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bellatrixobsessed1 · 3 years ago

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Brushstrokes

One shot for @tyzula-week

TyLee tries to rediscover old interests and Azula tries to discover what she wants to do in life.

Healing.

It’s a strange word for her.

Sometimes she doesn’t know what it means. Or if it is at all possible.

She twitches at another brushstroke, the bristles tickle her belly as they draw another delicate swirl.

“Hold still!” TyLee exclaims again.

And Azula murmurs another apology. It is better than admitting that she is ticklish anywhere. Her tummy and neck are particularly sensitive and she very much doesn’t want any commentary about how precious and lovable that is.

She will put that off for as long as she can–she has until TyLee reaches her neck. Perhaps it isn’t too late to change the design…

TyLee sticks out her tongue, one of her odder habits–the one exclusive to deep concentration. She slowly and carefully sweeps the brush towards her belly button.

“Are you almost finished, TyLee?”

“Bodypaint takes time, Azula. Especially if you happen to be both a perfectionist and a twitcher.”

Azula flushes. “Right w-well just hurry up.”

TyLee’s lower lip quivers and Azula sighs. She rubs her hands over her face. “Look, it’s just that…I…”

TyLee holds her stare.

“I’m not…” They’ve talked about this time and time again. How it’s alright for her to talk about her feelings. About how she ought to do it more often. About how expressing more mundane emotions about more mundane situations will help get her used to talking about more profound ones.

And yet she hesitates.

“You’re not what?”

“Comfortable…” She mumbles.

TyLee furrows her brows, “why not?”

Azula shrugs. “I’ve never let anyone get so close for so long.” It isn’t even a big deal, TyLee isn’t even touching her, it is mostly the paintbrush. She only makes real contact to dab away a stray line now and then.

“I can let you try to do your own body paint if that helps.”

Azula shakes her head. “You would do a better job.”

“You did a great job on my body paint!” TyLee gestures to the cherry blossom branches that decorate her stomach and the painted petals on her cheeks. To the intricate portrayal of white lace circling the entirety of her neck.

“I can’t reach my back to do it myself.”

“Oh, right.” TyLee hums.

“Continue, TyLee. I like your art.”

TyLee dips her paint brush back into the teal blue paint. It is cool on Azula’s flesh when she resumes her work.

When she us through painting, Azula’s body is a mural of blue flame and dragon claw. Scales crawl over her neck and decorate her hands. The artwork is intricate and gorgeous. She helps TyLee fix a mask over her face. TyLee’s fingers graze her cheeks. "Ready?"

Azula nods.

They have tries all sorts of things to bring Azula out of her shell, to help her lean to express herself. She decides that she rather enjoys this one so far as she can keep a mask on. It us mostly an illusion of protection, her blue flames are unmistakable whether they are painted on her skin or dancing on her hands. Even so, she finds painting to be a soothing activity.

Having her body painted, not so much--her neck is still tingling and TyLee teases her for the way her neck had been scrunching until they reached festival grounds.

.oOo.

Healing looks much different for her than it does for Azula.

It means something different.

Where Azula is trying to pick up the pieces of a shattered life and broken views, TyLee is trying to learn to stand up for herself. Learning to plant a firm foot and hold her position.

While Azula is trying to understand the world again, TyLee is learing what it means to forgive. To love without fear.

Azula tries many new things, many hobbies, haircuts, and style of dress. TyLee rediscovers old passions.

It is hard, at first, to go back to the circus when she had been damn near certain that Kyoshi Island was the path for her.

It is hard with Azula watching, even though the woman has only been encouraging, genuinely so, this time around.

Sometime she doesn't think that she is any good anymore. That's what she tells Azula.

Mostly it is that she is distracted. That sometimes she still sees a blazing net beneath her and a cacophony of screeching animals running amok. Sometimes the flames crackle in her ears and the smoke stings her eyes. And she looks up and sees Azula not as she is presently--intrigued and encouraging--but as she was, an imposing, overbearing force. That soft smile becomes a vicious smirk.

And TyLee has to come down from the trapeze. She doesn't have the heart to explain why she doesn't want Azula touching her right then. And maybe that hurts Azula more. And maybe there's a part of her that wants Azula to be upset.

This time Azula doesn't let her go.

This time Azula gets really quiet, her voice is a mere murmur. "You still think about it? Don't you?" She pauses. "About when I asked you to join me."

"You didn't just ask." TyLee can't help but scoff.

"I know…"

TyLee frowns. She doesn't even know what she wants Azula to do. Azula has already apologized.

She has already helped TyLee design an outfit to perform in. "Can you…" she takes a deep breath. "Can you let me practice in private?"

She would have missed it if she didn't know Azula so well, that little flicker of hurt. She nods in spite of it.

"Thank you."

Azula nods again.

Sometimes TyLee wonders if healing herself means hurting Azula.

Azula isn't used to boundaries.

Isn't used to people telling her what to do.

TyLee is terrified that she will never get used to it.

.oOo.

But she does.

It takes some time but she thinks that she understands that TyLee isn't trying to distance herself, she is trying to bring them closer.

Trying to rebuild trust and prevent new mishaps. It is respectable enough, however painful.

More than anything she finds it surprising that TyLee wants to work through things alone while she likes to have company, someone to take her through the most confusing parts of her life. Social and bubbly TyLee needs her alone time and Azula, with all of her cold and aloof mannerisms needs attention and companionship.

It is rather embarrassing to admit, even just to herself, that she is becoming clingy and soft.

And maybe that is just her nature. Maybe that is why father had spent so much time berating her for her emotions, because he had detected a gentleness, a sensitivity that needed to be snuffed out.

Azula craves closeness so much, now more than ever. But she gives TyLee her space. Gives her space until she feels like the acrobat will never close that space between them. And she is reluctant to inquire lest she create a greater gap.

Finally, on a night when she is bunched up on her bed and thinking about way too much, TyLee sits down on the mattress. Azula lifts her head from her knees. “Good evening, TyLee.”

TyLee smiles. “How are you doing?”

Azula shrugs.

“Not so good, huh?”

“Could be better.” She sighs. But she could also be worse. So much worse. “I’ll be alright.” Now that TyLee is ready to talk again, now that she doesn’t have to fret that she has done something or said something wrong, she should be fine.

“I did a lot of thinking…”

Azula’s chest tightens.

“And I was wondering if you wanted to see one of my shows.” She pauses. “Actually I was wondering if you wanted to be part of one of my shows?”

“Part of it?” She tilts her head.

TyLee nods. “I was thinking that we could do some fire tricks.”

“You…you want me to set things on fire while you perform?”

TyLee laughs. “Yeah, with proper safety measures and pure intentions.”

Azula cracks a smile. “That’s doable. I’ve never tried firebending for a circus show.” And she has tried a doing a lot of things with her fire; woodworking, glass blowing, heating pottery, dancing…

So far she is the most fond of woodworking.

“I figured that you’d like the chance to try something new. And I’d like to make a new memory to replace the bad one that I keep getting stuck on.”

“It won’t…make you anxious to try that.” She knows how certain sensations and settings put her in a dreadful place no matter how hard she tries to take control.

“It won’t. I trust you, Azula.”

Azula swallows. “Trust.”

“Yeah, trust. Do you trust me?”

That is a hard question. She has trouble trusting in general. But TyLee has been so patient with her, has been so supportive. “I think so.”

