

This information slaps a smile back on her face.

"You read right. That works for me."

Soon after, you discuss the rest of the housekeeping tasks regarding your tattoo. Once you put an initial deposit down, you decide on a date a month later. You bid Corky goodbye and return to your flower shop to close up for the night. Before you retire to bed, you start working on a custom rose bouquet for one of your clients.

The roses are beautifully crimson, just like the ones Corky drew for you.

"I'll be with ya in a moment!" A disembodied voice calls from the next room over at the sound of the doorbell. You nod—more to yourself—before shutting the door behind you.

A month blew by quicker than you anticipated. Tonight, you found yourself awkwardly stationed at the front door of Corky’s tattoo shop with a cup of coffee in each hand. On her recommendation, you came well-fed, hydrated, and with eight hours of sleep under your belt. You donned a loose, simple dress, figuring it would make Corky's job tonight easier.

What you didn't realize was that she booked you as her closer tonight. The shop was empty and immediately, you felt yourself sweating. Silently, you asked whatever higher powers existed to refrain from making you out into a fool tonight.

Shifting on your heels, you visibly brighten at the sound of Corky's boots thundering towards you. She appears from the backroom, grinning ear to ear as she walks towards you. She's clad in another plain white tank top and dark jeans, revealing the complex sleeves her leather jacket hid. The most notable tattoo is of a labrys on her upper arm.

"Hey stranger," she greets, raising her brows as you offer her a coffee cup. "You spoil me; thank you."

You don't miss the way her eyes drag down your frame.

Corky's fingers slide against yours as she takes the coffee from you. Her touch is electric and you hold back from shivering. If something so innocuous got to you, you don't know how you'll last tonight.

"My pleasure." You don't mean to sound so breathless, but you were currently recovering from her touch. Corky merely smiles and beckons you to follow her. You do so wordlessly, stepping up and over to her workstation.

She sifts through her desk before pulling out the stencil of your tattoo. Turning on her heel, she presents it to you and you nearly choke on your coffee.

It’s perfect.

Every detail from her initial artwork has been transcribed onto the stencil. You find yourself hypnotized as you lean in closer. It needs to be on your body now.

"Corky," you start and she laughs, gesturing for you to sit in the chair. You do so quickly, placing your belongings on an empty side table out of the way.

"Don't go worshipping me yet," she teases, easily picking up on the dreaminess laced in your voice.

She drags over a small, wheeled cart, completely set up for your session. You're unfamiliar with everything on it, but you watch carefully as she sets up her rotary machine. After checking to make sure you didn't have a latex allergy, Corky puts on a pair of black, single-use gloves.

"I still gotta tattoo it."

Pulling her stool over, her gloved hand goes to your thigh. The edge of her thumb grazes the hem of your dress and tenderly—so tenderly you might faint—she pushes the skirt up. You meet her in the middle, pulling it the rest of the way so it settles just over your hips. Cool air immediately rushes between your thighs and you've never felt more exposed. Corky guides your leg towards her and the thought of her face buried in your cunt flashes in your mind. Swiftly, you shake it away.

You allow her to position you as she sees fit while she preps your skin. Once satisfied, she presses the stencil to your skin to transfer the design. It takes all of your restraint to stay still and on the chair. How were you going to make it through a two hour session?

"Go check it out in the mirror." Corky points her thumb behind her and her voice sucks you back from your reverie.

Holding your dress skirt up, you walk to the wall mirror and examine the design. Turning to her, you hold a thumb up as she stares intensely at the exposed flesh. She hums in approval and you hurry back onto the chair. You get comfortable and again, Corky's hands are on your thigh. She's readjusting you and your teeth dig into the inside of your cheek to keep from moaning.

"Are you ready?"

You nod.

"Let's begin."

The first ten minutes are relatively quiet. The buzz of the rotary is the only thing distracting you from the dull pain in your thigh. Well, that and the fact that her other hand is gripping your thigh in a way that makes your head spin. Corky pipes up first over the noise.

"What do you do?"

You beam; you adore answering this question.

"I'm a florist!" You watch as Corky's brows raise in interest, her gaze intensely fixed on your leg as she works. "I actually own the flower shop just up the street."

The buzzing stops completely and her eyes are glued to your face, lips parted in surprise.

"You own Fern & Flora?"

You nod proudly, practically glowing from the recognition.

"No shit; one of my girls, Sue, is there every two weeks buying flowers for her girlfriend."

Corky's machine whirs back to life and the prickly pain on your thigh returns. You hum to yourself, going over a mental list of your regulars and who could fit the profile Corky described.

