#i repeat: i am not a painter

[fallbackspringforward]

saw (2004) painting i did a while ago Just For Fun (i am not a painter)

[robo-dino-puppy]

hfw photomode tips! (no. 10)

(as of patch 1.18 on my PS5)

If you’ve ever wanted to take a shot of Aloy without any weapons on her back, it’s technically possible, although not the easiest if you want her in a specific spot, and it will only work if you change her pose. Everyone might know this already, but in case not:

Unequip all your weapons, or select a sling as your active weapon if you won’t be moving the camera behind her. The sling is small and won’t show up in a lot of poses. You’ll still have the spear because you can’t unequip it, but that’s okay.

Either hit R1 for a light attack and move her around to where you want her, or hold R2 for a heavy attack and pause the game (without letting go of R2 so her feet stay on the ground). If the spear is in her hand when you enter photomode and you change her pose, it will disappear.

I really wish I could have used this for the armor gallery, but i needed her in the exact same spot for all the shots and any use of the spear messed it up. But in other situations not requiring precision placement it can work!

find my other photomode tips here!

[taegularities]

entertainer (teaser) | jjk (m)

Summary: Growing singer Jeon Jungkook is as charismatic as he is self-absored – that is, until he meets you. Caught in a web of secrets, he finds a riddle in you he urges to solve; even ready to turn the spotlight towards you until nothing remains… but regret.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: strangers to lovers (or something); angst, bits of fluff, smut ➳ warnings: do not fall for this jk i repeat do not f– 🚨 he's kinda hot though; (not so) silent yearning, flirting, sexual tension, he is so attracted to her :'), mystery, oc is a big question mark, full jk pov!, dark past(s), crying, fear, confrontation and fighting, cocky kook, secrets and revelations, explicit sexual content (kissing, fingering, teasing, drunk shenanigans, sooo much lust, big dick jk, etc.), more warnings on drop day once the fic is finished!! not much for the teaser itself, though <3 ➳ wc: 1.8k :') (around 20k for the full thing) ➳ a/n: scratches head. this has been a long time coming and i'm beyond curious how y'all will like it :') very new and experimental, so let's see how it goes!! as always, drop a message to lmk what you think of this lil glimpse, i'll be waiting with dangling feet hehe!! <3

➳ give the Entertainer playlist a first listen! 🖤   

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs 

“Why are you the textbook definition of a fuckboy, honestly.”

“Fuckbo—”

“Nevermind.”

If he wasn’t well acquainted with this little game, he would’ve missed your subtle, nearly veiled intent to tease. But he’s done that a million times before — hence, catches the faint twitch of your gorgeous lips immediately.

You’re enjoying this. So he should join… right?

Yet.

You’re not being entirely insincere. In fact, he hates how he picks up on the note of truth in your velvety voice.

Trimmed nails scratch the back of his head, and he barely notices once the two of you halt in front of another piece of work. Distracted, he doesn’t bear the art any mind, instead asking, “You really think of me like that?”

You shrug a shoulder. Nonchalance a constant feature, but so natural, even somewhat gentle, that he can’t help but feel drawn to you. “A little.”

“Well, shit.”

“Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the art.”

“Sure.”

Reluctantly, he glances to the canvas. It’s a mess of hues; a random arrangement of spontaneous emotions. Resembles the masterpieces he used to create in Microsoft Paint, back when his legs would still dangle off the chair.

“So,” he starts, nodding towards the painting, “what do you see in this?”

You hesitate. Or maybe it’s not hesitation — more like… a thinking pause. Sometimes, when Jungkook notices a whirring mind, he sees a steaming brain through a skull. Working at full blast.

But somehow, he only recognises a tranquil ocean as he observes you gather your thoughts. Everything about you is tender, but wrapped in dark mystery.

How much mental training does it require to become this inscrutable?

When you finally speak, you’re saying similarly odd things.

“I see… colours.” Right. Stating the obvious. Jungkook chuckles, delivering a head tilt. “And am wondering how the painter got to create this at all. I mean, this looks so meaningless at first, doesn’t it?”

“But it’s not, yeah?”

“We’re fast to think that. Most of the time, there must be a trigger, or a thought on something, no matter how small. Something might have been bothering him. This is—” A hand gestures towards the painting. “Such a chaotic mind.”

Interesting…

“Is this what you usually think about all day?” Jungkook wonders.

You scoff. “I’m just a person, too. I think about a lot of random things.”

“Ahhh. Like what?”

“Like… seeing all the green in this exhibition made me realise how that colour makes me cry.”

Jungkook takes a haphazard look around. Now that you say it — there’s no hint of a nature theme, but the abundance of green is striking. It’s as calm as you. No wonder you’d immerse yourself in a showcase such as this.

You continue, as if tracing and reading his mind like an open novel, “It’s soothing, right? And unique. These earthly things sometimes make me feel like not all of us are deserving of seeing such beauty. Like it should be reserved for those who've earned it.”

Earned it? How? 

Jungkook can’t see your thoughts as clearly as you’re apparently capable of doing, but he has an inkling of what you might mean. Truly dazzling souls merit the stunning bloom of the world, right?

And then…

If that’s what it is.

He wonders — do you think he deserves to see the colour green? Or is it already over if he has to ask? Perhaps, should he be perceiving it as grey right now? He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know how you think of him — doesn’t know anything about you at all. You’re a tough nut to crack. 

“Hmm… that’s a way to think about it,” he says.

“Only because it’s the same for people. And I’ve had this thought about humans a lot… I…” You hesitate, blink, and then grant him your gaze. “I knew someone who was the colour green. Not everyone deserved them, either.”

Someone…

Poetic minds carry a certain pain in their eyes.

He’s been seeing it in yours. He just doesn’t know how to handle it. So he doesn’t. Yet.

Instead, he asks, “What else are you thinking about?”

“Uhmmm,” you voice, straightening your back a little, as if waking up from a dream — a nightmare? “I’ve been thinking about trying that, too. Painting, I mean. It doesn’t have to mean anything or be good. Just a great way to capture something that resonates with what I feel.”

Every word you’ve uttered today was otherworldly. You didn’t talk like this when you were at the meeting, or in his office. Your soul is somewhat free-floating here, and he doesn’t understand why.

And it’s a behaviour he usually strays away from. The vulnerable ones can be dangerous.

But somehow… you’re too strong of a magnet.

One who shrugs all the puzzles away — and he sighs in despair. Maybe it’s not time to find out what you feel just yet. What resonates with you — even though he’s dying to hear it.

He inquires, “Are you always this much of an open book?”

“No. Not at all.” Of course not. Rhetoric question — he knows this much. “But I like thinking out loud sometimes.”

“I’m glad to be a sounding board then.”

“Hah. Well, I was also thinking how I appreciate that I met you here.” Pause. Oh? What a surprise. Strokes his ego, though. And then, out of the blue again, “You wanna go to the museum restaurant?”

Jungkook has barely inhaled half of the exhibition yet. But just for today, he couldn’t care less.

Perhaps this is enough for now, visiting the overpriced restaurant, watching you from afar as you inspect your nails calmly. You’re not busy on your phone like the rest of the crowd — entertained by the same media that he’s part of.

Maybe he can be a bigger part of their lives one day — be the one flitting over their screens, the one they adore. The one they worship.

But you don’t seem to indulge in those mind-numbing devices for now. You might be an addition to his team, but privately, you float in your own world. Distracted by the thoughts you won’t disclose.

Your hands retreat, arms crossing on the table and lips curling into a smile once he strolls back to you. Satisfied, he informs you, “One cake to go with the coffee. As the lady suggested.”

“Oh. One?” you ask, “Don’t you want one?”

“I do.”

“So…” You stall, and he waits until it clicks, your head tilting in understanding. “Are we sharing?”

Jungkook lifts a thumb, pointing over his shoulder, back to the register, “Those chocolate cakes are sweet as hell. I’ve got a sweet tooth, but believe that it’ll be enough for us two.”

You laugh — a candied, disarming chuckle before you breathe an, “Alright.”

Jungkook doesn’t know you well enough to feel any skip of his heart; yet, you stir something else in his mind. While he does avoid them, it’s still always people like you who intrigue him the most — those who veil themselves in a coat of secrets.

He sighs.

“That was fast,” you note, eyes at a point behind him.

And he understands when the waitress arrives a couple moments later, serving two perfectly prepared cappuccinos and a mouth-watering chocolate fudge piece.

You thank her with a gentle smile, and tuck a hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing your dangling silver earring.

And he watches.

Watches as you nod towards him, urging him, “Start then.”

Observes your smile as he signals you to start instead. And he gazes at you as your delicate digits reach for the fork, tearing off a piece, wrapping your lips around the utensil.

And then… oh God.

He feels his guts twist; hears all background noise fade; blood rushing away from his head.

All the way through his body as you slowly relish the sweetness and then drag the wet tip of your tongue over the fork. Licking away the leftover chocolate.

Jungkook swears it happens in slow motion. And witnessing your elegance in snail’s pace… makes him sick.

When your eyelashes flutter, gape lifting to meet his, the sound around him comes alive again — as does he. He averts his stare from your mouth, covered in the same colour as the coffee, but you notice.

You catch him looking. And it makes you… smile? Shit.

But you don’t boast your effect; only digress as you say, “Well… tastes as fancy as it looks. Try.”

You’re as relaxed with him as you can be. But you always are; with everyone. He craves that bit that’s only reserved for him — and maybe he’s too zealous too fast. He hasn’t known you for long.

Making you smile must be an achievement, though, right? If only… you didn’t think of him like…

He nods, and then leans over the table ever-so-slightly. His knees brush against yours, a soft but deliberate move. He places an elbow on the table, grasping the fork, close to you. If he lifted his hand, he could touch your cheek.

He wishes he could.

His eyes meet yours through his bangs, the cake’s taste irrelevant to your presence. And when his ego doesn’t let him live, he finally asks, almost as if insulted, “Do you actually perceive me as a fuckboy?”

The question catches you off guard. You hesitate, furrowing your eyebrows, and then giggle before questioning back, “Jungkook… that’s bothering you this much? Mmmh. How would you like to be perceived?”

“Just. As a decent guy who wants to get to know you. And I know you know.” You blink, but he doesn’t buy it. So he elaborates, “I’ve been trying to make clear that I find you interesting. And somewhat attractive.”

People usually display a flicker of glimmer in their eyes upon hearing such praise. But you don’t budge; in fact, your eyes remain the same, if not a little darker. Why?

Yet, you cock an eyebrow, sporting a teasing, playful tone, “Somewhat, hm?”

He shakes his head, clicks his tongue.

“You’re pretty and I think you know,” he blurts, “and I don’t want to screw up right away.”

Is it the habit of never failing; getting what he wants? The urge to solve an enigma? The chance to dive into you until you’re bared to him? Why are you so interesting to him?

You’re just a person.

Maybe it’s just the unsettling need to discover what you’re hiding — it won’t let him rest. There’s something about you that screams to him to unravel. 

He doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t know if you’re even from the same world as him — even though you seem to have crossed his realm before.

No matter what it is; Jungkook only understands for now that he wants to take off your layers.

Wants you to be the colour green for him. 

wrote most of it now and while sick, so it might change hehe! but i hope it's okay so far, and it shall only get better!! i'm so so excited for this, like i've been working on it and putting thought into it since october, so i hope it's worth the wait <3

as always, send your thoughts, questions, complaints lol lemme know what you think or i might perish sniff. super curious to know!! also, here's the taglistttt 🤍 love and appreciate you all <3

[biolumien]

Hi Hi! first time requesting like this and I just recently finished watching the latest episode of Kaiju number 8. I was wondering if your could write something for Vice Captain Hoshina.

I was thinking something along the lines of a reincarnation storyline? Maybe Reader is a renowned painter or something. And one day they come across a dream of Hoshina in their past life and they paint his face. And Hoshina is suddenly bombarded by a few officers/cadets a few days later about a sudden article blowing up online with a painting that had extremely similar structure to his face. And maybe they'd end up meeting because of it?

I love your writing. Particularly the one with the glasses reader that I read a few days back. You're free to change things as you see fit. And I'm sure whatever you come up with will be very nice. Sorry if my words are confusing. I don't speak english language that well. 😊👌 Thank you if you decide to write for this ask.

notes: ok the way i am. actually obsessed with this i hope you enjoy!!

every 'one line' drawn.

soshiro hoshina x gn!reader no warnings, i think wc: 1768

in your dreams, you always see the same face. red eyes watching your face, purple hair framed over his face and the feeling of a callused hand on your hand, on your cheek. and every time he leans into kiss you, you find yourself pressing your face closer to his, as if desperate, and then you wake up. 

and when you wake up, you always feel the telltale trickle of a tear down your face, the feeling of salt on your tongue. 

there’s no time to wonder what the dreams ever mean, what with your job as a painter. you lived commission to commission—and while your customers were always high brow and paid generously, still meant that you couldn’t be lost in daydreams forever. 

and in your studio, with the pungent smell of turpentine and linseed oil, with your hands inevitably smeared with oil paints, it was easy to forget the stranger whose hands felt rough and weary, and yet held your face with measured gentleness. it was easy to forget him—up until you went back to bed, and you’d always be back in the same dream. 