Azula gestures for TyLee to crawl into her lap. Without a moment of hesitation, she does. She snuggles up against Azula’s chest and for the longest time Azula rests her head on TyLee’s just drinking in the other woman’s body heat. It has been a while since she has gotten to hold TyLee.

“Everything is going to go great.” TyLee promises.

“I hope so.” Azula replies.

And for now, to hope is enough. That is more than she has had in a long time. Hope and someone to hold and to hold her. It is agonizingly slow, but she is beginning to think that those shattered pieces of herself are finally falling back into place. Different places than before, and forming different shapes but she doesn’t feel quite so broken anymore. It is hard to feel broken and unlovable when TyLee lays next to her, clinging to her the way that she clings to her giant stuffed sky bison.

“When is the performance?”

“A few months from now so we’ll have plenty of time to practice and you’ll have time to adjust.”

“That won’t be any trouble, I’ve been adjusting to a lot of things lately.” She has be creating things to adjust to, trying so many new things. “I don’t mind it.” She is actually rather eager for a new opportunity.

A new chance to discover a portion of herself.

“Good night, TyLee.”

Sometimes TyLee doesn’t say good night back. Sometimes TyLee gives her a little kiss on the neck and she knows that it is time to sleep.

#tyzula week 2022 #Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula #TyLee #TyZula #Fanfiction #One Shot

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shibible · 3 years ago

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(OOO I GOT STUFF TO SAY ABOUT HER WOO

Below is the late Prince Hans-Peter)

A cracked porcelain mask, cloaked in black swan feathers, a crown of mirror shards upon her head, and a lantern carrying a powerful crystal with magical properties.

Princess Pirlipat

Daughter of the Human King, and Sugarplum Fairies best friend.

She never returned to her kingdom after embarking on a quest for a cure for her disfigured face, and to find "The Astronomer" a person said to read the stars, and tell the future. She was presumed dead by most. But shes alive, lurking in the forest. Waiting.

Pirlipat hides away in the mythic Hall Of Mirrors, she wants to collect each magic crystal for herself, she has two so far. With half of the ancient book of spells that was said to be lost to time.

But the problem is the second is trapped in a protective shell, the Krakatuk. A spell cast by the Fairies long ago knowing the risks of its power. Only another fairy can break the curse, but at a price. But who would risk their life?

Pirlipat is a complex character I love exploring, I want most parts of her design to reflect her past present and future. This isnt her final design! But the crown if mirrors and feather cloak are most likely gonna stay.

She killed the Mouse King (not Orion, he is his son) and his wife, trying to steal their crystal. But failed, nkw she waits for a vulnerable moment.

She also wears a swan skull mask to not be noticed and stay hidden for now. Ill make a post on the Swans later.

Shes incredibly manipulative and sucks lol, even if she cares for someone she will still put them in hamrs way if it means getting what she wants.

#the nutcracker #thenutcracker #art #ocs #drawing #mouse king #nutcracker #pirlipat #thenutcrackerclaraandtheloststar #tncatls

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opheliadawnwalker3 · 5 years ago

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The Watching

Author’s Note: This is for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor’s fic swap. I picked @sherrybaby14 :) Hope you like it hun and Merry Christmas!!

Synopsis: Reader has been dating Thor for about a year and is celebrating her first Yuletide on Asgard. But she’s unprepared for certain traditions that are expected of her. Or that these traditions also involve Thor and his companions.

Contains: strong sexual content, cunnilinguous, penetration, threesome, voyeurism, some audience participation, fluffy holiday cheer

Wacchinsrinn- Old Norse means “The Watching”

*****************************************************************************************

You stand in the elaborately decorated banquet hall, carefully nursing another full goblet of Asgard’s famous honeyed wine. Thor had left you alone, mere moments before, no doubt to personally welcome his people to the Yule celebration. In the corner, several Asgardian citizens play musical instruments and the rest are either drunkenly dancing, feasting on delicious foods or laughing uproariously. Eager faces are painted with intricate symbols and there is much joy and carefree energy in the air. Normally, you’re not such a wall flower, but being surrounded by Thor’s fiercely lively people is a whole new experience for you. You had already witnessed the burning of the wooden Yule wreath earlier and had cheered with the others when it was sent hurtling down the hill and fell among the stars. In the corner of the vast hall stands the Yule tree, decorated not with the colored glass balls you were accustomed to, but small statues of previous kings and mythical creatures. After seeing the God of Thunder for over a year, you were overjoyed to hear him say that he wanted to finally bring you back to his world. His kingdom.

It happened to be close to Christmas, but other than the typical mandatory bland office party and receiving a few Christmas cards, you really had no other plans. Why on Earth would you ever pass that up? The chance to not only see the place he grew up in, but to be among his people and culture. His friends and-

“Well, well...don’t we look fetching this evening?” A sly familiar voice utters behind you, erupting a subtle heat across the back of your neck. Turning, you see Loki, sharply donned with tailored green silks and a gray pelt clasped around his shoulders. Instead of his usual absurdly large golden horns, a delicate golden crown balances at his temple.

You raise your goblet to him. “You clean up rather nicely yourself.”

Loki tilts his head, keen emerald eyes slowly trailing down your body and you could almost swear he could see right through the crimson silk of your gown. His lips curl into a devious smile and your heart flutters against your will. “Do enjoy the festivities...mind the honeyed wines. They are much stronger than the tepid liquors served on Midgard.”

You roll your eyes as you defiantly take another sip. You would be lying if you said, you weren’t already feeling buzzed. The warmth that spreads across your cheeks, that familiar light headed feeling. You would have to pace yourself. You can’t make a fool out of yourself at your first Asgardian Yuletide. And you were here with Thor for God’s sake. You didn’t want to humiliate him or yourself.

A loud clang sounds near you and your attention is momentarily drawn to Volstagg, one of Thor’s infamous Warrior’s Three, laughing boisterously as he picks up his dropped axe. No doubt, in the middle of a drunken retelling of old battle stories.

Lips brush the shell of your ear and you automatically tense up. Your breath hitches as slender fingers ghost over your bare shoulders.

“I look forward, to seeing much more of you later.” Loki purrs huskily into your ear and you are rooted to the spot. His alluring voice holds dark promises. Your brows furrow in confusion and before you are able to ask just what he means by that, Thor’s voice cuts across the room. You look over to see him cross the room with jovial presence. His bright blue eyes crinkle with happiness at the sight of you.

Loki withdraws from you completely and you let out a sigh of relief. The wine...it must have been the wine. You would have to drink water to spread it out.

Seemingly unbothered at Loki’s closeness, Thor smiles warmly as he slips his arms around your waist and pulls you in for a kiss. You sigh, relishing the comforting feeling of his lips and presence as you pull him in closer. For the past year, Thor had been a beacon of light in your boring, mundane life. He would entertain you for hours with tales of his childhood, battles and stories about his time with the Avengers. He made you feel exciting just by being in his presence. Feel incredibly safe just by being in his strong embrace. He never left you wanting whether physically, mentally or emotionally. You only hoped you did the same for him.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Thor’s deep voice rumbles against your mouth.

“I am. I just wish we could-”

“Ah there’s the lovely couple. Starting Wacchinsrinn a bit early are we not?” You recognize Fandral’s charming voice sounding next to you. You pull back from Thor slightly with a raised brow.

“Wacchinsrinn? What’s that?”

Before the smaller roguish blonde can answer you, Thor laughs and quickly begins to lead you away from the two men. Confused, you look back to see Fandral and Loki exchange knowing smiles.