"She's always going on about how her girlfriend likes the—"

"Violets." You finish thoughtfully, unable to stop the genuine smile growing across your face. "Margaret's favorite flowers are violets and Sue never lets me forget it."

You watch the way Corky's face softens as you speak. Her thumb presses against your inner thigh and your breath hitches quietly in your throat.

"What's your favorite flower?"

Staring down at her in disbelief, a chuckle pushes from your throat. You gesture to the tattoo she was currently working on, hoping to highlight the array of roses she was getting ready to outline.

"Do you even have to ask?"

Corky's shoulders raise into a shrug, glancing up at you quickly before refocusing on your thigh.

"Hey, forgive me for making small talk." The smile in her voice is evident and you find yourself grinning along with her.

"What's your favorite flower?" You toss the question back to Corky, ready to take her answer and brand it into the back of your mind.

She takes a moment to think about your question. If it wasn't obvious already, you could tell that this was something Corky hadn't previously thought about.

"I think I'm going to have to swing by your shop at some point to answer that question."

You can't help but blush. Was she flirting with you?

"I'd like that," you admit, fiddling with your fingernails.

Corky doesn't respond, instead reabsorbing herself back into her work. But a sly smirk plays on her lips and you have to stare up at the ceiling to keep your thoughts at bay.

"I think you'd like cornflowers." You finally state after a minute of silence. The cool colors and perky petals reminded you of Corky's persona. The bouquets that you crafted with them were some of your favorites so far.

"I think I'd like anything you recommend."

Okay, she's definitely flirting with you. Brazenly, you reply with: "Then I recommend you visit me sooner rather than later."

"Oh yeah?" There's a teasing edge in Corky's voice and you feel the warmth rise to your cheeks. Her voice drops an octave lower and you've completely disregarded the pain in your thigh. "And why's that?"

In that moment, you’ve forgotten everything about yourself. The only things you could comprehend were Corky’s hands groping your flesh and the irritating whizzing of the rotary. You suddenly feel hot and the idea of stripping your dress off grows more attractive with each passing second.

“I want to make a bouquet for you.” The sentence is rushed from your own nervousness, but you mean every word. “The sooner you stop by, the better of a selection I’ll still have for the season.”

Caught off guard, Corky sputters out a cough. However, she doesn’t stop working. The machine is still on as she finishes the outline of your tattoo without issue. You glance down curiously and witness her face flush crimson. A delighted giggle squeezes from your throat and you swear Corky blushes deeper than before.

“I’ll come by tomorrow.”

Your laughter is replaced with a kind smile. “Promise?”

She nods.

The rest of your session goes swiftly. Corky works like a machine: detailed, efficient, and insanely accurate. Your small talk comes and goes in waves, more so that she can focus on her work above all else. With a final wipe of her towel, your tattoo is finished two hours later. She grins eagerly before looking up at you.

"Wanna check it out?"

You don't miss a beat: "Uh, of course!"

You practically spring off the chair, stretching your legs as you scurry over to the mirror. The hem of your dress is still bawled in your fists as you stare at your thigh. You can hear Corky snickering at you while you fawn over her work.

"Holy shit..." You are awestruck and you turn to her, gaping before turning back to the mirror.

"It looks incredible," she agrees, discarding her gloves before pulling the rolling cart over to the side and out of the way. She goes to her workstation, pulls a few documents out, and scribbles something down as you continue to gape and stare at your new tattoo.

You return to Corky's workstation, gathering your belongings as you ready your wallet. She turns to face you again, handing you paperwork and guidance on how to maintain your new tattoo. You listen to her instructions carefully, unable to stop yourself from staring at her chapped lips every few moments.

"Do you have any questions?" You shake your head, averting your gaze to the papers she gave you. It essentially regurgitated what she said aloud, but you were thankful to have something written to refer to. Corky had also included her business card that you examined, noting the handwritten number just below her professional contact information.

"Actually, I do have a question," you start, not looking up from the papers in your hands. "Do you give all of your clients your personal number?"

Turning the documents to Corky, you point at the handwritten digits just below her work email. She flushes briefly before clearing her throat.

"Well no," she starts and a grin is already curling on your lips, watching as she gathers her thoughts. "But I figured it would make sense to give it to you. For tomorrow."

You hum thoughtfully, glancing over at her workstation before looking at her.

"Can I borrow that?" You gesture at a Sharpie marker on the side and she snatches it up before handing it to you.

"Give me your arm."