“i keep seeing you,” you murmur in your dream. “who are you?” 

the man laughs. 

he seems sad, for a second. 

“a dear friend,” he responds. you see it on his face, the way his lips twist at his words, that it’s not quite true. and he leans in again, watching your face. “it’s okay if you don’t remember me.” 

“but i do,” you say in protest. you think you remember this face. “i want to.” 

you must remember this face, surely—this face that, upon your words, looks sadder. and then you wonder if he’s even real—or if this is simply your subconscious, saddened that you can’t remember. saddened that your mind replays this moment, again and again, a repeated brushstroke pulling open the blank canvas underneath. 

“we all want things we can’t have, sometimes,” the man says. 

he leans into kiss you, 

and you jolt up out of bed, awakening to a phone call from your manager. 

“hello…?” you mumble into your phone, pressing it against your cheek as you rub the sleep out of your eyes. “it’s rare you call me randomly like this…” 

“tis no random call,” your manager responds. “you’ve received a request to exhibit some of your works from a museum. will you do it? i hear the pay’s pretty good.”

“mmm… any specific theme?” you ask. 

“not really. they said to let your imagination go wild.” 

“hm.” 

you touch your lips, and when you close your eyes, you see a hint of those crimson eyes again. 

“alright. i think i’ve got a pretty good muse this time,” you say. 

[…]

hoshina wasn’t exactly someone who was very in the know about art. his job, for one, meant that it’s not like he would exactly be interested in art in general, and it’s not like he was even spending his days off on art museum trips or admiring the local art scene. 

so why was it that everyone seemed all abuzz about art today?

and why did it seem like there were more eyes on him than before? not that he particularly abhorred attention or anything, but the eyes seemed to be looking at his face specifically. 

his eyes flit to some of the new officer recruits—iharu, reno, kafka… fuck, even haruichi and aoi? what the hell was going on—huddled around a laptop. haruichi’s brow furrows as he stares at the illuminated screen, and then flits up to look at hoshina. when hoshina stares back, harder, haruichi’s gaze immediately ducks back to the laptop.  

okay. 

well, something was definitely up. 

hoshina strolls over to the recruits, who immediately seem to start panicking—the panic is written across kafka’s face more obviously than the others, and reno elbows kafka in the side. 

“what’s all this about? if you’ve got time to huddle you’ve got time to run laps—” hoshina starts, leaning over at the screen before—

“about that, vice captain,” iharu says. 

hoshina’s in stunned silence staring at the screen, because… isn’t that—

“holy shit,” hoshina says. 

“holy shit indeed,” haruichi says grimly. 

on haruichi’s laptop screen is a painting of— him. hoshina’s damned face, brows gentle and a softened smile on his face. it was a beautiful painting, and yet—there was something sad about the smile, the brows belying deep sorrow. 

“this painter’s pretty well-known, too, aren’t they?” kafka asks. “for like… the psychedelic stuff.” 

“no,” reno says. “they’re like our modern-day monet or something. impressionist paintings.” 

“impressi-what? how do you know this much about art, reno?” iharu asks, wrapping his arm around reno’s neck in a headlock. reno coughs, slapping iharu’s arm. 

“shut up,” reno chokes out, but even as the bickering picks up, hoshina’s gaze is still transfixed on the painting. 

it’s him. no doubt about it. 

“i’ve never talked to them before,” hoshina says after a moment. at once the arguments rattle to a halt, but in the empty relief of silence is the carved truth—that the painting is definitely of him, and its painter was a person who he’d never talked to before in his life. 

“the artist is going to be doing a panel about their exhibition soon,” haruichi says, glancing up at hoshina. “i think they can get me a ticket if i ask.” 

“… just don’t expect me to lighten your laps around the training course,” hoshina says with a chuckle. 

[…]

you hated speaking in front of an audience. cliche, of course, the introverted artist that squirrels away in in their studio—but that was often your reality. you liked to say you wanted your work to ‘speak for itself’, as it were, so you didn’t often make public appearances. 

but your most recent exhibition, featuring the painting of your mysterious dream visitor, created far more buzz than you could have asked for. suddenly everyone and anyone wanted an answer as for who your muse was, why he had a very striking resemblance to soshiro hoshina of the japan anti-kaiju defense force’s third division, and had you gotten permission from hoshina to do it? did you have a specific message surrounding your work?

“just stick to the script,” your manager says to you. “i talked it through with some of the reporters and i wrote some answers for you if you’re scared.” he hands you a slip of paper, and your eyes scan the page, and you swallow the lump in forming in your throat. 

“i shouldn’t have done the painting after all,” you say.

it was strange. in the days and weeks you’d worked on the painting, you hadn’t seen your muse in your dreams at all. you’d been forced to rely on only the memory of the dream–which only seemed to get fuzzier and fuzzier until it became barely a wisp. and now, in those ensuing weeks that the painting has been on exhibition, you almost felt embarrassed of the painting–its vague subject matter might have been charming and a little kitsch, but charming and a little kitsch wasn’t supposed to garner this much attention.

“nonsense,” your manager says. “it’s a wonderful painting.” he pushes you by the back, gently urging you forward. “they’re ready for you.”

you push past the door separating you from the reporters–and then are immediately flashbanged with cameras and lights, and jumbling, layered voices creating a discordant symphony that made you wince.

“um. thank you… for…” you wince as your grip fumbles on your microphone, nearly dropping it, the feedback screeching across speakers. “um. sorry. i’m not exactly the best public speaker–my repertoire of events… like this, isn’t many. but thank you for attending this panel… surrounding my exhibition of my latest work. i’ll answer… a few questions.”

the reporters looked like a jumbled blob for the most part–a thrumming organism of similar faces that melted together into one homogenous mess, a splotch of badly-mixed paint on the palette that you’d scrape away with a knife and discard. 

reciting your manager’s written responses wasn’t the hard part. as you continued to banter, your eyes swept across the crowd.

what were you even doing here?

you wanted to crawl back to your studio, already, and go back to painting. at least then the idea that you’d dreamed up some man who bore a striking resemblance to someone who already existed would fade away with time. and then your eyes found that telltale shade of crimson and purple–for just a moment. and you think his eyes meet yours, too–crimson eyes the exact shade as the one in your dreams. 

his eyes widen. 

“... as you were saying?” a reporter’s words float back to your ears, ephemeral, and you pause.

“can we… no more questions.” you shake your head, finding your vision swimming, blurring, and you raise a hand wiping tears from your face. “sorry. something just… came up–”

and you push into the crowd, trying to find the face from your dreams.

that had to be him, right? his face? it was like as soon as you saw him, the underpainting of your memories flowed back to you–a heartaching loss pounding in your chest. something was wrong. something was missing, because you’d forgotten–and now that you’d remembered it, it hurt. 

“i’m sorry,” you say. 

“you’ve nothing to be sorry for,” the man says to you, and leans in to kiss you. “i’ll find you again in the next life.”

“i’ll remember you,” you say. 

the man watches you, a somewhat sad look on his face.

you press your thumb to the corner of his lip.

“and when i do, i’ll do something big. to capture your attention. and then your eyes will be on me forever.”

you finally manage to catch the man in the crowd, and you realize you’ve seen him before. only once or twice, though–on a small poster or on television. soshiro hoshina, of the third division. you did know this man–but just barely.

he lets out a surprised noise as soon as you collide with him, and you gasp breathlessly. 

“i’m sorry,” you say, looking up at hoshina. “i just… have we…”

“met?” hoshina answers your question, cocking his head, blinking down at you.

“yes,” you say. “i think… i think so. maybe. we… you look familiar.”

hoshina blinks, and then smiles.

it’s so different than the way he smiled at you in your dream. the corners of his lips quirk up, his eyebrows relax almost as he watches you. 

“i thought so too,” hoshina says, and you hear relief in his voice. “so… um. hi.”

“hi,” you respond, and he laughs.

[twizzie-lairs]

My Darling, My Honey

Alastor X Fem!Reader (Part 5)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Quick Notes:

This is when both reader/you and Alastor are both alive. (... we'll probably end up in hell later on btw so stay tuned...)

Reader is an artist/painter.

Part 5:

It was almost pure bliss.

Except many months later, you found out a secret of his one day.

He was an exceptional chef, you were always in awe of how he cooked such magnificent dishes every day.

But one day, you peeked out into the forest through the window in the living room and saw Alastor standing alone, covered in blood. Your first instinct was to run outside, so you did just that.

You rush to his side and ask if he's okay, and what had happened to make him covered in such copious amounts of blood.

He blinks a few times before oddly turning his head to you, breaking out of his stupor, "Oh my dearest (y/n), do not fret so. For I am only acquiring our dinner for tonight!"

You look down at what he is holding in his hands. Your hand shot up to cover your mouth. A leg. A human leg. Your eyes then trail to the ground where you see a bloody human body, mangled beyond recognition. "This is.. dinner?"

A large grin appears on Alastor's face, "Quite right! This one should be enough to last us through the week!"

He looks at your face with an almost vicious look to his eyes, awaiting your response anxiously, not that he would let that show, anyways.

All you can manage is "Oh. Okay." Before you walk back inside the house without another word.

It's no exaggeration to say that your brain chemistry was permanently altered from that moment onward.

The situation felt so strange and bizarre, you didn't know what to think. Part of you knew that was he's been doing is extremely horrible and corrupt. It almost made you empty the contents of your stomach, it didn't feel real.

It didn't feel real, but suddenly some of Alastor's behaviors started to make sense. His picky taste for food...He never let you help with cooking, you had chalked it up to him being more of a perfectionist, but now... you know its more than that. He was hiding the fact that he was butchering and preparing human flesh, right in your very home, all this time.

But.. for some reason... all you could think about was how dedicated he was to providing a comfortable life for you, because he truly loved you. Everything he did every day showed you that you mattered and that you deserved only the best.

"But I still love him with all my heart... maybe I'm just as messed up..." Was a sentence your mind kept repeating to itself for quite some time.

Your appetite shrinks after the initial shock for a few days, but you were never one to skip meals or have your appetite be gone completely, even if you were sick. In this instance, you weren't sure if it was a blessing or a curse in this case.

The meals he made for you had never made you sick in the past, so your body was already used to eating his cooking, and he made such amazing food, carefully crafted with such love and attention to detail, you couldn't help but keep eating his delicious cooking, no matter how bizarre and immoral it was.

"I think I really am just as messed up..." The thought crossed your mind again, but thoughts were interrupted by a rare occurrence, a kiss on the cheek from Alastor as he set your plate down in front of you.

The fact that you never stopped eating his cooking and always thanked him for his food and hard work, even after knowing where the main ingredient comes from, solidified the fact that you were the one. You loved him even after seeing him all bloody, holding a dismembered corpse, and telling you it was dinner. It was this pivotal moment that he knew, that you were the one to be his beloved forever.

In the coming weeks, things went back to "normal". You were settling into the new normal, as Alastor didn't hide the meal prep like he used to, and seeing him bloody and bringing in mysterious cuts of meat into the house became a normal sight to you.

One night when you were going to see Mimzy, Alastor informed you that he was unable to escort you that night. You were a little disappointed, but he assured you it was okay for you to go, it was just that he had plans that he wouldn't divulge any information on, no matter how much you pressed him.

Little did you know, but that night, Alastor was out on the town shopping for the perfect ring to propose to you with.

-> Part 6

[i23kazu]

♡ TO BE LOVED BY

characters. albedo zhongli diluc alhaitham x gn!reader genre. romantic fluff + hurt/comfort. 1.6k words. an. part 1 , part 2 coming soon!!!! | to be loved by genshin men who appreciate art forms – where their favourite piece of art is you. ; reader is insecure + has low self esteem, and the men help them think otherwise. | please reblog!! im getting back into writing and reblogs with tags and comments will make me want to write more :D

the painter

to be loved by albedo, the painter — people realise that the faces that he paints every day seem to resemble one person and one person alone. the high cheekbones, the crooked smile, the monolids — its either the artist has a case of the same face syndrome, or there is only one source of inspiration for him . . .

albedo sits by his artistry room, the window tinting golden light that shines onto your features. it highlights parts of you that you dislike, you argue, but he tenderly kisses each spot that brings you distaste. if you cannot love yourself, then let him love you extra. if you cannot see yourself the way he looks at you – with all the love and admiration and sweet infatuation in the world – then let him paint you in the way he so lovingly sees you so.

he motions for you to tilt to your left with a flick of his finger, not looking up from the blended paints on his wooden palette. you freeze – you don’t want to make him unhappy by not complying but complying also means seeing the ugliness of you. you don’t want him to see you ugly.

“i don’t like that side of me,” you whisper blankly. “it doesn’t make me look good.”

it is at these few words that albedo looks up from his painting.