“What on earth was that about?” You ask, setting your now empty goblet down on one of the long wooden tables. Funny, you hadn’t even remembered drinking it all.

“Just Fandral with one of his jokes. Pay the scoundrel no mind,” Thor replies playfully before spinning you around wildly among the other dancing patrons. You wish to press him further but a mixture of the otherworldly alcohol and contagious euphoria around you, causes your curiosity to melt away and you gather your skirts to join the dance.

**********************************************************************************

About an hour later, Thor leads you down the hall by the hand. You stumble a bit and giggle with tipsy merriment as he turns the corner to open a pair of grand ornate doors. You tilt your head in confusion as you take in the lavish yet unfamiliar chambers within.

“Hey this isn’t the same room, you showed me earlier. This isn’t yours, right?”

“You’re right, Y/N. This is our room.”

“Ooo our room you say?” You tease as you take in your surroundings, Thor walking in behind you to shut the doors. Inside the chamber was a large king sized bed with a full canopy and intricately carved designs in the wood. The sheets were golden and there was a table set with trays of cheese and fruits and silver pitchers no doubt filled with mead and wine. But that wasn’t what caught your eye. You look back at Thor whose looking down at you with an expression you can’t quite decifer.

“What’s with all the chairs pointed facing the bed? Kind of an unusual arrangement, isn’t it?”

“It’s for...Wacchinsrinn.”

“There’s that word again. What is it?”

Before Thor can respond, there is a low chuckle and suddenly Loki appears next to you.

“Oh dear, you haven’t told her. How irresponsible and devious of you, brother.”

“Hush, Loki.” Thor looks down at you and brings a massive hand to cup your face. “Please forgive me, Y/N. I didn’t want you to worry or feel pressured to do anything.”

“Although it is an Asgardian tradition. I don’t believe Y/N wants to be the cause of the King’s refusal to uphold a tradition maintained for thousands of years.”

“Not the time, Loki...”

“I disagree. I think it’s the perfect time...”

“No he’s right. I’m not going to stand in the way of you upholding your kingly duties. Whatever you need to do, I’ll support you.” You encourage, placing a hand on Thor’s arm.

“How touching, but your amorous participation is very much required.” Loki interjects with a dangerous smirk and Thor sighs, clearly conflicted. You look back and forth between the pair.

“My what participation?”

Before Loki could reply, Thor raises his hand in front of him.

“Loki, leave us.”

“Oh, I think not. This is all rather entertaining for me.”

“Leave now.” Thor’s tone is tense and clipped and you can’t help feeling a little nervous. What is going on? Why all the secrecy? And what exactly is expected of you?

“So tense, brother. Perhaps you should have her tend to you first and help get those bothersome...kinks out.”

Thor says, nothing, merely glares at Loki, before the latter sighs in reluctant surrender.

“Very well, I suppose I could check on the rest of the rabble and see if they are ready to bear witness.” And with that, Loki disappears, leaving you and Thor alone once more. You look up at the god and cross your arms.

“Thor just tell me. What’s the tradition?” Your eyes widen briefly when you think back to all of the those Viking and Pagan shows you watched in mild preparation for the Yule celebration.

“I won’t have to do an animal sacrifice will I?”

Thor smiles and shakes his head as he brushes his fingers along your jaw. “No animal sacrifices will be required of you, I promise.”

“Okay...then what is expected of me?”

Thor pauses for a moment in quiet contemplation, gathering his thoughts before he eventually sighs. “On Asgard, the act of coupling is a merry and happy occasion. Asgardians do not view such an act with such...modesty as on Midgard.”

You nod, following along and very curious as to where this is going.

“And so...the notion of sharing such a joyous act with others...is considered...a generous gift.”

You eyes widen slightly as the realization begins to wash over you. “And when you say sharing...you mean...??”

Thor gives you an embarrassed smile. “Those closest to us shall bear witness to our union.”

“So...your companions are just going to watch us?”

“If that is agreeable to you. It is not uncommon for them to join in should all participating consent.”

You chew on your bottom lip and cross your arms. “So that’s what everyone has been referring to all night.”

“Yes.”

You contemplate for a few moments more, weighing your options in your head. You should be appalled that your boyfriend just sprang this on you, royalty or not. But you just can’t find yourself to be angry. On the contrary...the idea is intriguing. You’d always been fascinated by the thought of voyeurism. Whether watching someone else or being watched yourself. But you’d never had the courage to explore it. There was even once an incident where Hawkeye accidentally walked into the room while you were riding Thor at Avengers Tower. Instead of being embarrassed...you only clenched tighter around Thor’s cock. Even felt a pang of disappointment when Hawkeye quickly left the room with amused apologies. Maybe this was your chance to finally explore one of your fantasies.

You finally look back up at Thor, his handsome face etched with worry and concern.

“Okay.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. I want to do this. For you, but mostly for me,” You admit, pressing a soft kiss against his lips. You see a flash of green in the corner of your eye and Loki appears next to you, holding two goblets full of wine. He gives you an impish smirk as he holds one out to you.

“How about a little more wine to take the edge off. Perhaps numb your defenses a bit,” Loki drawled as you eagerly accept the wine. A little liquid courage never hurt anyone. Thor watches you carefully as you take several large pulls of the sweet wine, embracing the numbing warmth that pools down your body.

“Are you sure about this ,Y/N?” Thor asks softly, his usual booming voice now quiet with uncertainty.

You set your now empty goblet on the table next to you and give him a confident smile. Sure, you felt emboldened by the wine, but you also felt very eager for what lays ahead Thor reaches up to cup your jaw with both hands, his bright blue eyes melting any doubts you might have had.

“Because if you’re not, then damn the traditions. I will never ask you to do anything you’re not ready for. We can leave now, go back to Midgard and celebrate your traditional Christmas.”

You feel your heart swell with appreciation and adoration and you turn your head slightly to kiss his fingers. “You would do that for me?”

“Of course I will. You mean more to me that anything.”

“Then I want to do this. I’m happy to do it.”

Thor leans down to press his lips to yours once more in a sweet gentle kiss to which you eagerly reciprocate. Next to you, Loki chuckles as he takes a sip from his goblet.

“Not to break up this touching little moment, but the others are getting restless.”

Thor reluctantly pulls away, brushing your bottom lip with his thumb.

“Then we shall not keep them waiting.”

The potent alcohol flows within you, but something else pools within. Excitement and pure unadulterated desire. Loki chuckles and you feel his hands on your hips as he presses in close behind you. Surprised, you look up to Thor for guidance, but he merely stares at the pair of you with a calm unbothered expression.

“And will you allow any of the witnesses to enjoy her as well?” Loki insinuates, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I myself, am curious if she tastes as good as she looks.” Your breath hitches and your heart begins to pound harder at his carnal implications.

Thor smirks and gestures down to you. “That is entirely up to you. If you desire another, then it shall be done.”

You let out a soft gasp, completely taken aback by this turn of events. But certainly not upset at the prospect. You would be lying to yourself if you never thought about how alluringly charming and attractive Loki is. So very different from your Thor, yet enticing all the same. When will you get another opportunity like this?

“Yes...I...I want you both.”

“Very well, then let them all in and we’ll begin the Wacchinsrinn.”

Loki presses a brief kiss to your neck, before gracefully leaving the room. You feel your nerves beginning to flutter in your gut, battling against your arousal and the tension in the air from the possibilities.

Thor steps up to you and carefully traces his hand down your front. Your nipples harden through the thin silk and you lick your lips.