Corky stares at you, bewildered by your demand, but obediently offers her right arm to you. Your fingers clasp her wrist, outstretching it so that her fingertips just barely graze the top of your chest.

You miss the sharp inhale Corky takes.

Carefully, you jot your phone number down, making sure to avoid writing over the pinup girl tattoo facing you. Once finished, you push the cap back on and place the marker in her open palm.

"For tomorrow," you parrot, giddily watching the flustered look wash over Corky's face. She nods quickly, clutching the marker before stammering for you to follow her so she can take the rest of your payment. You trail behind her, already working out flower combinations in your mind for Corky's bouquet.

Out of all the ones you can think of, cornflowers and roses are the most fitting.

🦇 tag list: @crvptidsmain, @astroph1les, @uraesthete

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 131 (The Gold Medallion)

Heather and Spencer were both grateful when the antidote arrived by morning. Spencer met a local merchant near the cantina for the medicine while Heather stayed in bed to rest. Once she drank it she felt better, if still a little nauseous, but after lunch the girls decided to venture to the museum.

They set up a few dig sites and found a few relics, but when the sun got too hot, the women changed into sundresses.

Finally, the sun was so hot they gave up digging and took shelter inside the museum. Walking through different rooms to view the priceless artifacts on display, Heather stopped when her phone beeped with an incoming text.

Suri keeps talking about getting married after her Aunt Elsa's death and I think she's going to propose to me. What should I say?!?

(I know that's not what the pop up says, but if I make these canon, they can't all be the same scenario as a ring in a bag!)

Heather was surprised to learn Hazel and Suri were already thinking about marriage, and she didn't feel equipped to offer advice one way or another.

This is a big decision and you should decide this for yourself, Dandelion. Love you.

She thought her answer more than sufficient, but Hazel was clearly upset and texted back quickly.

I thought I could really rely on you for life advice, sis. If I knew what to do, I wouldn't have to ask.

Heather frowned. That definitely could have gone better.

"Hey Heather, come in here. Come look at this."

She put her phone away and found Spencer in a stone-walled room, standing before a diamond-studded gold medallion inside a glass display. A plaque on the wall revealed the medallion's inscription - found deep inside the Selvadoradian jungle decades earlier, the medallion was inscribed "A gift from Malcom A. Landgraab to Lady Victorine Goth."

Spencer chuckled. "A Lady Goth and a Landgraab? That's a wild combination."

Heather froze. "Lady Victorine Goth and Malcolm A. Landgraab? How old is this necklace?"

"They think it's from the early 20th Century," Spencer read. "Malcolm A. Landgraab was a rancher out west, and Lady Victorine Goth was Lady Ravendancer before her marriage, one of the world's most powerful spellcasters who published a book of spells. But both were married to other people and there's no evidence they ever knew each other."

"Other than this necklace," Heather mused. "I should ask Mortimer Goth about it. Maybe he knows something about them."

"Do you think it'll have something to do with the curse?"

Heather shrugged. "Hopefully there's no curse, but if there is, and it does have something to do with it, I have to know more for Ash's sake."

Despite taking the antidote, Heather still felt feverish and fatigued. They headed back to the rental so she could take a nap, and Spencer took the time to analyze some of her new artifacts.

By dinnertime, Heather was feeling peckish, so they returned to the square for a nice evening in town with the locals. Heather remembered Conrad's fear that they could run into members of Los Tigres de Selva, but she was feeling well enough to really enjoy herself and didn't want to waste the opportunity.

The night was warm, so they both dressed accordingly. On the way into the square, Spencer made an offering to the statue of Madre Cosecha, a Selvadoradian custom.

"She helped settle this place during a time of great famine," explained Spencer. "A true hero. Hopefully she can help keep us safe on our temple dig tomorrow."

Heather smiled. "We should stock up on more supplies, anyway. She would want us to protect ourselves and I don't need another spider bite."

They enjoyed arepas under the lights and chatted proudly about their kids. "Violet gets into everything, and she's got her older brothers wrapped around her grubby little fingers."

"She sounds a lot like Lavender. One minute she's sitting quietly looking through a book, and the next minute she's tearing through the bookshelf. And Ash has me convinced I could design an adventure game featuring stray pets. I even reached out to a philanthropist who loves to help game developers as a hobby named Cal Anthony, Jr. Suri actually recommended him - he's married to her mother's cousin, Olivia - but he said this was totally doable and he'd be happy to mentor me anytime. I think I might actually do it. I even have a name - Furever Friends: Stray Valley. I couldn't decide which I liked better so I added a colon to use both!"