“you are beautiful.”

he says the three words so matter-of-factly that you wonder if he even means it at all. they are so quick to fall out of his mouth – does he love you too little to properly regard them so, or does he love you so much that it requires no hesitation on his end to reassure you?

“albedo, thank you, but i am not-”

“you are so beautiful, my love,” albedo repeats. “and it pains me so because you don’t seem to believe it for yourself.”

“i am not-” you blink back salty tears.

“do my words hold no weight to you?” he asks, not unkindly. there’s an awkward stare that the both of you share before he lets a soft sigh part his lips, and he gathers you in his arms.

you look at him tiredly. this was not the battle you wanted to fight today, you think to yourself.

“i am beautiful.” you repeat after him. maybe, just maybe – if you say it enough, you can believe it just as wholeheartedly as albedo believes so. you can see the corners of his lips turn upwards into a soft smile – your lover smooths back your hair, planting a sweet kiss in the middle of your forehead.

“i love you, my muse. it’s alright if you don’t believe it just yet. you’ll have me to remind you that you are beautiful, every day.”

the poet

to be loved by zhongli, the poet — the words he spins materialises out of his infatuation for you. at first glance, the words seem so bombastic – so huge, so big, that they don’t make any sense. but they are beautiful; his words are so sweet and lovely, endless love poems addressed to the one person he has fallen harder and harder for every single day. you.

“are you sure that’s a real word?” you laugh lightly, peering over his shoulder to glance at the newest word on his yellowed paper. eudaimonia, you read curiously.

“my dear, i would assume so,” he replies, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “i believe it means for a person to be of a flourishing, happy state. the thesaurus that tartaglia had obtained for me says so, but if you think otherwise, we can most certainly track down the author to contest that.”

“i trust the author.” you giggle.

“as do i.” zhongli presses a kiss to your forehead, and turns back to his pen.

you watch as he strings together sentences – sentences so lovely, you could never have ever imagined them to be about you. he describes the slight smile on your face when you reread one of your favourite books, or the fact that your laugh has two sounds – one like the tinkling of wind chimes, the other a boisterous, unbridled roar. his pen greets the paper once again, and you hear the gentle scratching of the tip against the sheet.

you are the reason i am able to rest at home with eudaimonia – my pillar, my rock, my lifeline.

“that’s beautiful. your writing is lovely as always.” you whisper, wrapping your arms tenderly around him from behind. he leans into the warmth of your touch, sweetly, lovingly, falling into your embrace.

“well, my dear – it would only make sense for my words to reflect the most pleasing of things to me.”

the photographer

to be loved by diluc, the photographer — you are his model, day and night. he carries his camera when he can, and needless to say . . . more than three quarters of his camera roll is filled with pictures of you. they’re not perfect pictures, but they’re beautiful to him. and that is the only thing he cares about.

”diluc, don’t! i don’t look nice here.” you giggle as he, in a rare bout of unbridled playfulness, pretends to be your personal paparazzi.

“you look good in every photo, my love.” he chuckles, and runs you through the most recent photos he took.

it’s blurry. your cheeks look huge. your chin… “you look good” – was diluc blind, or lying?

you tighten your smile and turn back to your work, waving away thoughts that turn into jealous green monsters over others who would look good in his camera, no matter how imperfect their pose was.

“hey,” diluc sees the frown on your face. “i mean it. you look wonderful.”

“how?” you blink back frustrated tears.

“diluc, open your eyes. my eyes are uneven in this one. my cheeks look like a chipmunk’s. my chin.. i don’t even want to think about my chin. i don’t look good at all, diluc.”

he stays quiet for a moment, and you wonder if that was the right thing to say at all. maybe just keep quiet next time, (y/n). don’t insult his work – your insecurities are yours to hold alone, right? he tucks your hair away from your eyes and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“i urge you – look again, (y/n).”

“you didn’t edit anything, diluc.”

diluc thumbs away a stray tear as he cups your face – a betrayal to your plea to your body to keep quiet. just keep quiet, (y/n). your lover takes your shoulders and sits you down gently, kneeling next to you, camera in hand.

“you don’t look good, you say? interesting.” diluc has a placid smile on his face as he runs through his camera roll again – you are afraid of angering him, of doubting his craft – but how can you see those pictures and be immediately satisfied with what they are?

“why don’t you believe me? i’m the one who sees it.” you reply indignantly.

“i don’t believe so, not at all. you see it, but i see that you are smiling in each and every one of them, my love. you are happy and you are beautiful, my sun. undoubtedly so – for that is what the camera captures. is that not what matters the most?”

the writer

to be loved by alhaitham, the writer — people often wonder who sparks these passionate feelings of infatuation in his writing; all they need to look at is the person he leaves his gaze to linger on for a little while longer. his smile seems to brighten a little when he’s talking with you . . .

he describes a love scene so tenderly. a man and his partner, dancing in the stillness of a living room in the witching hours of the night – sweet, loving words fall clumsily out of the man’s mouth – it’s obvious he’s infatuated with his partner. two words, my angel, stands out in the manuscript you read.

“hayi, why do you never call me your angel? ever?” you ask, a slight pout on your face.

“because you are not a metaphor for me to use,” he counters, not unkindly. “you are not someone who i want to compare a mere object to.”

you see the slight disappointment in his face, and you hate yourself for it.

“maybe being compared to something would be better.” you reply softly.

“you are so much more than that,” he cradles your face in his palm, so gently it hurts.

you don’t deserve this gentleness, do you?

“who am i to take that away from you?”

the silence that follows seems louder than anything else you have ever heard. he sighs softly, not with frustration, but with a tenderness that only alhaitham can muster. he gathers you in his arms – he is so, so much bigger and taller than you – he never wants to crush you. never with his anger, nor his fear, or his hurt or his sadness.

“i’m sorry for always asking that. i don’t want to be annoying.” you murmur, blinking away tears.

“you will never be annoying to me, (y/n).” he exhales.

another quiet moment is shared between the two of you – it’s healing. the silence seems to nod to a shared understanding of a love that need not be said.

“i love you, (y/n), most magnificently so. and if it would take a lifetime for you to remember that, i would like to ask for a chance to spend that lifetime with you,” he whispers these words with a quiet fierceness, burying his face into the crook of your shoulder.

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reblogs w/ tags & comments are highly appreciated !!! <3 every reblog with a tag or comment gets a cookie from me hehe

[vintagerpg]

OK, something a little different. This is Ancestral Trail, a fortnightly piece of illustrated fantasy fiction published in the UK and the Commonwealth that began in December of 1992 and wrapped up after 26 issues, as far as I am concerned, in December of 1993. It follows Richard as he is sent on a magical quest to save the Ancestral World from the Evil One, by recovering stolen artifacts and freeing imprisoned guardians in 26 days. Each “day” features a new region, a new foe and a cliffhanger ending (which is quickly wrapped up in the first page of the subsequent issue. All the issues are gorgeously illustrated by Julek Heller (he did a book called Knights that I posted about a couple years ago and is a tremendous painter). Most of the books feature twelve illustrations that depict a variety of the things, but some towards the end, amusingly, you can tell when Heller was under the gun, because they’ll repeat elements and compositions. Still, its a gorgeous body of work and worth tracking down (Zack G., I hope you completed your set!). ¶ This is issue 1: The Moss Beast! (Oh, also, remember Different Worlds 4, when I said to remember the alien mites? These bugs sure look similar!)

[hotshotsxyz]

wide awake from the breeze

(buddie) (2.2k) i swore i was going to write something for @summerofbuddie so here i am with something on the last possible day lol. very in character of me. title from blue sky & the painter which i will continue to push as The eddie diaz song for season 8

The air is crisp and cold, and finally, finally, Eddie can breathe.

The San Gabriels are beautiful this time of year, but it’s hard to appreciate the changing leaves when he’s watching Buck. Their color could never compete with his light.

Buck’s fingers tap against the steering wheel as he hums along to a song Eddie’s certain has repeated at least three times in the past two hours. He’s beautiful like this. He’s always beautiful, actually, but Eddie thinks this might be his favorite version of Buck. Happiness suits him.

They’ve been tumbling towards something since Buck broke up with Tommy, since Eddie finally let loose the words that have been stuck in his throat for years. For once in his life, Eddie isn’t overly worried about time. For once in his life, he’s got plenty of it.

They reach a scenic overlook, and Buck pulls over. He takes his sunglasses off and drops them on the dashboard, then looks over at Eddie and grins.

“See,” Buck says brightly, “I told you it’d be worth the drive.”

Eddie twists in his seat so he can face Buck a little more directly. His curls are wild from the wind, and his eyes glow in the late afternoon sun. “I didn’t doubt you for a second,” Eddie murmurs.

Buck’s smile grows impossibly wider. The foliage doesn’t stand a chance. “You want to get out for a little? Stretch our legs?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees easily.

There’s a trailhead just a few hundred feet away, and Buck bounds toward it eagerly.

“Half a mile out and back?” he calls over his shoulder after studying the map for a second, as if there’s anywhere Eddie wouldn’t follow him.

“Let’s do it,” Eddie replies as he sidles up next to Buck.

Buck smiles at him again, and it’s a little like watching the first light of dawn stretch across the horizon.

They mostly walk in silence, but every few minutes Buck pauses to point out a particular tree or bird. It’s kind of incredible, the way he latches onto information and then gifts it to Eddie in a single excited breath. Eddie’s got his own personal guidebook to the world, and he makes everything feel new and special.

The trail ends at the bank of a small, placid lake surrounded by rocky outcroppings. Buck sits on one and pulls Eddie down next to him.

The sky above them is cloudless and clear, a brilliant blue that’s reflected in the water. A few leaves drift slowly across the surface, leaving behind tiny wake trails. It’s peaceful in a way Eddie’s rarely gotten to experience in his life. He isn’t sure he’d even be capable of appreciating that if it weren’t for Buck.

“I think I want to do this forever,” Eddie says as they stare out across the lake.

Buck knocks his knee against Eddie’s. “What?” he asks, “Watch the leaves turn?”

Eddie looks at him and finds a soft smile that tells him Buck knows exactly what he means. “Yeah,” he says, knocking his knee back, “something like that.”

For a long moment, Buck holds his gaze. “Yeah,” he says finally, “me too.”

Eddie leans to the side, allowing his weight to settle against Buck’s shoulder. He tries not to worry anymore about whether or not he deserves to have someone like Buck in his life. He has him. Buck picks him, over and over again, and even though Eddie’s not sure he’ll ever quite manage to wrap his head around it, he’s long since decided the only way he needs to feel about that is grateful. And god is he grateful.

Buck closes his eyes and tips his face toward the sun. His cheeks are tinged with pink, and it’s hard to tell if it’s the cold, the beginnings of a sunburn, or something else entirely that’s caused it. Eddie finds that he wants to know, wants to press his fingers to Buck’s skin and see if the redness fades or grows.  

It’s an impulse he could give in to; Buck would let him. There’s something about this moment he wants to freeze though, and if he moves it’ll change. Instead, he watches. He commits every detail to memory. When he’s old and gray and everything else is fading, this will be what he remembers.

A gust of wind blows down through the valley, and Buck shivers with it, nose scrunching. He opens his eyes and looks at Eddie. “I’m cold,” he admits with a sheepish smile.

“You’re always cold,” Eddie says, voice dripping with fondness.

Buck tilts his head in acknowledgement. He flexes his fingers a few times, probably stiff in the autumn air.

“C’mere,” Eddie says a little nonsensically. Buck will understand.

Buck holds his hands out and Eddie takes them. He vigorously rubs at them until they’re satisfyingly friction warm. He keeps them when he’s done, holding them together between his palms to protect them from the wind. Buck ducks his head and grins.

“You’re like a space heater,” he says, shuffling impossibly closer.

“And you’re like an icepack,” Eddie replies.

Buck blows out a soft, amused breath. “Makes me handy to keep around in the summer,” he quips.

“I always want you around.”

Another version of Eddie might’ve hesitated, might’ve buried that instinctive reply as far down as possible, shoved it next to all the things he refused to examine. Too bad for that Eddie; he wouldn’t get to see the pink on Buck’s cheeks darken and spread.

“I always want you around, too,” Buck says, quiet, like he might scare away the moment if he speaks too loudly.

Eddie’s been waiting. For what, he’s not entirely sure. For him and Buck to be alone, though that’s hardly a rare occurrence. For all the doubtful voices in his head to go silent, but Buck’s been quieting those for years. For him to feel settled in his skin. For the world to stop turning around them long enough to do it right. All at once, Eddie feels like there’s nothing else to wait for.

“I love you,” he says, and the words taste good. They’re the icy fresh snow melt that streams down mountains in the spring, the bright tang of citrus in the summer, the spicy warmth of mulled cider in the winter, and soon, he thinks, he’ll know for certain that they taste like Buck in the fall.

A small noise spills from Buck’s mouth and he sways forward, less like he’s leaning in and more like he can’t help but be caught in Eddie’s gravity.

“Eddie,” he whispers. His eyes shine.

“Buck,” he replies.