“Who...who will be watching us?”

“The Warriors Three, Lady Sif, Loki and Heimdall will watch from the Rainbow Bridge since he cannot personally attend. But do not be nervous. You are perfection. This is a gift not only for my companions but us as well.”

You take a deep breath, heartbeat speeding up when you hear approaching footsteps and the large ornate doors open.

Fandral walks in first, his eyes drinking you in. “Ahh lovely, Y/N...you look ready for your first Wacchinsrinn. Tell me, has Thor prepared you properly? Because if not, I offer you my services. I’m told I’m quite talented in such matters.”

“Oh do settle down, Fandral. She has already chosen me to help...alleviate the tension. Do enjoy your seat, though.” Loki retorts playfully as he unclasps the fur from around his shoulders.

Fandral winks at you as he gracefully drops in his seat. “Well I suppose that silver tongue has its uses after all.”

The combination of alcohol, nerves, and your excitement for things to come, make your skin tingle with anticipation.

Lady Sif follows close behind, dressed elegantly in a fitted gown of midnight blue. Her usually tied up long hair, hangs down her back in loose curls. She takes her place in the middle seat and crosses her legs expectantly as she gives you a small encouraging smile. She gives a side eye to Volstagg, who decided to bring a large turkey leg to the ceremony, as he sits next to her.

“Honestly...must you eat even while we bear witness?”

Volstagg lets out a good humored laugh as he takes a bite of the roasted meat. “What is the point of enjoying such stimulating entertainment without filling my gullet? No point in doing things half way, I say.”

Hogun silently joins the group and crosses his arms, his stoic face betraying nothing. Thor stands tall and acknowledges all who are present.

“Now that we are all here, its time to begin. We thank those closest to us in sharing this moment. May this gift offer you many blessings and good omens on and off the battlefield.”

“And what a gift it is,” Exclaims Fandral, holding up his own pint of mead.

“Hear, hear!” Volstagg agrees excitedly. Sif and Hogun remain silent, but their subtle expressions hold a keen interest.

The Warriors cheer and you can’t help but smile at the almost absurd nature of it all.

“My desired and I shall drink from the cup and then proceed with Wacchinsrinn,” Thor exclaims as he holds out another goblet will only half full. The both of you drink from it and Loki takes the empty goblet away. Thor wastes no time undressing with unwavering confidence and leans down to capture your lips in a hungry kiss.

“It is time to be worshipped, like the goddess you are,” Thor purrs in a husky voice against your lips as his hands trail down your waist. His pretty words and deep tone makes your thighs clench together as your pussy throbs.

You feel Loki press in close behind you and he carefully pushes your hair off your neck. Their closeness is intoxicating. “But first you must bare yourself to us,” Loki whispers lowly in your ear as dexterous fingers make swift work of the clasps on your shoulders. The top slips down revealing your breasts and you gasp when Thor’s hands begin caressing with eager, calloused hands. Loki grips your hips as his mouth traces a tantalizing path up your neck.

Your fingers tangle in Thor’s blonde locks when he lowers himself to capture a pebbled nipple in his mouth. His mouth is hot and he licks and nibbles your breasts. You’re suddenly feeling very flushed, your skin scorching under their ministrations.

You feel Loki’s teeth against your throat and he chuckles into your ear. “You should think yourself fortunate. Our great grandfather would often bend his women over the table in the banquet hall during Wacchinsrinn. For all of Asgard to see. This way is far more...intimate.” With that he grabs your chin and kisses you greedily.

After a few moments, the two men lead you to the bed. Thor sits down first and pulls you back between his spread legs. His cock full and hard against your back. His kisses you once more and you feel his hands slide up your thighs, taking the crimson silk of your skirts with it. You lean back against his thick muscled body and stare up at Loki, who remains at the foot of the bed fixed with an expectant sneer.

“Would you like Loki to taste you? Allow him to thoroughly ready your body for me?” Thor questions as his fingers reach your eager cunt beneath the silk. You moan, your hips raising slightly to feel every caress of his fingers. He chuckles arrogantly and you hear the lewd sounds of his fingers easily slipping inside you.

“Well...it seems she’s already quite ready. We may not need your services after all, Loki,” Thor exclaims playfully, displaying his fingertips already soaked in your arousal.

“That may be brother, though I should like to hear it from her lips that she does not desire my mouth on her delectable quim.” Loki replies as he slowly pulls the green tunic over his head with smug ease, revealing his pale yet toned upper body. Both men know you’re not saying no at this point. In fact, no, is the farthest thing from your mind.

You give him a mischievous grin as you beckon him with just the crook of your finger and Loki obliges, crawling up between your spread thighs with a dangerous smile. He looks as though he may just devour you whole.

When his mouth meets your cunt, you immediately relax back against Thor, enjoying every sensation as Loki unravels you. His tongue glides along your slit with expert ease, rolling and flicking over your throbbing clit. Thor’s beard tickles your bare shoulder as he nips the skin and caresses your breasts. You felt trapped between the two brothers in the most heavenly way.

“How does she taste, Loki?” You hear Volstagg call out and your eyes snap open. You had almost forgotten you were being watched. You bite back a whine when Loki raises up slightly, your cunt already missing his mouth.

“Better than the finest of delicacies on Asgard. She truly is a delicious well of vanilla and honey.” Loki brags and your breath hitches when his lips immediately return to you, wrapping around your clit and gently sucking.

“I knew it. Pay up Fandral,” you hear Volstagg boast and Fandral sighs as he drops a few coins in his companions outstretched hand.

Beneath you, Thor undulates his hips into you and your cunt clenches tightly, wanting to be filled.

“I can feel Heimdall’s ever watchful eyes upon us. He is thoroughly enjoying the sights as well. He wonders if you would like my cock deep inside you with my brother’s mouth still upon you.” Thor whispers softly into your ear as he pinches a nipple.

Between Loki’s adept mouth and Thor’s touches and carnal words, you can barely form words of your own. But you manage just the same.

“God yes. Please, Thor...” You mewl pathetically as your thighs twitch around Loki’s shoulders. His fingers massage and squeeze your spread thighs.

With that, Thor raises your hips and lines your soaked entrance with his tip. Loki raises his head slightly to follow your cunt. His piercing green eyes staring up hungrily at you. Being worshipped by these men...feeling several pairs of eyes on you at once...its all very intoxicating.

“Lower yourself upon me. Let me feel you clench desperately around me.” Thor commands softly against your temple, his hands gripping your hips and holding you above him. You nod eagerly and you sink down onto him completely. Your pussy is dripping and more than ready, yet Thor’s thick shaft still stretches you slightly and the pair of you moan loudly. Loki chuckles against your flesh, sending vibrations over your clit and making your cunt tighten around Thor.

“By the gods...your grip is always so exceptional. I could just feel you squeeze me all day, though I’d be fighting the urge to drive into you with everything I have.”

“Move her skirts. We would like to see too,” Lady Sif commands from her seat. You briefly raise your eyes to meet hers and her expression is heated and very much satisfied.

“As the lady commands,” Thor agrees as he rips the silk away, baring the rest of you to the room.

You mewl loudly as Loki begins to speed up his tongue, sucking at your clit a little harder. Your fingers reach up to tangle in his dark tresses as he brings your body closer and closer. Your hips roll atop Thor and you continue to mercilessly squeeze his cock sheathed inside you. That familiar icy hot numbing sensation spreads over you as your body climbs higher and higher towards the peak.