"That sounds amazing, Heather. I'm sure my kids would love to play a game like that! How are things with you and Ash's dad these days?"

"As good as they've ever been, probably. Even when we dated. It's sort of strictly professional between us, but Ash comes home happy from spending time with Malcolm's family, so I can't complain. I guess they just got a new puppy, too."

"The kids won't stop trying to convince us to get another dog," Spencer moaned. "I think we're hoping to change their minds with a hamster, if anything."

When they finished eating, they moved to the cantina, where Heather decided to autonomously mix drinks at the crowded bar. Spencer danced the Selvadoradian rhumba in the courtyard while she talked Omiscan mythology with the locals. She was an expert in Selvadoradian customs after all her time spent in the temples and among the people, and she never tired of talking about the secrets of Selvadorada's past.

Their night continued until Heather began to feel feverish and fatigued again. Though the antidote had seemed to work, the women didn't want to take any chances and called it a night.

As long as Heather was feeling well enough, they had a temple to explore before returning home. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

Landgraab Curse you say?! More on that, here, if you want to know more.

A massive shout out to @opalsimmer and @berrysims-lp, whose sims Lucia, Silas, Neve, and Terrell first saw this medallion inside the Selvadorada museum! I recreated it in my game with @opalsimmer's help and intend to explore this mysterious Landgraab/Goth lore. (Uncovering some family secrets, of course!)

And thank you @oimygiblets for letting me make Calivia Forever canon even though your story takes place about three decades before mine!! And @opalsimmer and @matchalovertrait for naming Heather's video game! 🙌🙌🙌

[aliciavance4228]

this is a weird ask, but do you know of a source where Boreas is the wind god who kills Hyacinthus instead of Zephyrus? Madeline Miller included that variation of the myth in her book and Wikipedia says that there are versions where Boreas is the killer but I can’t find any 😭

Nonnus, Dionysiaca:

"When Bacchos lifted his thyrsus against a maddened bear, or cast his stout fennel javelin-like at a lioness, he looked aside watchfully toward the west; for fear the deathbringing breath of Zephyros might blow again, as it did once before when the bitter blast killed a young man while it turned the hurtling quoit against Hyacinthos. He feared Cronides might suddenly appear over Tmolos as a love-bird on amorous wing unapproachable, carrying off the boy with harmless talons into the air, as once he did the Trojan boy to serve his cups. He feared also the lovestricken ruler of the sea, that as once he took up Tantalides in his golden car, so now he might drive a winged wagon coursing through the air and ravish Ampelos – the Earthshaker mad with love!"

Pausanias, Description of Greece:

"Wrought on the altar is also Heracles; he too is being led to heaven by Athena and the other gods. On the altar are also the daughters of Thestius, Muses and Seasons. As for the West Wind, how Apollo unintentionally killed Hyacinthus, and the story of the flower, we must be content with the legends, although perhaps they are not true history."

Lucian, Dialogues of the Dead:

"NO: I grieve for my beloved; the Laconian, the son of Oibalus. HERM: Hyacinth? he is not dead? AP: Dead. HER: Who killed him? Who could have the heart? That lovely boy! AP: It was the work of my own hand. HERM: You must have been mad! AP: Not mad; it was an accident. HERM: Oh? and how did it happen? AP: He was learning to throw the quoit, and I was throwing with him. I had just sent my quoit up into the air as usual, when jealous Zephyr (damned be he above all winds! he had long been in love with Hyacinth, though Hyacinth would have nothing to say to him) — Zephyr came blustering down from Taygetus, and dashed the quoit upon the child's head; blood flowed from the wound in streams, and in one moment all was over. My first thought was of revenge; I lodged an arrow in Zephyr, and pursued his flight to the mountain. As for the child, I buried him at Amyclae, on the fatal spot; and from his blood I have caused a flower to spring up, sweetest, fairest of flowers, inscribed with letters of woe. — Is my grief unreasonable? HERM: It is, Apollo. You knew that you had set your heart upon a mortal: grieve not then for his mortality."

Here are a few sources. There you go!

[gerard-lange-art-journals]

For many years, I've carried a pocket notebook in which I inscribe daily musings, documentary information, grocery lists, etc., etc. These informational notes find their way into the art journals that are most often completed back home in my studio. Fully completed notebooks are archived in handmade book boxes.

Gerard Lange art journals, Appendix J, Notebooks (book box), hosing daily and event-specific notebooks, 30.5 x 22.5 x 12.5 cm (12 x 8⅞ x 5 in.).