For most of Eddie’s life, he’s been afraid. He’s pushed past it, locked it down, pretended that the twist of anxiety in his gut was never more than passing butterflies. Here, though, now, he doesn’t even feel brave. He’s too sure, Buck makes him feel too safe; there’s no fear for him to fight against.

Buck blinks a few times and swallows visibly. Eddie rubs his thumbs in soothing circles against Buck’s wrists.

“You…” Buck starts, rough and awed.

“Take your time,” Eddie says, unable to hide his amusement.

Buck huffs and kicks at Eddie’s ankle. “Forgive me for taking a second to process literally the best thing I’ve ever heard,” he retorts without any bite.

“Oh no, I mean it,” Eddie says with a wide grin. “I’ll sit here all day. I’m not cold.”

A startled laugh jumps from Buck’s throat. “Be quiet, let me finish processing,” he says.

“Process away,” Eddie murmurs.

A few seconds pass and he watches the gears turn in Buck’s mind. Eddie knows the way they like to twist and catch, but he’s not worried. They’ll have a lifetime to discard all the worst-case scenarios.

 “Okay,” Buck says finally. “I’ve processed.” He pulls his hands from Eddie’s grip and raises them to his jaw. He leans in and Eddie meets him halfway.

Eddie was right, but also wrong. Buck tastes like love, yes, but he also tastes like home and joy and warmth and a little like the muscadines they’d stopped to buy from a roadside stand earlier in the day. Buck smiles against his lips and it feels like the rest of his life.

“For the record,” Buck says, pulling back just far enough to look Eddie in the eye, “I love you too.”

Eddie can’t help the bright peal of laughter that bursts from his chest. He feels free and alive and happy and everything else he was once afraid he’d never be able to. Buck skims a thumb along his cheek bone and grins.

“If you’re done, I really want to kiss you again,” Buck says once Eddie’s laughter has faded to a soft chuckle.

Eddie grips Buck’s waist and hums. “I don’t know, I think I need to process,” he teases.

“Oh, that’s fine, I’ll just sit here and freeze while you—” Buck makes a surprised noise as Eddie surges forward and cuts him off with his lips.

They break apart a second time and Eddie rests his forehead against Buck’s. “I’ve processed,” he says, quiet and smiling.

“Yeah?” Buck asks, a little breathless.

Eddie hums an affirmative. “Best thing I’ve ever heard, had to let it sink in.”

Buck presses a soft, chaste kiss to the corner of Eddie’s mouth. “It takes a second,” he agrees.

Another gust of wind blows past them. A few leaves begin their gentle descent to the ground and Buck shivers.

“Come on,” Eddie says, laughing lightly as he pulls back and stands. He holds his hands out and Buck takes them. “You’ve got a hoodie in the Jeep.”

Buck’s head tilts adorably. “I didn’t…” he says, trailing off as the confusion in his expression makes way for that quiet, disbelieving smile that seems to be reserved exclusively for Eddie.

“You’re always cold,” Eddie says with a fond eyeroll. He tugs at Buck until he stands.

“Not always,” Buck says, suddenly inches from Eddie.

Eddie swallows as a shudder of anticipation travels down his spine. “No?” he asks faintly.

Buck fixes him with a look Eddie’s seen before, though never directed at him. “Nope,” he says, eyes dark and lips curling.

The effect is lessened slightly as the breeze kicks up again and Buck cringes away from it. The tip of his nose is bright pink. Eddie wants to kiss it, so he does.

He laughs again and drops one of Buck’s hands. “Let’s go, cowboy, you can seduce me in the Jeep.”

Buck’s mouth opens and closes. “Uh, that’s—yeah, let’s do that,” he says in a rush.

They quickly make their way back up to the trailhead. Eddie can’t remember ever smiling this much, but even when his cheeks start to hurt it’s impossible to stop. He’s happy, happy in a way he didn’t even know was possible until very recently.

When they reach the overlook, Eddie pauses just long enough to lift their joined hands and press a kiss to the back of Buck’s.

Buck’s eyes widen. “When did you get so…” He gestures vaguely.

Eddie snorts. “I have game,” he says.

“No,” Buck says incredulously, “you don’t. Or—or didn’t.”

“It sounds like you think I have game,” Eddie teases.

“I think you should get in the Jeep so we can go home and test the theory,” Buck replies.

“Gonna have to let me go first,” Eddie says, nodding toward their intertwined fingers.

Buck blushes but makes no move to extricate himself from Eddie’s grip.  

“Or not,” Eddie says softly.

“I just…” Buck trails off.

Eddie squeezes his hand.

“I want to remember this,” Buck says, ducking his head. “How everything feels right now.”

“Even the cold?” Eddie asks.

Buck squeezes his hand. “M’not cold,” he says.

The wind blows, and Buck crowds in closer to Eddie, trying to hide from it.

“I think you might be a little cold,” Eddie murmurs.

“Maybe I just wanted to kiss you again,” Buck replies.

Eddie grins. “Don’t let me stop you,” he says.

Buck presses a feather-light kiss to his cheek, then his nose, then the corner of his mouth. Eddie feels his cheeks heat beneath his touch.

“Okay,” he says softly. He steps back and lets go of Eddie’s hand. He fishes his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the Jeep.

Eddie climbs into the passenger seat as Buck settles in front of the wheel, just like they’ve done a thousand times before. He reaches into the back and grabs Buck’s hoodie, the slightly oversized one that he loves to wrap himself in on days just like this one. He hands it to Buck. As he watches Buck wriggle into it, he’s hit with a wave of joy all over again.

“I love you,” he says when Buck’s head pops out from the hood, just because he can.

“You’re such a sap,” Buck says, but it sounds a whole lot like I love you too.

Buck turns the key in the ignition, and the stereo comes to life playing the same song as before.

Is that a blue sky? The singer asks.

“It’s about damn time,” Eddie can’t help but sing along.

Buck grins at him and grabs his hand.

It’s about damn time.

[jellyfishoreo1206]

Fun in the Sun (Sebastian Solace x Reader)

Notes: Part Four! This was a requested idea by @fishwitthouteyes, who had a wonderful idea for this part of the Slice of Life series! I hope you don't mind that I added some extra parts ^^ Lots of fluff upcoming, ugh I love writing this fishy so MUCH

Also, this is NOT smut. I repeat, it's NOT smut. 100% fluff

Also I forgot to mention that this is an established relationship! I apologize for being neglectful :<

Credit for the divider to @cafekitsune

It's early in the morning, 8 AM in fact, Sebastian, you and Painter all in the living room. Sitting on the worn-out couch while nursing a mug of coffee in your hands, bringing it up every so often to your lips to take a quick sip, the hot beverage waking your senses a tiny bit. The sun shining brightly through the windows and sheer curtains, the rays of light giving the place a cozy feeling, watching as the light reveals the particles floating through the air. A certain glow that can't be achieved with simple lights.

It was a slow morning really. Sebastian was lying on the rug all curled up—like a cat—directly in the sunlight, eyes closed. You watched as his chest rose and fell with each breath he took, it seemed a lot slower than an average human, could be because of a bigger lung capacity. You feel a small ping of jealousy, oh how you wished to at least hold your breath for that long.

His angler lure twitches every so often, along with the fins on the side of his head. If you listened closely, you could hear a low rumbling-gurgling sort of purr coming from him. It . . . it kind of sounds like someone drowning for some reason.

Ah whatever, it's cute.

Painter seemed to be feeling the sleepy early morning vibes as well—despite being a computer—their screen dim as they lazily draw something on the tablet only to erase it out of frustration with a few sleepy grumbles.

Downing the rest of your coffee, you slammed the cup down onto the table, standing up from the couch with a sudden determination filling your veins; your fast movements and loud noise startling both Sebastian and Painter awake, Sebastian's tail hitting the coffee table with a loud *SMACK* as a yelp left Painter. You winced at the loud sound, especially at the loud 'FUCK' that Sebastian lets out, his hand immediately going over to smooth the part of his tail that was just hit.

"Sorry." You immediately say, a glare being all that returned your response, an apologetic smile on your lips. Shrugging it off, you walked over to your room, changing into more comfortable clothing suited for walking, grabbing a bag with some extra clothes and towels in it on your way out to the kitchen, packing plenty of snacks and drinks for the small outing.

Sebastian looks at you in curiosity when you came back into the living room with a different change of clothes and a bag, your hiking shoes in hand, "Where are you going?" He asks with a tilt of his head, his lure bobbing slightly with his movements, eyes narrowed a fraction.

"Correction," A grin tugs at the end of your lips, an air of excitement surrounding you, "-it's where we're going! Now get changed, we leave in 10 minutes."

~~~

The crunch of small twigs and the rustling of leaves filled the air as you walked along the well-worn trail, Painter held firmly in your hands as you avoided all the dips and rocks along the trail to the best of your ability. The sun peaked out from the trees, bringing light down to the forest floor, the life of the forest seemingly becoming livelier.

Sebastian trailed behind you, swiveling his head to take in his new surroundings with of look of amazement and curiosity, stopping every once in a while to observe something for a little longer before catching up to you. A smile stretches across your face when you risked a glance back at him, a feeling of joy buzzing throughout your blood as you continued forward.

"You never told us where we're going." Sebastian mutters, catching up to your side. In his hands was a Baby Blue Eye, bringing it up to his face to examine the delicate bright-blue petals closer. Eventually, he tucks the flower behind your ear, making sure it was secure before taking his hand back, face flushed a pretty blue. "It looks prettier on you . . "

A flush floods your face, averting your eyes away from him as a wobbly smile threatens to break out on your face, "Oh, thank you!" The beating of your heart was loud in your ears, you wouldn't be surprised if Sebastian hears it. Quickly trying to shake off the feeling, you answer his previous question, red still tinting your cheeks.

"We're uhm, we're going to a place I used to frequent before . . before that." It seems that he understood what you implied, nodding before looking forward, his hand occasionally brushing against yours as you walked deeper and deeper into the woods, sun slowly climbing up higher and higher in the sky.

The sound of rushing water could be heard, getting closer and closer the more you walked, your pace slightly increasing in excitement once you saw the familiar tree you used to climb came into sight. Finally coming to the end of the path, a massive grin now present when a large waterfall greeted the three of you. It still looks the same as it did before you left; moss-covered rocks of all sizes scattered around, plants still flourishing as they glowed vibrantly—colors of all sorts dotting here and there, trees towering over the whole entire area as they swayed gently to the breeze, frothy white water gushing towards the lake below surrounded by a shore of gravel and sand.

It's good to come back to this place.

Carefully placing Painter down on a rock without moss and away from the water, you quickly stripped yourself of the clothes you were wearing. Sebastian sputters, looking away hurridely as the blue flush from before comes back in full force, "What are you DOING?!" A look of confusion overcomes your features at his sudden outburst—taking off your shoes and socks, putting them in the bag you brought—before a look of realization washes over you, a teasing smirk now present.

"I have swimwear on, dummy~" Hesitantly, he looks back at you, seeing that you were indeed in swimwear. Embarrassment floods his body once again, a scowl overcoming his features. "I didn't know you had swimwear underneath!" Crossing his arm, he grumbles out a, ". . at least warn me next time." You couldn't help a small snort slipping past your lips, walking over to the grumpy fish, cupping his face once you got close enough.

"Sorry, sorry-" Standing on the tips of your toes, you gave a small peck to his chin as a way of apologizing for the small misunderstanding, giving him a big smile when you moved away. The fins on the sides of his head twitch at the gesture, his features softening just a fraction. He looks at you for a few seconds more, expression unreadable, before grabbing you with all three of his arms. A yelp slips out from you only for it to be interrupted as his lips meet yours for a proper kiss.

Shock fills your senses at what just happened, before smiling into the kiss, eyes fluttering close as you let your hands caress his cheeks, butterflies erupting in your stomach. It's not everyday that Sebastian decides to lead, so you'll savor this.

"AHEM." Or maybe not. Quickly breaking away from the kiss, you both look over to the AI still sat upon the rock, unimpressed look on their screen. You felt a little bit of embarrassment forgetting that Painter was there, but you couldn't help the chuckles that left your mouth, sheepish smile on your lips.

"Sorry, Paints."

"You seem to be saying that word an awful lot today, aren't you?"

"Oh shush! Put me down!"

A low chuckle leaves him as he places you back on the gravel-sand floor, playfully sticking your tongue in his direction as you walked over to the water.

You know the water will be cold, it always was whenever you came here, so without hesitation you took a running start—jumping straight in. For a few seconds, you were surrounded by cold water, prying your eyes open as you observed your surroundings. Everything seemed so peacefully quiet—save for the silent roaring of the crashing water—flickers of sun gave way to the greenery at the bottom of the lake as they gently swayed to the soft current, rocks big and small wedged into the wet earth, a few fishes swimming past you only to flee once you moved.

Breaking the surface, you took a deep breath of needed air, letting out a laugh of joy as you float in the water. Swiveling to face where Sebastian was—about to call him over to join you—only to stop short in confusion when you didn't see him there, only his shirt on the ground and Painter, who had a look of mischievousness when he saw your face of bewilderment.

"Wait, wher-?" A shriek interrupts your sentence when you were lifted up from the water, looking down only to meet those smug fluorescent eyes you've grown to love as he sets you atop his bare shoulders, looking very pleased at what he done.

"Sebastian!"

"Hehe, sorry sweetheart~" Oh he so wasn't sorry.