“She’s definitely close. Such a sweet thing, they’ve barely had to touch her,” Fandral observes smugly.

“True, but I still bet that she will last through the night.” Lady Sif replies with subtle arrogance.

“Ah, shall we bet on it then, Lady Sif?”

“You have nothing I want, Fandral.”

“How about if I polish your armor for a full moon?”

“What, and let you leave spots all over my-”

“Will you two stop your incessant blathering? She’s about to fall and I would like to enjoy it in its entirety,” Hogun finally quips in with a surprisingly gruff voice.

You cry out as Loki’s mouth unravels you, causing your cunt to pulsate tightly around Thor. He grips you atop him as he hisses into your ear.

After a few more languid licks of your slit, Loki finally sits up from between your thighs and pulls you into a deep kiss. Your inner walls tighten around Thor yet again when you taste your own juices on Loki’s lips.

The room erupts in applause as the Warriors clap and cheer wholeheartedly.

“A good first round, I’d say!” Volstagg exclaimed as he slams his empty goblet upon the floor in celebration.

“I agree. I think Y/N is fully warmed up now. We’re going to need much more wine and mead before we proceed forward.”

“And more bread!” Volstagg adds, tossing an empty turkey leg upon his plate.

“I wonder if Y/N, will allow Loki to continue to tend to her,” Lady Sif muses aloud.

At that, Loki finally pulls away from you, licking your bottom lip with an imperious smirk. “I will of course, perform as such, should she require it of me.”

Thor laughs, clamping a hand on Loki’s bare shoulder. “Well down, brother. But I should like you to sit this next one out for now. I wish to ravage her myself this time.”

“Such a bore...but I will concede for now.” Loki sighs snidely before lightly touching your jaw and leaving the bed.

With Thor’s cock still buried inside you, you look up at him with an impish expression. “So, there’s more to Wacchinsrinn? We’re not finished yet?”

He brushes his lips against your temple as his hands tighten on your hips. “Oh no, my love. We go until you cannot go any longer. When you have had enough, then we will stop. But I know you and....I know you have several more hours in you.”

As he thrusts up into you again accompanied by the supportive cheers of his companians, you smile, truly feeling full filled for the first time in a long time.

From his post on the Rainbow Bridge, the ever watchful Heimdall smiles at the glorious sights before him.

Taglist: @sherrybaby14 @darkficsyouneveraskedfor @lucifers-trash-stash @cherienymphe @imanuglywombat @threeminutesoflife @charmed-asylum @thefangirllife @justagirlinafandomworld @queenoftheworldisdead @searchforanotherway @sapphirescrolls @hurricanerin @cockslut-padalecki @different-type-of-hell @darkandinvitingfics @buckybarnesplumwhore @oneoftheprettynerds

#thor x reader au #thor x reader smut #dark! thor x reader #thor oneshot #thor odinson #thor x you #thor x y/n #thor smut #smut fic #loki x reader #loki smut #loki x you #loki x y/n

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purrincess-chat · 4 years ago

Text

Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s Spite Playlist: Remix CH28

What does Chloe have in store for Marinette? Find out next week! As I stated on AO3, once I post chapter 30, I’m going to take another month off to let my betas finish up the last few chapters, then in October if we are all finished, I will be posting two chapters a week on Mondays and Fridays to finish this story out. It’s been a long journey rewriting it, but I’m much happier with the outcome this time. I hope you’re all excited to see the rest of the changes to this story. I know I can’t wait to share them!

Previous First Next AO3

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Chapter 28: End Game

Morning light streamed through the window, casting golden rays across Marinette’s cheeks. The urgent screech of her alarm blared on the shelf above her head, vibrating the loft in its tantrum. She blinked, then immediately squeezed her eyes shut again, sitting up out of the sun. Kicking the blankets from around her legs, she palmed for her phone, clumsily tapping the screen with a yawn. Sleep had eluded her most of the night for more reasons than one, and the previous day’s events replayed on loop as she slogged through her morning routine.

Had all of it really happened? The museum, her old friends, the akuma, Emerald Shell, Lila… And she’d gone to Chloe of all people for help. When had she fallen so low? And how long did Marinette have to be on this rollercoaster? Wasn’t there an emergency exit she could use?

She splashed water on her face, leaning against the sink with a sigh. Not all of it was bad at least. She and Adrien got to spend the evening together, though the sweetness diminished as a result of the afternoon’s events. Even still, there were worse ways to end a trying day than being spoon-fed chocolate mousse by the boy of her dreams.

Marinette stared at her reflection, droplets dripping from her chin like the countless tears she’d cried the past month. So much had changed since she left. Her face still looked the same, but the girl inside was different than the one who walked out of Francoise-Dupont a month ago. Her eyes carried a new determination.

Lila had gone too far, and Marinette wasn’t going to stand for it anymore. Starting today, everything was going to change.

“Marinette! You’re going to be late for school!” her mother called up the stairs.

Marinette dried her face and slipped on her blazer.

“Coming!”

Things were normal at school. People were buzzing about the latest akuma and the appearance of Emerald Shell. Martin held his head a little higher, though his cheeks never lost their rosy hue, especially when Macy gushed about how Emerald Shell saved her. It wasn’t until art class that they realized Marinette was being unusually quiet.

“How did things go with Adrien?” Eliott asked, looking up from the fruit bowl they were all painting.

“Adrien was fine,” Marinette said. “It was Lila I had to worry about.”

“Still?” Macy winced. “What happened?”

“It’s a long story…” Marinette sighed, wiping her brush on a rag.

“We’ve got a whole hour.” Martin pointed out, and they all looked at Marinette expectantly.

Marinette smiled, reassured by their eagerness. They really were the best friends in the world. She took a deep breath before diving in, and her friends listened to every detail intently.

“Whoa, she really did that to you?” Lisette asked when she finished. “And I thought Gabrielle was awful.”

“Lila is an attention-seeking manipulator, and she crushes anyone who gets in her way,” Marinette said bitterly. “I hate to drag you guys into this—mostly because I barely want to be dragged into this—but-”

“Oh, we’ll totally help,” Macy said. “If there’s one thing rich people love to do it’s brag about our accomplishments and make other people look inferior.”

“I can text around and try to set up a hangout with Prince Ali next time he passes through Paris.” Eliott offered.

“My dad’s in a group that plays tennis with a few ambassadors. I’m sure he could help us set up a youth program to push a Go Green effort here in Paris.” Martin added.

“Sometimes I babysit for the president’s niece, so I could see about getting her deported,” Lisette said with a cheery grin, and everyone turned to her with horrified expressions. “I’m kidding, but it’s an option.”

“Aww, you’re so cute when you’re kicking awful people out of the country.” Eliott nuzzled her cheek with his nose.

“Anything you need, Marinette, we’ve got your back,” Macy said, placing a hand over hers. “We’re behind you all the way.”

Marinette pulled her in for a hug, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. Even though she regretted running from her problems, Marinette didn’t regret meeting her new friends. They helped her when she needed it most, and for that, she would always be grateful. With these people by her side, Lila wasn’t going to know what hit her.

♪♫♪ This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things ♪♫♪

Marinette paced the length of the living room a week later, chewing her nails. The awards show had finally arrived, and Clara would be walking the red carpet in one of Marinette’s original designs. It was the biggest moment of her life, and she couldn’t sit still.

Her mom smiled, setting the cake she’d just finished decorating on the table. “Everything is going to be fine, dear. Your designs were wonderful, and Clara loved them.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean all of the famous fashion critics are going to. People talk about award show outfits for weeks, mom! If everyone hates Clara’s dress, I’m going to be front-page news for worst-dressed all month!” Marinette groaned.

“There’s no way anyone will hate your designs. My daughter has all the talent in the world!” Her father scooped her up, planting a kiss on her cheek.

The doorbell rang, and Marinette rushed to answer it.

“Congratulations!” Her friends cheered.

Macy pulled her in for a tight hug. “I can’t wait to see which design Clara picked! They were all so good.”

“I can’t believe Clara picked you over Gabriel Agreste. You are so lucky, Marinette,” Lisette said.

“She’s amazingly talented. My father didn’t stand a chance,” Adrien said with a laugh. He presented a bouquet of roses with a shy smile. “Congratulations, mon ange.”

Marinette stretched up to kiss his cheek. Taking his hand, she ushered everyone inside where they didn’t hesitate to make themselves at home. Eliott and Martin moved for the snacks while Macy and Lisette settled on the couch. Marinette’s mother reached for a vase on the top shelf, stretching up on her toes.

“Let me.” Adrien stepped in and grabbed it with ease.

“Thank you, dear. Marinette picked such a sweet boyfriend.” Her mother beamed. “She used to talk about you so much. Every day, she’d come home from school and tell us all about how green your eyes are and-”

“Mom!” Marinette shot her a silencing look.

“I’m flattered. Marinette is a wonderful girl. You and Mr. Dupain must be really proud that a celebrity like Clara commissioned her,” Adrien replied smoothly. He shot Marinette a wink when her mom changed the subject. Why was he so perfect?

“Ooo! It’s starting!” Macy squealed.

Marinette and Adrien squeezed onto the couch next to Macy and Eliott. She leaned her head on his shoulder, twining their fingers together. Having her friends around eased some of her nerves, but her heartbeat escalated every time someone new moved to the front of the line.

“How long until we get to see your dress?” her dad asked.

“I don’t know. The red carpet doesn’t really have a set schedule.” Marinette shrugged.

“Okay, we’ll just wait,” he said, trying to seem nonchalant, though his impatience showed each time he shifted or cleared his throat.

Marinette chewed her nails as other artists and celebrities made their appearances, leg bouncing until Eliott reached over to stop it. She flashed him a sheepish grin but resumed tapping the moment he turned away.

Clara’s name flashed at the bottom of the screen, and Marinette cupped her hands over her mouth. Everyone leaned forward as she approached the camera in a colorful, flowing gown.

“She’s wearing my favorite!” Marinette squeaked between her fingers. Her dad patted her knee as her mom turned up the volume on the television.

“Standing here on the red carpet with Best Pop Artist nominee Clara Nightingale,” the reporter said, turning to Clara with a smile. “Clara, can I just say you look lovely tonight? Who are you wearing?”

“My dress was designed by someone sweet; a teen whose talent can’t be beat. More beautiful than any melody I’ve ever sang, this dress is by Miss Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” Clara twirled around, the skirt of the dress rippling with color.

Marinette buried her face in a couch pillow with a shrill scream. Adrien rubbed her back with a laugh. She shot up again, eyes glued to the screen as Clara gushed about the details of her dress before the conversation steered toward her award nomination.

“Can I just say? Stun-ning!” Eliott said.

“That dress is everything! It looks even better than it did on paper.” Macy agreed.

“A celebrity wearing my daughter’s original designs! I always knew someone would recognize how amazing you are.” Her dad pulled her in for a tight hug.

“We’re so proud of you, honey. We know how hard you worked,” her mom said.

“You did an amazing job, Marinette.” Adrien pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“Well, we have to get back to the bakery, so we’ll let you kids watch the rest together, okay?” Her mother passed Macy the remote.

“Good night.” Marinette waved as they stood and took their leave.

“Actually, I should go too. I forgot to do my physics homework,” Macy said, standing up. “Martin, can you come help me? It’ll take me hours if you don’t.”

Martin flicked his gaze over to Marinette and nodded. “Uh, yeah, I can do that.”

“Oh, ya know, I just remembered that I promised my dad we’d help him with that thing,” Lisette said.

“Oh yeah! Sorry, it’s like a big, complicated thing. We need to go too.” Eliott nodded. “Congrats again. You’re amazing and wonderful, and you deserve this more than anyone.”

“Thanks.” Marinette smiled.

“See you tomorrow!” Macy called as they all shuffled out the door.

“Is it just me or was that a lot of lame excuses?” Marinette tilted her head.

“I asked them to give us some time alone.” Adrien admitted.

“Oh.” Marinette’s cheeks warmed as Adrien wrapped an arm around her.

“I know things have been crazy lately, but in a way, I’m really glad all of this happened. I might not have ever realized how I felt about you if it hadn’t,” he said. “It’s a weird positive that’s come from everything.”

“Yeah.” Marinette leaned against his shoulder with a smile. “I’m happy things worked out. I never would have told you how I felt otherwise.”

“Did you really tell your parents how cute I was?” he asked with a smirk.

“I- Well, I didn’t- I mean-” She buried her face in his shirt with a groan.

“It’s been a while since I’ve heard you stammer like that. I forgot how cute it is.” Adrien chuckled.

“It’s your fault.” She jabbed his chest with one finger. “You’re so cute. It makes me all flustered.”

“Hmm, then I wonder how you’ll react to this.” He reached into his pocket to retrieve a long jewelry case, opening it to reveal a small pink diamond necklace.

“Adrien!”

“I wanted to get you something to remember me by since we go to different schools now. I miss you like crazy, so I thought that maybe you could at least have a small piece of me when we’re apart,” he said. “Do you like it?”

“Adrien…” Marinette cupped a hand over her mouth. “It’s beautiful. I love it.”

The gem was warm against her skin as Adrien fastened it around her neck, a physical reminder of his love. They’d overcome so much together, and while their fight was far from over, at least Marinette had him.

Adrien turned her jaw to face him, brushing her cheek with his thumb. Those warm green eyes softened as he leaned in, and Marinette closed her eyes. His breath swirled hot on her lips when they brushed, sending a jolt up her spine. Her heart hammered in a frenzy, building rapidly in anticipation. But just as release came, his pocket buzzed, and they both crashed down to earth again.

With a short sigh, Adrien pulled back and retrieved his phone, quirking a brow at the caller ID.

“It’s Chloe,” he said. “Hell-”

“Were you two going to list Dupain-Cheng designing for Clara Nightingale among our assets, or was I just supposed to figure that out myself?” She scolded.

“Sorry. It was kind of-”

“No time for excuses. I need to propose this to you before I change my mind. I know the perfect way to enact your plan,” Chloe said with a groan. “I hate myself for even considering it.”

“What are you suggesting?” Adrien’s eyebrows furrowed.

“We’re going to make Dupain-Cheng famous, and I think I know the perfect way to do it.”

#mdcspr #marinette dupain-cheng's spite playlist remix #my writing

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botherkupo · 4 years ago

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heroes and lullabies (chapter 5)

new chapter is posted!

read on ao3

5: Empty Seashell

The mini fridge is full of camembert. Adrien’s lip wobbles as he pulls wheel after wheel out, intermingled with aged goat cheese. All of Plagg’s little stash.

Silence weighs his shoulders. It reaches out from the walls and holds him in its grip, because there’s no one to break it. No sassy remarks. No private jokes. Not even a whiny complaint. There’s only silence and this stupid pile of stinky cheese.