~~~

After several hours spent within the water, the two of you finally decided to take a break, the sun now high in the sky as it shined down on the two of you. Painter was now atop a towel you brought along in the shade, peacefully drawing with a look of content on their screen.

Not too far away from them, you laid stretched out on Sebastian's tail directly in the sun, the light feeling great on your skin after being in the cold water for so long. Drops of water still littered the both of you, mostly on you since they seemed to literally fall off Sebastian quite quickly after you left the water.

Watching the clouds pass by, you munched on a few snacks that you brought with you—offering Sebastian some every now and then, who happily munch on them. The man seemed to preen in the warmth of the light provided, that same purr he made earlier in the morning coming back full force, you could practically feel them.

Though, it does make sense that he might like sunbathing, since he's quite cold. Like, very cold. It doesn't seem to bother him much, though.

"You really remind me of a cat." You tease, popping a chip into your mouth as you continue watching the clouds high above, watching how some of them began to take on shapes. Hey that one looks like a fish.

"A cat?" He mumbled out, cracking his eyes open a fraction to look at you, a bemused smile on his face. He looks so handsome when he smiles, his hair framing his face perfectly, eyes gleaming with joy.

"Yeah, you purr like one, sometimes you act like one too." Another tease, offering him another chip before continuing, "Grumpy but always looking for affection."

"I'm not grumpy."

"Uh-huh, sure gramps. Let's get you back to bed."

"Oh you are just begging to be thrown into the water, aren't you?"

"Nooooo?"

"Mm, not convincing enough."

"WAIT WAIT WAI-!!"

Last Part, Next Part

[a3dan13]

American Girls - Alex Turner x fem!Reader

Word Count: 729

Summary: Running into Alex Turner after being his classmate. Inspired by AM Alex.

Warnings: None! (sassy man warning 💅)

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵ 

You grew up with Alex Turner and went to high school with him. He never took an interest in you; he said that American girls weren't really "his thing" when you asked if he'd want to hang out. You settled for being a sort of fan when the Monkeys got big. You bought the records, and you told your friends that you knew him whenever he was mentioned. You expected their faces of interest. You expected them to ask if you knew he was gonna be famous. You expected their looks when you told them that he was kind of an ass. You did not expect him to walk into the bar every teen sneaks into as a rite of passage in your town, which also happened to be your current workplace.

He and his bandmates strode up to the bar, some slightly aware of a few of the turning heads. "Ey love, 'ow are you?" Alex greeted as he took a seat. For a moment, you thought he may have recognized you, but you quickly realized he was just being kind to the bartender, who he did not know, let alone remember. Ouch.

"Good, and you?" you smiled. He looked a bit taken aback by your American accent.

"I'm alright. Say how does an American girl make it to Sheffield?" he quipped.

"By plane,” you remarked, “or boat if you're old fashioned. What can I get you?"

"Whiskey, neat." You got to pouring the drink and felt his eyes staring at you as you went along. You started to feel a bit self-conscious. Your black tank top was tight and didn't leave much to the imagination. On top of that, you were sweaty from working and your hair was swept into a messy ponytail. "You look oddly familiar," he said as you slid his glass across the bar to him.

"Is that so?"

"I don't know if it's the accent or... you just remind me of this American gal I went to school with."

"No shit," you blurted. His eyebrows shot up. He stared at you for a bit and then the look of realization lit up in his eyes.

"No shit!" he repeated, "You!"

"You don't remember my name," you laughed at him and tried to hide that you were a bit hurt.

"Nah," his voice trailed, "yeah..." He looked up at you apologetically. "Well, that makes me seem like an asshole." He rubbed his temples. "Allow me to restart," he held his hand out. "Hi, I'm Alex, I'm an ass, and you are?"

You returned his handshake, "I'm Y/N, very nice to meet such a respectful ass." He chuckled and ran his hand along the side of his hair, effectively slicking back any stray strands. You helped a few other patrons before you heard him speak up again.

"So, what have you been up to Y/N?"

"Well," you gestured to the bar. "I feel like I should be asking you."

"I have interviews for that, but I'd much prefer to hear about you."

You felt a blush pool across your cheeks. Was he flirting with you?

"I finished secondary, tried university, wasn't my thing," you told him. His eyes lingered on the way you moved with your hands on your hips as you talked. "I wanted to be an artist, I, uh-, paint.," you stammered feeling a bit shy about your shattered dreams. "But, you know, or maybe you don't, but there's a lot of painters out there, so..."

"None as cute as you though I reckon," he said almost slyly as if he hadn't meant for you to hear it... like it was a secret.

"'Scuse me?" you laughed, wanting him to repeat himself to make sure you didn't just imagine the compliment.

"You're beautiful."

"I thought you weren't into American girls," you said skeptically treading around his advances, as tempting as they were.

"Times are changin'. You've changed," he replied.

"So you thought I was ugly?"

"What? No!" he yelped nervously. "That's not what I meant." His exasperation amused you and you began to giggle at him. It was cute, how flustered he got, over you. You pulled a napkin from a tray on the bar, scribbled your number on it, and slid it across the bar to him.

"Call me, Turner." His tensely pursed lips melted into a goofy smile.

"Yes ma'am."

A/N: Should I make a part two for this where they go out on a date or smthg? lmk 💋 thank you for reading🫶

[mothiir]

summer hunger

more Taleath/reader for the Xenosfuckers amongst us!

—

—

It is the heat keeping you from sleep, you tell yourself, and if you repeat the lie enough maybe it will become true. Your first time planetside in months, and Macragge’s summers are never gentle. The heat lingers long after the sun slinks below the horizon, and this week has been uncommonly still, with nary a breeze to stir the yellowing grass. Air thick as syrup presses against your sweat-glossed skin, and it is the heat, the heat, the heat. You have to blame the heat. You have to. Because if you do not blame the heat, you must blame Taleath, and to blame Taleath is to acknowledge the way your lips are parted at the thought of his fingers ghosting along your tongue, before plunging further back into the lush softness of your throat, coaxing deeper and deeper, as though testing you -- trying you -- preparing you --

It is the heat. It has to be the heat. If it is not the heat then it is the memory of his voice, snarling and ragged: I want to consume you. It is the knowledge that you would let him eat you down to the raw pink marrow, that you want to pant into his pointed ears as he moves within you: I am yours, always yours. You want your legs around his waist, and his hand at your throat. His fingers would span your neck with little trouble -- they would even overlap, caging you neat and pretty. Would he want you to open your mouth for him again? Show your teeth, like you’re a beast at market he’s inspecting? Would he bite your lips? 

You press your knees together, roll onto your stomach, and grind your throbbing cunt into the mattress, and try to continue the lie: if you can make yourself cum, then maybe that will ease you into slumber. And yet your thoughts swiftly turn back to the Aeldari, like a lodestone seeking north. Taleath has not spoken to you -- has not even looked at you -- since the incident at the library. It has barely been a week, and yet each of the days has felt like a knife in your gut. It is addiction. It is humiliating.

By the grace of the God-Emperor, it is not enough. 

You practically fling yourself from bed, tugging on your filmy dressing gown as you pad barefoot onto the moonlight-silvered balcony. Nightbirds twitter, crickets hum: the night dances with sound and energy, the frenetic business of life continuing about you. You run your hand along the marble parapet. Would Taleath bend you over here, if you asked nicely? If you begged? For a moment, you entertain the madness: you know where his quarters are. You could knock on his door, peer up at him with spit-wet lips and wide eyes — please, you would say, please, and he could take the rest of your meaning from your thoughts, and you would not even try to shield your intentions. You would let them splay out in a tapestry of pure undiluted want: utter supplication. Take me, have me, own me, fuck me —

“Oh little one,” coos a very familiar voice from behind you, rough and rich as midnight velvet. You wheel about, your pulse singing in your ears, and there is Taleath, as though you have manifested him, slouched against the doorway with a casual artlessness that painters would sell their soul to immortalise on canvas. He’s wearing casual robes of navy silk, embroidered with a repeating pattern that you recognise from other Iyanden Aeldari attire: it is a variation of their written language, but a specific sort of script only used to embroider poetry onto clothing; Aeldari have well over a dozen ways of writing their own language, each notably different to the next, because of course they do — they thrive on complexity. 

The inner garment looks like it is designed to button to his throat, but it hangs open, revealing sleek pale flesh, mottled with scar tissue from battles that probably occurred before your grandmother’s grandmother drew breath. The outer garment — a more fanciful version of your own dressing gown — billows in a sweep of misty fabric, despite the lack of breeze. His yellow blonde hair is loose over his shoulders; his black eyes focused on you; and, as ever, he is smiling like he knows some great secret that you will never understand.

And yet you remember the unhinged hunger on his face; the way he lapped your blood from his lips. I want to consume you. You wonder if he too has been kept awake by thoughts of your tongue on his fingers, if he too has blamed the heat. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure, my lord?” you say, a pretense at coyness.

“I thought I would see how my favourite human is settling into her new quarters. Is that permitted?”

“Traditionally, one knocks before entering a lady’s abode.”

He cocks his head on one side, taps his lower lip. “Hm. I did not know this. Thank you for educating me on your culture — it is always good to learn the ways of lesser species.”

“It is. That is why I make a habit of studying you so intently,” you say, and he barks laughter. 

“You are droll -- for a human.”

“And you are charming -- for an Aeldari.”

“What happened to your diplomatic grace?”

“I’m not working at the moment. No one is paying me to be graceful.”

“No. And there is no Primarch here to tell you to watch your tongue.”

“No. Only you.”

“Yes. Only me. Would you like me to tell you what to do with your tongue?”

Your cheeks warm. “I don’t know. Do you want to?” you say, feeling like you are edging your way barefoot along a cliff edge, hearing the sea roar below. 

“Do I want to tell you what to do with your tongue…?” he muses, and stretches, leonine and lazy, arching his arms above his head. The movement disturbs his clothing; his robe slides off his shoulder, revealing more pale flesh, and the sharp angle of a clavicle set an a degree just slightly different to your own. “Maybe. If I do, would you obey?”

“I -- “

“Hush.”

You close your mouth without thinking. Taleath’s smile widens by two or three teeth, and your flush deepens when you realise that you have just answered his question. 

“Hm. Good. Follow me.”

With that, he turns and strides into your room, as bold as a cat laying claim to a house it has just discovered. You pad after him, feeling all of two feet tall, and yet so aroused you can barely breathe. 

It is far, far too late to blame the heat. 

You find him in the high-backed armchair next to your bed, his knees splayed apart in -- invitation? Command? 

He pats his thigh. 

“Come here,” he says. 

Command, then. For a moment, you imagine how astonished he would be if you turned to leave -- or if you retired to your bed, pulled the covers over your face and started snoring. It would almost be worth it. Almost. 

But you look at his face, at the uncanny edges of his cheek and jaw, at the void-black of his eyes; the disconcerting xenos beauty -- and you never really had a choice. Not since you felt his teeth at your neck -- no, before that. When you let him ease his thumb into your mouth, when you hollowed your cheeks and sucked. Maybe even before then -- when you were but a slip of a girl, staring up at the stars, dreaming of a life that would carry you far beyond the nameless planet you once called home. 

You step forwards. The crickets and the birds and the singing frogs and chattering bats all fade to a background hum, then vanish entirely, drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears. You are acutely aware of every sound your body makes; the stick of your soles on marble, the hush of your breath. You try your best to control it -- one two three, one two three -- and to gather the shreds of your dignity about you, because you are a representative of most Holy Terra, you are under the command of Roboute Guilliman, Avenging Son, and your behaviour reflects on him and -- 

You stand between Taleath’s thighs, and thoughts of loyalty and protocol drift away like stardust. Your neck -- still bruised -- throbs, as he brushes aside your hair and examines the wound. His thumb presses against the raw scab, and you try not to cringe. 

I do not want you to be hurt -- no, you misunderstand -- I do not want you to be hurt by anyone who is not me --

You swallow the saliva puddling in your mouth as his fingers tapdance along your jugular, along your chin. Even sitting down, he is still taller than you, though at least the difference is now a matter of inches, not feet. 

His thumb brushes your lower lip, and your whole body shudders. Every fine hair on your arms stands on end, and your cunt pulses. You daren’t look down, terrified that your arousal is soaking through your nightgown, dewy and damning. 

“You’re so needy,” he purrs. “So desperate to be devoured.”

“Only by you,” you say, and he chirrups with satisfaction. 

“Yes. Only by me. Only ever by me. Because you’re mine, aren’t you? You belong entirely to me, to do with as I please.”