His fingers itch. His teeth clench. He has an urge to throw the cheese, to smash it against the walls and scream until his voice goes hoarse. But he doesn’t. He packs the cheese neatly back into the mini fridge and closes the door.

Adrien sits at the piano and finally breaks the silence. He plays their song, the one that always had Plagg jumping around on the keys as his accompanist. When he finishes the song, his cheeks are wet.

oOo

Father doesn’t join him for dinner, but he does come to the dining hall just before Adrien is about to make his way back to his room. More silence. It’s awkward and sticks to Adrien’s skin, making him lower his gaze. He knows his eyes are puffy. He knows he looks a mess.

“You should get an early night,” Father says in a clipped voice. “You have a photoshoot tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Father.”

It’s like following a script at this point. Adrien waits for the dismissal, but his father doesn’t nod or walk away. He stands there, tall and stern, assessing Adrien as he might a design that isn’t quite coming out how he wanted.

“Is there something else you needed to tell me?” Adrien asks, careful to keep his tone polite.

“You seem … not quite yourself.”

Adrien blinks. That’s not part of the script. Warmth stirs in his chest, because it’s not often his father checks on his wellbeing. These little moments are treasures he wants to keep safe in his heart. They’re reminders that, even if his father is too busy for birthdays, competitions, or even a simple family dinner, he still cares.

“Did something happen?” Father asks. “Something at school?”

Adrien bites his lip. He can’t tell the truth, and he doesn’t want to use the provided excuse and risk giving the wrong impression. Father will seize any chance to have him home schooled again. Best not to go that route. There’s no point in lying and saying he’s fine either. It’s obvious he’s not.

“School is fine,” he says. “I’m just … I was thinking about Mum.”

A lie. A terrible lie that squeezes his heart with guilt, but it does the trick. Father pulls him into a hug—an even greater treasure than the rare words of concern. True, it’s not like Sabine’s or Tom’s hugs, the kind that make you feel warm all over and like you’re being wrapped up in love. Father’s hugs are stiff. It’s like he’s still figuring out where to place his arms, like he’s not sure of how closely he should hold Adrien. But none of that really matters. All Adrien cares about is that it’s still a hug.

“I miss her too,” Father says softly.

It’s the closest they’ve come to bonding in a long time. It’s just sad that it has to be because of a lie.

Father pulls away, straightening his spine. He’s a statue of sternness once more. “Get some sleep. You need to look your best for tomorrow.”

“Yes, Father.”

Back to the script. Back to the loneliness of his room.

oOo

It’s a masochistic urge that leads Adrien to the street where Master Fu lives. He can’t knock on the door. He can’t speak to anyone inside. It’s pointless to even come, yet something pushes him onward. A sad, pathetic attempt to cling to what had been. A desperate need to still feel connected.

He stops outside the house. Cold seeps through him like a flood of ice. There’s a “For Rent” sign out front.

“What?” he says, his voice hushed.

Knots form in his stomach, mingling with the ice to form a gnawing weight. He approaches one of the windows and peers through the tiny gaps in the blinds. No furniture. No Master Fu. The house is an empty shell, just like the ones he’d found on the beach as a child. He’d thought those shells pretty then—little ornaments of white and pale pink, perfumed by the sea, and whispering a song of waves to his ear. But then he’d learnt they were the abandoned homes of dead sea creatures. Hundreds of colourful gravestones to mark what had been lost.

Standing outside Master Fu’s empty house feels like he’s holding one of those shells. Something has died here. Something has been abandoned. Or maybe he’s the shell that got left behind, because here he is alone, staring at a closed door that will never open to him again.

He has no way of finding Master Fu. No way of seeing Plagg.

“It’s best if you pretend none of this happened.”

His heart clenches. He touches the bare skin where his ring used to cover, his eyes stinging with hot prickles. No tears fall. He doesn’t let them, not in public. Instead, he wipes any trace of moisture from his eyes and heads back to the metro. His bodyguard will find him soon anyway.

He takes a seat on the train and smiles at people who notice him, just like he’s supposed to. It hurts, of course. He doesn’t want to smile. He doesn’t want to sign autographs. He just wants Plagg back. There’s an empty cheese wrapper in his pocket that he didn’t have the heart to throw out, and he presses his hand to it now, feeling the crinkled paper through the fabric of his t-shirt. It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic. Who carries around a stinky bit of rubbish that smells like old socks? He does, apparently.

“Is this seat taken?”

He jumps, glancing up to see Sabine smiling at him. He has the sudden urge to cry and throw himself into her arms, but somehow he holds himself back. “No,” he croaks. “Be my guest.”

She sits down next to him. They’re both quiet, though a million words are tripping all over his tongue, desperate to be loosed. She shifts her bag of groceries into a more comfortable position on her lap and leans closer to him.

“Are you okay?” she asks, soft enough so only he can hear.

He swallows against the building lump in his throat. “No.”

It feels good not to lie. To just be honest and stop pretending. He’s not okay. He doesn’t know how to be okay.

She squeezes his hand—surreptitiously, of course. “How about you come back home with me. We can talk better there.”

He nods, unable to form any words. He’ll break down if he does, and wouldn’t that make an interesting headline.

She smiles and then pulls out her phone. This is where the pretending comes in, just a boy and his friend’s mother sitting next to each other on a train. A coincidence. A polite encounter. But when they reach her stop, he gets off the train with her and helps to carry her groceries.

And there’s no silence.

#miraculous ladybug #heroes and lullabies #my writing #this one is angsty but we finally get some of that comfort coming in

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fallenrepublick · 4 years ago

Note

ooo what kind of girl is thrawn vs thrass attracted to?

Oooo okay lemme see if I can do this right

So Thrawn is attracted to (and I believe I’ve mentioned this previously) anyone willing to put up with his shit for long periods of time. His personality is difficult by design, and while half of that is just due to him being detached in a way, the other half is due to the requirements of what it takes to earn his trust. Because he’s so difficult, you have to first get past his tendency to be blunt and often quiet. He may go for long periods of time without saying anything to you, having determined long ago that unless someone asks directly for his thought process, explaining himself is pointless.

But he loves questions. And you may probe and ask him for explanations, or possibly even add your own points of view when he provides them. That’s a sign that he may be able to freely speak with you, at least about work, and may cause him to begin seeking out your input on various subjects, simply because you are one of the few people who cares enough to listen.

And eventually, if you begin asking about his well being, or possibly performing small tasks that show you care for him and not simply his mind or his work, he very well could open up entirely. By this point, you’d have known him for a much longer time, and the once quiet man freely and openly chats about his interests and even (can you believe it) feelings without so much as a second thought. Someone who’s willing to persevere through his many, many frigid shells is sure to win his heart one way or another.

Meanwhile, Thrass is attracted to the people willing enough to be caring with him. Chiss are not gentle. Ever. They are direct, a bit harsh if you’re the sensitive type, and rarely open to caring conversation. All that to say, he doesn’t get much in terms of “support” from many people, even his own family, who really places image and intellectual pursuits above comfort. The expectations put in place for him and his role ensure that he doesn’t get too relaxed in his professional and personal life.

So, when all is said and done at the end of the day, he takes the nighttime to breathe and collect his mind and his emotions, though done entirely on his own. His support stems from himself, and after a lifetime of such a thing, it becomes exhausting.