“Yes,” you say, without hesitation. He leans forward, his breath warm on your face, smelling vaguely floral. 

“Whatever I want. Whenever I want.”

“--up to a point,” you manage, as he leans forward. He stops, his lips scant centimetres from yours.

“Yes?” he prompts, pulling back a little. You resist the urge to lean forwards to follow him, like a dog begging for attention, tongue lolling out.

“Yes,” you say, fingers furling into fists. “As long as it -- it does not interfere with my duty, with my -- “

“With your dedication to your lord and master?” he says, with a slight edge to his voice -- one you recognise. Men are always men, after all, no matter how pointy their ears, and you know jealousy when you hear it. 

“Yes. I serve Roboute Guilliman first and foremost. And always,” you say, completely sincere. 

“Of course you do,” he sighs, toying with a lock of your hair. “You are fortunate that your faith in that blonde-haired boy-king tastes quite so delicious. Those who worship the corpse-on-the-throne taste of candle wax and stagnation -- but your love for your living saviour? It is brighter  than sunrise and more fragrant than frangipane.”

Your brow furrows; you may not be the most devout member of the Imperium, but you still dislike the heresy implicit in Taleath’s words. “I serve the Emperor --”

“You serve Guilliman, the once and future king, not some corpse-god lingering on a throne that was never his,” Taleath says curtly. “And that is all I wish to say on the subject.”

With that, he pulls you closer, your chest suddenly flush with his, your breath catching in your throat. Troublesome thoughts of theology vanish as his nose brushes your throat. You close your eyes, his breath on your lips, waiting for the touch of his fingers, or his lips, or -- 

His teeth close down on your ear without warning. Your eyes spring back open, and you yelp in pain. Taleath croons, his tongue sliding over the bloody marks he has left as he nibbles his way down to your earlobe, where he bites again, worrying the slip of flesh between his teeth and tongue. And then he bites his way back up once more, his tongue sliding over the cartilage, his throat vibrating with a pleased coo. 

He licks over the rounded top of your ear, and pulls back to survey his handiwork. You feel warmth dripping down your neck. 

“Wha -- “

Before you can finish the sentence -- what in the name of fuck are you doing -- he’s redirected his attention to your other ear, repeating the process of chewing and licking and purring, and it is only when you look over at his ears, flicking back and forth beneath his hair like those of a rabbit, that you think you understand. 

Awkwardly, you lean forwards and close your mouth onto the sharp edge of his ear. The vibrato coo deepens, his spidery hands sliding from your hips to your buttocks, where they squeeze experimentally. 

Right. You suck a little, trying not to be put off by the alien movement of tendons under your teeth -- Aeldari have bones in their ear, not cartilage, permitting a far greater range of movement -- and then bite. Hard. 

“Yes,” Taleath moans -- a throaty sound you didn’t think him capable of making. “Yes, like that, little prey thing, little pet --”

Right. Of course. If Aeldari ears are erogenous, then it stands to reason why he would be so fascinated by yours. You repeat the gesture, while tipping your head to the side, exposing the long slope of your neck in what you hope is an obvious invitation. Chew on that, you hope the gesture says, not my poor earlobes. 

Thankfully, he understands -- or, rather, he understands and chooses to act, because you’re not so naive as to think he would understand and then completely ignore your request, preferring to continue his quest to pulp your ears entirely -- and sets his teeth against your flesh. He is gentler here, licking and sucking rather than biting. His tongue feels strange -- almost like a cat’s, rough against you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, pulling his mouth away from your throat after what seems like an age. You’re dizzy with desire, unresisting as he pulls you onto his lap, his hand resting on your thigh, his fingers so so close to where you want them -- where you need them -- and you can’t help but push your hips towards him. He chuffs laughter into your hair. “Moving so swiftly, aren’t you? I forget -- humans have so little time. No wonder they seek to copulate so swiftly -- Aeldari can take years of foreplay before penetration is even considered --”

Impatient -- and also because you think it may be the only surefire way you have to shut him up -- you press your lips against his. He laughs against your mouth, laughs as you kiss him, his tongue sweeping against yours with an ease that is completely unfair. His fingers curl into your hair, yanking you closer, and he breaks the kiss -- only to bite your lower lip hard enough to break the skin. 

“Ow! Do Aeldari also chew on their partners like -- like --” 

Comparison fails you. He licks your mouth, your lip already swelling from his abuse. 

“No,” he says. “Most don’t. But most don’t have sex. They don’t trust themselves.”

Aeldari culture is a mystery to most -- even you, who speaks their language (well, as best as a human can), and works alongside them, does not understand the depths of it. 

“Most don’t? But you do?”

“Hmm. Do I? I suppose we shall see, won’t we?”

The clit-teasing damnable bastard. He inches your nightgown up, and you return your attention to his ears, biting until your jaw aches.

“Good girl,” he says, and you cannot see it but you hear his smirk. Finally, he bunches your skirt up around your waist, bearing your dripping cunt to him. You spread your knees, instinctive, and he peers down at it like he is examining a curio. He spreads you open with his index finger and thumb, cocking his head on one side. “It’s prettier than I thought it would be,” he says, at least, and you smack him. 

“How do Aeldari ever manage to procreate if this is how their men try and seduce someone?” you say hotly. “I’m astonished your womenfolk even let you into bed. It’s prettier than I thought.”

“What would males of your species say?” Taleath says. “That you are -- hmm, let me think -- round-chested and fecund? That you have childbearing hips and your cunt is…tight? Is that correct? Is that what your little human heart wishes me to say?”

You squirm, horribly aware that the condescension in his voice is only serving to make you wetter, your cunt dewy and ripe under his gaze. 

“I mean -- not quite that --”

“You have a pretty cunt, and a pretty face, and I look forward to my seed covering both? Is that it?”

“I -- “

“That would not be untrue,” he continues blithely. “I would not be opposed to filling you up.”

He sinks his middle finger into your dripping hole, and you gasp, arching your back, encouraging him deeper. He pets around inside you, exploring. 

“You’re so soft. And wet. You take me so easily.”

He pushes another finger inside you.

“I like it! It’s like another mouth, all spacious and welcoming.”

“Spacious --” you splutter, indignant, and he quiets you with a deep kiss that has you all but swooning in his lap. 

“It is a compliment. Accept it. I wonder if I could fit Harbinger inside you -- I think I could! I will. Later.”

It takes you a moment to remember what Harbinger is. “Your sword --” you squeal, and he nips at your bruised and bloodied neck affectionately.

“Yes. I’d keep the scabbard on -- do not worry. I would not want to tear you open completely.”

“You are not putting a sword inside me --”

He sinks a third finger inside, and you cry out, full to the point of pain. He splays his digits open within you, fucking them in and out, curling upwards until he finds the soft spot within you that has you seeing stars. You’re close -- so close -- reduced to mindless sensation, rocking your hips into his grasp, so close, so close -- 

And then he stops. He removes his fingers, still sticky with your arousal, and wipes them on your nightgown. 

“Wha --” you say, blearily. “What -- why did you stop?”

“Because I wanted to,” he says, and taps you on the nose. “I only ever do what I want to do, little one.”

“But -- but -- “

He sweeps you up as though you weigh nothing at all, and carries you bridal style to your bed, where he deposits you, tugging your discarded blankets around you. 

“There. Nice and comfortable, yes?”

“I -- “

“Sleep tight, little human --”

“But what -- what was that --”

“Oh, it was entertaining. Delicious. Delightful. You mewl so prettily, and your blood tastes better than the finest wine.”

To prove his point, he leans forward and licks your neck, a broad scratching sweep of his tongue that gathers up blood still leaking from the bitemarks he has left. 

“Do you not -- “ Your brow furrows. Your chest twinges; foreign, deep hurt starts to spiral out. Are you that undesirable? Did you do something wrong?

Taleath clips you around the ear. It’s a gesture that would sting at the best of times, but given that your ears have been treated as chew toys for almost an hour it is agony. 

“I still desire you. Do not be ridiculous. I just want to see you beg for me.”

You stare at him, disbelieving. He kisses your forehead, managing to make the gesture both deeply tender and utterly patronizing. 

“I heard you thinking earlier. Something about showing up at my quarters, begging for me to own you? When you do that -- when you prostrate yourself at my feet, declare yourself unworthy even for a spark of my attention -- then I’ll fuck you. I’ll cum in that tight little cunt of yours and carve my name into your breasts, and you will love it, won’t you? But not before.”

One more nuzzle at your throat, and he’s standing. You do not reach for him; you do not let yourself. You swallow thickly, sitting up against your pillows. 

“You came to me,” you say. “You came to my quarters, because you wanted me. I don’t think you’ll wait for me to beg.”

His smile is sharp as a knife in the dark. “Oh I like you, little one. Challenging an Aeldari to a game of patience? Let us see who wins. You’ll be begging for me before your neck heals clean.”

He bows -- a flourishing, mocking gesture -- and just like that, he’s gone. Moving so swift and sure you’d think he had teleported. 

You roll over, and shove your face in your pillow to stifle your scream of frustration. Because damn him, damn him, damn him -- you know that he is right. 

[xianyoon]

TO BE LOVED ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

CH. 1 ━ ALBEDO, THE PAINTER

synopsis. ⤷ to be loved by genshin men who appreciate art forms – where their favourite piece of art is you. a series where you, the reader, are their muse. let them love you in the way they know best – their mastercraft. this is a reupload + additions of my work from my previous blog.

genre + warning. ⤷ albedo x gn!reader. comfort & fluff. insecurities + reassurance. reader is insecure and has low self esteem.

to be loved by albedo, the painter — people realise that the faces that he paints every day seem to resemble one person and one person alone. the high cheekbones, the crooked smile, the monolids — its either the artist has a case of the same face syndrome, or there is only one source of inspiration for him . . .

albedo sits by his artistry room, the window tinting golden light that shines onto your features. it highlights parts of you that you dislike, you argue, but he tenderly kisses each spot that brings you distaste. if you cannot love yourself, then let him love you extra. if you cannot see yourself the way he looks at you – with all the love and admiration and sweet infatuation in the world – then let him paint you in the way he so lovingly sees you so.

he motions for you to tilt to your left with a flick of his finger, not looking up from the blended paints on his wooden palette. you freeze – that's not a good side of you, and you don’t want to make him unhappy by not complying but complying also means seeing the ugliness of you. you don’t want him to see you ugly.

“i don’t like that side of me,” you whisper blankly. “it doesn’t make me look good.”

it is at these few words that albedo looks up from his painting.

“you are beautiful.”

he says the three words so matter-of-factly that you wonder if he even means it at all. they are so quick to fall out of his mouth – does he love you too little to properly regard them so, or does he love you so much that it requires no hesitation on his end to reassure you?

“please, albedo, thank you, but i am not-”

“you are so beautiful, my love,” albedo repeats. “and it pains me so because you don’t seem to believe it for yourself.”

“i am not-” you blink back salty tears, and wish for the world to stop. you don’t want to deal with this today.

“do my words hold no weight to you?” he asks, not unkindly. there’s an awkward stare that the both of you share before he lets a soft sigh part his lips, and he gathers you in his arms.

you look at him tiredly. this was not the battle you wanted to fight today, you think to yourself.

“i am beautiful.” you repeat after him. maybe, just maybe – if you say it enough, you can believe it just as wholeheartedly as albedo believes so. you can see the corners of his lips turn upwards into a soft smile – your lover smooths back your hair, planting a sweet kiss in the middle of your forehead. and every day, you are reminded that when you need it the most – love will remind you that you are beautiful.

“i love you, my muse. it’s alright if you don’t believe it just yet. you’ll have me to remind you that you are beautiful, every day.”

[odyssean-flower]

The Winding Path of Fate Chapter 12 first part

honestly im not even gonna say when the chapter is gonna be ready anymore...it'll be done when it's done...

anyways here's the first part. It's unbetaed but hopefully it compels/entertains you in some way as I finish the chapter up

“My dear Iudex, are my eyes deceiving me, or is that a smile on your face?”

Neuvillette raised his gaze from the documents spread out before him. Furina was standing on the other side of his desk. Of course, he had heard her enter his office before she even spoke, but he was so used to her unannounced intrusions these days that he treated it as a part of his daily routine now. I only hope that she makes this quick. I have a rather heavy agenda today, and I would like to return home before dark.

Furina leaned over his desk, her heterochromatic eyes eagerly scanning the desk for some sort of incriminating evidence to grab onto. Of course, she found none. Neuvillette wasn’t so foolish that he would make such a careless mistake.

“Hmph, I didn’t know that paperwork could inspire such a joyous expression on one’s face. What a contrast you make with the Gestionnaires outside your door! You really must get out more.”

“Indeed, I have, thanks to your urging. I believe you’ve already read the note I left you.”

“Ah, yes, that sorry excuse for a note,” Furina sniffed. “‘Will be away for a day due to personal reasons.’ No mention of where you’re going or who you’ll be with.”

“I see no reason why I should have included either of those things. I followed all the necessary protocol for requesting leave, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Oh, I am. But Neuvillette, aren’t you getting tired of constantly having to avoid my questions and fend me off every single day? You know exactly what I want, why won’t you give it to me? Are you truly intending to keep doing this forever?”

“And you know very well that I will not change my position on this matter. There is no need for you to get involved in my marriage, nor do you have the right.”

Furina and Neuvillette glared at each other silently for a while. Throughout this week, she had constantly needled, badgered, and pestered him in an attempt to fish for any information about his day off, but he remained an immovable stone wall. He knew that revealing anything to her would only pour fuel on the fire, so to speak. Knowing her nature, he doubted she would let this go any time soon, but he could at least not give her any openings to pounce onto.

“No right to get involved in your marriage, huh,” Furina repeated, arching an eyebrow. “Don’t forget that you have me to thank for it. Would you have ever even considered marrying this woman if it weren’t for me?”

Neuvillette did not say anything. They both knew the answer to that question.

“Even so, I do not owe you anything,” he said with a firm tone that signaled the end of their talk. “Now then, Furina, allow me to get back to my work.”

“Fine,” Furina said with a toss of her head. “It looks like I’ll be visiting you again tomorrow.”

“Please do so during my coffee break.”

Furina spun on her heel and was about to stride away when she suddenly turned around again. “You know, Neuvillette, I just don’t understand why you won’t let me meet the person who clearly brought you so much joy.”

Neuvillette narrowed his eyes at her. “I believe we were done here?”

Furina put her hand to her heart and made an expression of exaggerated joy. “How heartless! I do hope your wife never sees this side of you.”

He watched her until she left his office and the doors closed behind her. Letting out a heavy sigh, his gaze drifted to the misty painting hanging at the side of his office, almost by instinct. This was also something that had also become a daily routine for him.

He wondered what the painter was doing now. Around this time, you were sure to be in the garden, devoting all your attention to the sunflowers.

Were you waiting for him to come home? He hoped you weren’t. It looked like he would be returning late today. Well, to be honest, he usually returned home late at night, but now with you as his wife, it would be terribly uncouth of him as your husband to come home too late. In addition, he found that his willingness to work into the late hours had decreased considerably. Still, there were times when he truly had no other choice.  

But, there was a small part of him that would very much like it if you did wait for him.

Neuvillette did not know what to make of this new development in his feelings. He examined it, turning it over in his head as one would do with a particularly interesting-looking rock or seashell, then put it away for later. He needed to concentrate on getting through the stack of paperwork on his desk if he wanted to leave work earlier.

But before that…

His hand moved to his desk drawer, which contained a recently-delivered envelope. It was a stroke of good fortune that it had been delivered before Furina’s visit. He’d never hear the end of that if she saw its contents.

He opened the envelope and took out a stack of newly-developed photos. He flipped through them until he reached the photo of a young woman standing stiffly in front of an azure-blue willow tree. His finger idly stroked the edge of the picture. The colors were so vivid and crisp that he felt as though he could reach into the photo and touch the ribbon of your hat or the soft fabric of your sleeve.

It was strange. You were not a particularly cheerful or spirited person, but when he was with you, his heart felt lighter, freer. Not to the extent of forgetting himself or his responsibilities, of course, but… Was this what Furina meant by the “joys of matrimony”?

He couldn’t say he disliked it.

He carefully put the photos back in the envelope. What sort of face would you make when he showed them to you? Or when he showed you the other surprise he had for you? Would you smile at him once again? Would you take his hand in yours? A feeling of anticipation filled his heart. Unconsciously, his fingers brushed against his cheek.

The sunflowers were coming along nicely. They now reached the height of your hip and formed small, tightly closed buds. There were no yellow petals peeking through yet, but you were confident that they would appear in the coming weeks.

You brushed your fingers against the leaves. They were the size of your palm now. You could see little bug bites dotting them. Perhaps you should ask Marie if there were any pesticides on hand.

It was evening now, though the sun was still in the sky. Neuvillette should be back by now. Maybe he had a lot of work today? You couldn’t help but feel a sting of disappointment. You had been looking forward to showing him the buds. Was Furina pestering him again?

It had been a week since the date. Neuvillette had sent the photos out to be developed, and you would be getting them today. You were a bit excited to see them.  I don’t think I’ve ever taken so many pictures in my life.

After you finished taking the last measurements, you returned to the house and went up to your room. Your eyes automatically went to the plump azure flower tucked into a vase on your desk. It brought a vibrant splash of color to your elegant but sparse room, and you liked looking at it. It gave you a sense of pleasure. You wondered where Neuvillette put his flower.

I wonder if it will deflate like a balloon if I stuck a pin into the middle, you thought as you sniffed the flower’s cool fragrance. That would make it easier to press, wouldn’t it?

Perhaps it was because you talked about pressing flowers on the date, but it had been on your mind lately. Your fingers itched for your old flower press, sitting in your closet back home. The lily would look striking against a white page. If only you picked some of those wildflowers you had seen on Erinnyes and in Merusea Village... they could serve as accompaniment to the lily, which would obviously be the centerpiece, and a strand of blue leaves from the Weeping Willow could be the finishing touch, forming a wreath that framed everything neatly. It would be a beautiful memento of one of the most beautiful days in your life.

It was strange. Even though your days went on like usual after the date, you felt a little different. A little lighter. Reinvigorated, if you had to describe it in a single word. Your childhood hobbies, which you once considered frivolous and backwards, beckoned to you once more.

For a long time now, you felt like you were barely holding yourself up by the sheer force of will, like a sunflower with shallow roots and a too-heavy head, in need of a support to stand tall and erect. Well, now you did have one.

I guess this is what marriage all about. Two people supporting each other for life. Although, it is rather one-sided in our case.

You bit your lip. It was irrational, you knew. Neuvillette was the powerful and respected Iudex, while you were an impoverished baron’s daughter from the countryside. Your presence in his house was proof of just how much more you relied on him than the other way around. You knew that Neuvillette didn’t expect anything from you, which only made you even more determined to do something for him.

You despised the feeling of owing someone. You hated having to completely depend on someone. That was one of the many reasons why you chose your career path.

But more than that…

Neuvillette’s distraught face flashed through your mind. Though you only saw it once, you never wanted to see that look on his face again.

Neuvillette finally returned home by the time the sky was dark. You had already eaten dinner without him and was reading in the parlor when you heard the front door open.

“Neuvillette,” you called out to him as you went into the foyer. “You came home so late. Did something happen?”

As you approached him, you thought that he looked a bit fatigued, but the tiredness in his face seemed to vanish as he fixed his eyes on you.

“Madame,” he greeted you. “My apologies for worrying you. I had a rather busy agenda today. I hope you’ve already eaten dinner?”

“I have. But have you eaten as well? If not, I can warm up the leftovers for you, or I can ask Marie to cook something fresh if that’s what you prefer.”

“No need for that. I’ve already eaten. But there is something else I want to talk about,” Neuvillette paused. It took you a moment to realize that he was doing it for dramatic effect. So even he has that side to him...how cute, you thought, trying to hide your smile. “I was able to receive the developed photos today.”

He took out an envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to you. “They turned out quite well, I must say,” he added.

The envelope was thick and heavy. You must have taken more than a hundred photos.

You decided to look through them in the parlor. Neuvillette followed you, and the two of you sat side by side on the couch as you spread the photos out on the coffee table. Neuvillette was right, they did turn out well. You had been a bit worried that they might come out blurry or at odd angles, but overall, they all looked pretty good, considering the fact that you hadn’t used a Kamera in a long time.

“You have a very good eye for photography, Madame,” Neuvillette remarked as he picked up a photo of the Weeping Willow. “Have you considered pursuing a career in that field?”

“Oh, not at all. My old drawing teacher was much better at it than me, enough to make a living out of it, and she taught me a few tricks.”

“‘Was’? Do you mean...” Neuvillette trailed off.

“Yes. It was a few years ago.”

“Ah...I see. I'm sorry to hear that.”

There was a brief, awkward silence. Neuvillette looked as though he wanted to say something more. You would rather not deal with that, so your eyes roamed around the scattered photos on the table before they landed on something silver. “Oh, my pictures of you!” you said, leaning forward to grab them. “See, what did I tell you, Neuvillette. There’s nothing more picturesque than beautiful scenery and a handsome man.”

Neuvillette leaned closer towards you to examine the photos for himself. His hair brushed against your shoulder, and you could feel the heat of his body against your arm.  A thought suddenly struck you. If you turned your head right now, your lips would brush against his cheek in the same spot where you had kissed it before.

Inexplicably, your face turned warm at the thought. The back of your hand tingled.

Perhaps things didn’t quite remain the same after the date.

It truly had been a spur of the moment move. Your roiling emotions, aided by the instigation of the Melusines, had pushed you to do it.

Later that night, as you laid in bed, your mind replaying that scene over and over to an infuriating degree, you had rifled through all the emotions you had felt at that time. Embarrassment, disbelief, a strange sort of elation…

But the one emotion that had been missing no matter how hard you searched for it, was regret.

Overt acts of affection had never been your forte, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

Well, cheek kisses don’t inherently mean anything significant, you had told yourself. Friends do it with each other all the time. And Neuvillette is my friend. A very dear friend. So it’s perfectly fine. Case closed.

Indeed, Neuvillette didn’t seem to look at you or treat you any differently after the fact, so why should you? No doubt he was used to receiving such acts of intimacy—most likely even more intimate—from people who were far more glamorous than you. A brief brush of lips against his cheek probably meant nothing to him.

As for the hand kiss, well, that was something that gentlemen like him did. It also didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t.

The thought that these kisses were all meaningless did sting a little bit, but considering the circumstances, you had no right to complain.

“I must confess that I do not see what makes these pictures any better than the ones you took of the scenery,” Neuvillette’s voice interrupted your thoughts. His eyes were fixed on the photo, so thankfully he didn’t notice your reddened cheeks. “Or of the Melusines, for that matter.”

“Well, even if you don’t appreciate them, I do. I’ll treat them like a family treasure.”

“A family treasure? That’s a bit excessive, is it not?”

“I don’t think so. These are pretty rare items, aren’t they?”

Since Neuvillette didn’t appear in public much, there were not many pictures of him outside of the rare interview and official events. Hmm, I wonder how much they’ll sell for? Not that I would ever do that, of course. …Well, maybe if I’m in dire financial straits. I’ll ask for Neuvillette’s permission beforehand if it ever comes to that.

You went through the remaining photos. Each one sparked a memory. The Weeping Willow, the sea, Merusea Village underwater—you really had been to all of those places. With Neuvillette, no less. The entirety of that day was only known to the two of you.

The days after your date had been so mundane and normal that you were half-convinced that it had all been a strange dream. Thoughts and memories were such mutable things, after all. Someone like you on a date with the Chief Justice? Not even in your wildest delusions would something like that ever happen. But these pictures were proof that it did.

You knew that you would probably think back on that day for the rest of your life, holding it close to your chest like a treasured gemstone and taking it out whenever times got tough. A sparkling memory of your youth that you would smile back fondly upon in your autumn years, a lone glimmering star in the dark that would inspire you move forward…

Wait, why am I getting so sappy and sentimental? Just because of a date? Ugh, come on now.

You glanced at Neuvillette, who was currently enjoying a glass of water (imported from Inazuma). You doubted that he felt the same way as you about the date. It was probably just like a drop of water in a vast ocean to him.

That thought pricked at you, but you chose to ignore it.

You sifted through the pictures until you came across a certain snapshot. Just as you were about to flip it over, a gloved finger pressed down against the photo, stopping you.

“This one is my favorite,” Neuvillette said. Once again, his face was right next to yours, but you couldn’t read his expression.

“Because you were the one who took it?”

“No,” he said, then turned his head towards you. “Because it’s of you.”

“Neuvillette…” you said after a short silence. You fidgeted with your reddened fingertips. “I don’t understand how you can say things like that with such a straight face.”

“Is it truly so strange?” Neuvillette looked perplexed. “I was simply saying my true feelings. And it is not as though you have refrained from such comments either.”

“You do have a point,” you conceded, although that still didn’t mean it didn’t catch you off guard. You turned your attention back to the photo of you. To be honest, it didn’t turn out half bad. Sure, you looked incredibly stiff and awkward and your hair was a mess and you had no idea what you were thinking when you matched that sweater with that skirt, but…it could have turned out worse.

“May I keep this photo?” Neuvillette asked.

“Of course, but what will you do with it? Surely you aren’t going to put it on your office desk or anything, right?”

“No, of course not. I would put it in a drawer, so I may take it out and look at it whenever I like.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Is it so wrong for a husband to want to look at a picture of his wife every once in a while? Many of the Palais staff also keep pictures of their loved ones on their desks. Why shouldn’t I?” Neuvillette paused for a little bit before adding, “And it would be one way for me to see your face more often, considering how I don’t get many chances of that during the day.”

“Hmm…very well, then,” you didn’t quite get why he would want to see more of your face, but if it made him happy, then you supposed there was nothing to complain about. Neuvillette is actually quite good at this kind of thing, you thought to yourself. Just imagine what it would be like when he gets married to someone he loves.

Now you really felt bad about your (hypothetical) future plans about selling Neuvillette’s photos. I’m an insensitive boor compared to him.

You reached the last of the photos. It was the one of you and Neuvillette standing in front of the sunset.

“You made two copies for the both of us,” you said as you looked at them. “How thoughtful.”

As you gazed at the pictures, you couldn’t help but feel a complex mixture of emotions. There was a surrealness to this photo that the others lacked. If this were a novel, this would be the point where you would wake up and return to reality after discovering something out of place in your life. No matter how you looked at it, you and Neuvillette were mismatched. Two people who were only brought together because of a weird quirk of fate.

But on the other hand…it was a beautiful photo. You had been somewhat worried that the two of you wouldn’t be centered in the frame, but it turned out well. The sunset made for a lovely backdrop. Even though both of you were looking very stiff, and neither of you were smiling.

You remembered that moment clearly. In those few minutes, you felt as light as a feather, like there was nothing tying you to the ground.

Would you ever feel that way again?

“I’m also very fond of this one,” Neuvillette said next to you. When you turned your head, you saw that he was not looking at the photos, but at you. It was then that you realized you were smiling. For some reason, you turned your head away.

“I just realized something,” you said, to cover up the awkward moment. “I’ve taken so many pictures, but I’ve got nowhere to put them all.”

“Ah, about that,” there was an excitement, subdued but present, in his voice. He sounded the same as he did when he introduced you to some new exotic variety of water. “I have a surprise for you. Please, come with me to my study.”

A surprise from Neuvillette? You had an inkling as to what it could be, but that didn’t stop you from putting all the photos back in the envelope and following him upstairs to his study, a domain you had yet to step into. It was a smaller version of his office at the Palais Mermonia, with its large desk, soft rugs, and tall bookshelves that lined the walls. There was also a fireplace here and a cozy-looking couch.

As Neuvillette went to take something out of a cabinet, you covertly examined the shelves. They were mainly filled with books on law, human psychology, history (most of which you’ve already read, having borrowed them from the library), and other similarly serious topics. Oddly enough, you spotted a few children’s picture books. Gifts from the Melusines? Or for entertaining them whenever they visit?

“Madame, here it is,” Neuvillette said, and you walked over to the desk, where there was a large, leather-bound album with metal corners.

“Oh, Neuvillette, you shouldn’t have!” you exclaimed, flipping through the album. There should be just enough space to put all the pictures from your date in it. You looked up to thank him, but was met with the sight of Neuvillette taking out yet another album from the cabinet. This one was wider, with a ribbon tied into a neat bow on the spine. Perhaps Neuvillette bought a second album, just in case the first one wouldn’t fit all of your pictures?

But, as though to dash all reasonable explanations, Neuvillette took out another album from the cabinet, then another. It seemed never-ending, this deluge of albums. After a while, it became sort of funny, like a comedy sketch. You watched, open-mouthed, as the desk became covered with albums of all shapes and sizes.

Finally, after the tenth one, the deluge stopped. Neuvillette looked at you expectantly. “Well, Madame, which one do you prefer?”

“Wait a minute, let me get this right,” you said, backing up a step and surveying the desk. “You bought all these albums just for me to choose one?”

“Yes, I did,” Neuvillette said, nodding as though this was a perfectly normal thing to do. Was this how the minds of the wealthy worked? It was beyond your comprehension. “I was unsure which one would be most to your liking, so I decided to buy them all.”

“Oh, Neuvillette, you really shouldn’t have…” you said. “This is too excessive. Why didn’t you ask me to come with you when you went shopping? And you know I’d like anything you picked out for me.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise…” Neuvillette said. He looked a bit deflated, and you felt bad.

“Can you return them?”

“It would be highly inconvenient for the shopkeeper if I did so,” Neuvillette said, then added in an abashed tone, “And I was told that all sales are final.”

“How unfortunate,” you looked down at the desk again. Was it possible for anyone to fill up all these albums in their lifetime? Maybe if they had a lifespan as long as Neuvillette’s. “Maybe they could make an exception for the Iudex?”

“I would rather not use my position in such a manner.”

“Well then, how about we give them away?”

“Give them away…” Neuvillette considered your words. “I-I suppose that could work… it is a reasonable idea. Yes, quite reasonable indeed.”

Neuvillette…if only you could see the look on your face right now. He looked like a kicked puppy. However, you decided to hold your tongue.

“Hmm, on second thought, it would be quite rude of me to give away presents from my generous husband,” you said. “I’ll keep them all. Thank you, Neuvillette.”

You patted his hand. He looked down at your hand on top of his, his eyes unreadable. He lightly brushed his fingers against your own.

“You need not force yourself to accept them if you do not want them,” he said quietly.

“But I do want them. They’re from you, after all. We’ll just have to take plenty more photos to get your money’s worth.”

“‘We?’”

“Yes, ‘we.’ Did you expect me to fill up these albums all on my own?”

“Certainly, it would be more efficient if we worked together,” Neuvillette nodded to himself. “Very well, then, Madame. I will assist you in this endeavour.”

With that settled, you decided to put the date photos in the first brown leather album. It had a vintage look to it that you liked.

“It’s getting late, Madame. You should be going to bed soon,” Neuvillette informed you.

“What about you?” Neuvillette didn’t seem to be making any moves to retire for the night just yet.

“There are a few more matters that I need to take care of, but do not worry, it won’t take very long.”

“Okay then,” you nodded, stepping towards the door. But just as you were about to leave the study, a thought suddenly struck you. “Oh, by the way, Neuvillette.”

“Yes, Madame?”

“Has Lady Furina been bothering you about…about me lately?”

Neuvillette blinked. He was silent for a moment before speaking. “She has. But it’s nothing for you to worry about. I’m quite used to handling her.”

“But…”

“There is no need to worry, Madame. She will never need to know about you,” Neuvillette’s tone was firm. “I will do my utmost to make sure it stays that way.”

“…Alright,” you said, but it wasn’t relief that flooded your heart. “Good night, Neuvillette.”

“Good night, Madame.”

You closed the study door quietly behind you.

[ocelot-t]

do have any Hazbin Hotel or just RadioRose headcanons? Like Rosie being a really good painter or Alastor technically being younger than he seems or something? (I just like reading other people's ideas on their favorite characters lol)

You arrived just in time.

There will be a lot of words I have mostly a lot of disconnected thoughts in my head, which I sometimes consciously or unconsciously implement in drawings. besides, I don't remember what the canon is, and what the old fanon is, to be honest. If you would like me to, I can share not only my headcanons, but also some of the AUs I have.

I understand where the theory comes from, but I don't like the idea of Alastor being forced to smile all this time. I think he wants to keep everything under his control so much that he smiles even in death. The idea that he is just a sick man, serial killer makes his eternal smile even more unnerving. I don't want to justify him.

I think Al would have enjoyed reading H.P Lovecraft’s works. The tentacled creatures and descriptions of people as nonentities suffering defeat in a fight with chthonic creatures... btw, some of Lovecraft's stories were published during Alastor's era. I have a small headcanon about Alastor's death, and I plan to create a comic in the future (if I can actually get it done).

There are 2 possible deaths of Alastor's mother in my mind, and I’m uncertain which one I want to illustrate. maybe both continuing the theme of Alastor’s human life. I sincerely believe that even if Alastor had really had an abusive father, Al would have been cruel since childhood. Guess what? I have an unfinished little comic with a hum!Al by another artist, and I'm uncertain when I’ll manage to complete it. The headcanon that suggests Alastor’s father is an abuser already seems like a canon; however, I don’t want to portray him as a completely terrible person. I like the idea of Alastor enjoying hunting, so let's say he learned it from his father. Just like all the dad jokes. on the other hand, as for the scars on Alastor, some of them probably came from his father, since domestic violence was a common problem. Regarding art, as you might have noticed, I have a headcanon that Al understands the arts in general, whether it's painting, cinema, or music. Perhaps I think this way only because I am trying to combine things I love very much. I imagine him as a person you could have a discussion about these topics with??? It seems to me that Alastor and Rosie would often discuss these topics over a glass of wine or a cup of tea. Suddenly, Alastor would show up at Rosie's and instead of hello I READ ABOUT FRA FILIPPO LIPPI. DO YOU HAVE AN HOUR FREE? BTW I HOPE YOU WATCHED THAT DZIGA VERTOV MOVIE THAT I RECOMMENDED Rosie would love art nouveau and I don't know rococo? and Alastor would be like no art nouveau is okay, cute, but rococo is bullshit. *2-hour episode of drunken dad teaching life* Continuing on the topic of artists, I repeat myself, I have a silly unfinished series of mini-comics about Alastor and Rosie as art academy students, the plots of which are based on real life (almost). I have thought about what kind of styles they would draw in, what kind of themes they would focus on, and so on. Again, there is a lot of text here already, so I'll wrap up this topic for now. P.S. I have a strange idea in my head about how to imagine Alastor in the USSR in the 10-30s. It was quite fun there: the World War I, the revolution, the civil war, the post-revolutionary years, famines and so on, and so on. For fun, of course, but Alastor the Communist has a good reason to hate Vox the Capitalist and his MMM I mean VVV or Lucifer the emperor of hell, if you know what I mean. Instead of telling dad jokes, he would say that life under Stalin was good and quote Lenin. Of course, these are all jokes, but I did have some abstract thoughts about how his life and his family's life would be arranged. However, I don't know enough about the history of USSR to actually implement this properly. so yeah

[milkycarnations]

Kinktober 2022 Masterlist

This year is my first attempt at Kinktober! Only two posts will be made per week: each with one character and three prompts. The fourth week will have an additional third post as a treat! These are all from @just-a-creep-babe's #creepkinks event, which means that all the characters were randomly generated, as well as the prompts. I excluded some characters from the wheel, but as you'll see, there are some characters in the list that I don't normally write for, so I'm excited to develop these headcanons with you! As for the three prompts, each one is completely randomly generated. The only exception is I skipped all repeated rolls and rolls that are nearly impossible to combine (yes, the Hoodie prompts are randomly generated, I too am shooketh). There are no exact days these will be published, but they will be done sometime within a weekly time frame. This masterlist will be updated after each post for your convenience. Here is the schedule under the cut, the reader will always be afab.

|Week One|

|Toby| face fucking, marking, shibari | finished October 4th

|Jeff| gloryhole, pet play, temperature play | finished October 6th

|Week Two|

|Hoodie| corruption, fear play, predator/prey | potential dubcon finished December 8th

|Firebrand| exhibitionism, breath play, daddy kink | finished December 15th

|Week Three|

|Masky| camgirl, cockwarming, object insertion | camgirl reader finished December 15th

|Puppeteer| recording, hatefuck, safe word | stoplight safe words used but no red, finished February 2nd

|Week Four|

|Bloody Painter| aftercare, brat taming, spitting | finished February 5th

|Homicidal Liu| strip tease, mutual masturbation, begging | finished February 16th

|Clockwork| car sex, overstimulation, spanking | finished August 13th

[jonsaslove]

I love your Jonsa fics! Am ur fan from AO3

I was wondering since you do Cersei/Jaime POV so well, can you consider writing a Canon AU , where Jon joins Kingsguard instead of The Wall, and Sansa marries Joffrey?

Basically Jonsa becomes Cersei X Jaime 2.0 or Aemon X Naerys

Joffrey subjects her to horrific abuse obviously and she suffers a miscarriage and a stillborn baby. She and Jon becomes each others comfort and they decide to take revenge on Lannisters by depriving Joffrey his heir.

Also, since Joffrey had threatened to hv Robb and Arya killed if she doesn't hv a live birth, they r literally left with no choice.

History repeats and yet another Queen cuckolds her husband. With a brother. (Not really, but they don't know)

Jaime suspects. Maybe he thinks their chemistry hv changed. Or he comes across multiple paintings of Sansa in Jon's chamber ( in this AU you can make Jon a painter too, coz his birth dad Rhaegar had a talent for arts).

It's subtle, not as blatant as them being caught in flagrante. But for someone who has his incest radar on, it's as obvious as a day.

Jaime feels enraged that this is happening again. But does not divulge them to Cersei or others coz a.) Question would also arise on him and his Twin... b.) He knows what a monster his son really is, had seen him abusing Sansa the same way Aerys II abused Rhaella and Rob B abused Cersei.

Also, Jon had saved his life while in duty once.

Also, he has never really watched them kiss or hv sex. So plausible deniability. All he sees is body language, expressions and maybe Jon's beautiful, innocent paintings...

All very seemingly innocuous.

So he grudgingly let's history repeat.

You may, or may not hv a parentage reveal. Maybe Jonsa never hv a "real relationship", just this arrangement till end of their days.

Thanks so much for the prompt! There's so much interesting stuff here but is a little too involved for me to write currently with my other projects (though maybe I'll come back to it one day).

I'll put it in the tag in case anyone is feeling inspired by it and wants to write something :)