When you do come to him, asking him how he feels, either physically or emotionally, it doesn’t matter whatsoever, he initially tries to hide the crack in the wall he’s built himself, feigning confidence and security for both of your sakes. But of course, you can see through it. Anyone who knows what they’re looking for can see it. So you ask him again when you’re alone, and he almost has no choice but to cave to your question. To cave to you. Because you offered, and that’s much more than anyone else can say.

#grand admiral thrawn #thrass

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arrestjellyfish · 5 years ago

Text

Rainbow Blossoms

Chapter 1: Saturday

[Sanders Sides, romantic prinxiety / Virgil/Roman]

Summary:

Tattoo artist Roman Prince goes to the local florist to visit his elderly friend, Céleste Tempȇte, and pick some flowers to use as inspiration for a new design.

But instead of finding a soft old woman amongst the iridescent display of flora, he meets her anxious emo grandson. Virgil Tempȇte is everything you would not expect to find in a flower shop.

Cue intrigued simp noises.

Other chapters: 1 | 2 | 3

Chapter warnings: swearing, suggestive language, mention of mild illness, brief mention of artwork depicting mild blood

Chapter word count: 6,900

Read on AO3 or below!

[Also available as a podfic!]

oOo

It was unusually warm for a midsummer day in England. Crowds of people had flocked to the streets in excitement, hoping to soak up the best of the sunshine before the clouds were bound to return with a vengeance later that week.

Roman waltzed across the cobblestone road, inhaling rich scents of earthy vegetables and fresh, salty fish. Market vendors hailed from every direction, boasting low prices on sugar snap peas (freshly-picked that morning) and 2 kilos for the price of one on the juiciest peaches. Pedestrians of every age bustled around, energised by the atmosphere.

A burly man cut across Roman’s path, lugging a crate of dirt-caked carrots across the road. Roman had to sidestep to avoid crashing into him. He bumped into a metal pole on one of the many market stands in his haste, bruising his arm.

‘Are you quite all right, young man?’ the woman behind the stall asked in a kind voice.

A wide grin broke onto his face as he rubbed his aching arm. ‘I’m wonderful, thank you, madam!’

He adored market day.

His phone chimed in his pocket, and he knew it would be Remy demanding he get his arse back to work. Really, Roman knew he should have been hurrying back to the studio, but how could he possibly be expected to forego a gentle stroll through the town centre on such a wondrous day as this?

Besides, he had a perfectly valid excuse to be out of the stuffy tattoo parlour on this bright afternoon. The client he had had a consultation with earlier had requested quite an intricate design for their future tattoo, consisting of various flowers. Roman felt a duty to purchase a bouquet for reference, wanting even his initial sketches to live up to his reputation as an artist. He hadn’t been nominated tattooist of the month three months in a row for nothing, after all.

To aid in the completion of his quest, he knew the perfect, quaint little flower shop hidden away behind the sandstone buildings of the high street. There was an abundance of flower stalls dotted along the market, of course, though Roman was well-versed in selecting the finest of flora (having had plenty of opportunities to woo handsome young men in his 25 years) and knew a wider selection would be available at Beau Blossoms.

There was also a sense of loyalty that made him skip past the flower stalls and duck into the familiar crooked backstreet. He had become well acquainted with his favourite florist’s elderly owner, Céleste Tempȇte, who Roman had grown to see as one of his dearest friends, even if their 50-year age gap was unconventional.

He quickened his pace as he neared the modest shopfront, it’s pale blue paint chipping from years of wear. The windows were adorned with an iridescent display of the most gorgeous flower arrangements, as usual.

‘Good afternoon, mon fleur d’amour!’ Roman sang heartily as he pushed the glass door open, ducking his head with practised ease to avoid hitting it on the bell that jingled above him.

He breathed deeply at the onslaught of pungent floral scents. The intensity of the pollen had overwhelmed him at first all those months ago, though he had grown accustomed to it and now welcomed the attack on his senses as if greeting an old friend.

Crooked, aged floorboards creaked beneath him as he stepped around the corner of the entranceway. ‘How is the fairest woman in town fairing on this fair day?’

Roman looked up at the wooden desk where Céleste would always be slumped, doing a sudoku puzzle and smiling widely at Roman’s antics.

Then he froze.

Sitting in Céleste’s rickety stool was a complete stranger. They looked around Roman’s age, perhaps a tad younger, and were a decidedly different sight from what Roman had expected.

Céleste was a stout woman with silver hair who would often wear pastel floral dresses, with a mint-green shawl perpetually draped across her rounded shoulders. This new person looked similarly below-average in height, though otherwise was a polar opposite. They appeared scrawny and the pale skin on their hands and neck was practically swallowed by an oversized black and purple tartan jacket. Their ripped black skinny jeans (complete with chains and studded belt) were a far cry from Céleste’s nude pantyhose and where Céleste’s grey eyes would crinkle with delight at Roman’s entrance, this person’s dark eyes were wide with surprise and framed by the blackest eyeliner and smokey purple eyeshadow.

‘You’re not my Céleste,’ Roman said, feeling robbed.

The stranger’s eyes grew wider still and their eyebrows pulled down in anger. ‘Dude, what the fuck? You flirt with my grandma?’

Roman held his hands up in surrender, hoping to placate the sudden hostile atmosphere. ‘Relax, Count Drag-ula. I’m gay.’

‘Oh…’ the stranger breathed, seeming humbled and embarrassed by their outburst.

They slumped in their seat, having been sitting ramrod straight since Roman had entered. Then their arms folded around their torso and their shoulders hunched up as if protecting their neck. Bright purple hair fell over their eyes as they looked to the floor. The intimidating air that had been so pronounced in them seconds previously faded and was replaced by what Roman recognised as debilitating shyness.

It clicked pretty quickly after that.

‘You must be Virgil Tempȇte, right?’

Céleste had mentioned her grandson on many occasions during their friendly chats. Mostly she only mentioned him in passing, offhandedly saying that he had moved back home after a year in London, or boasting about what Virgil had gotten her for her 75th birthday (a vintage encyclopedia of 18th-century fashion trends which Roman had had the good fortune of borrowing). Though a few months previously, in an act of desperation, she had spoken much more candidly about her grandson. She had sought Roman’s advice on how she could help her beloved petite chauve-souris to become more confident in himself and overcome his severe anxiety.

Roman’s heart had warmed in hearing the old woman care so intensely about her grandson’s wellbeing. When Roman himself had been struggling with his confidence back in school, his parents had not exactly been forthcoming with support. It was refreshing to witness such unconditional love between family members.

His advice had mainly been that there was not much that Céleste could do to enforce a stronger sense of self-worth in Virgil, but that she should simply let him know that she loved and supported him and would be there for him as he grew.

Now, Roman presumed Virgil had come out of his shell, at least a little, given his rather eccentric makeup and clothing choices. Though he was still curled into himself protectively as he gave Roman a wary look through a wisp of his fringe.

‘How do you know my name?’

‘Céleste talks about you a lot,’ Roman said easily, offering one of his winning smiles.

It was, unfortunately, not met with the same enamoured responses he was accustomed to receiving. In fact, rather than dazzled by Roman’s charm, Virgil looked mortified.

Hearing that someone had been talking about you behind your back to a complete stranger was likely a little distressing to someone with an anxiety disorder, Roman realised. He moved the conversation on quickly.

‘I’m Roman Prince.’ He stepped forward to hold out his hand, which Virgil took tentatively. His fingertips were smooth. ‘I imagine your grandmother has mentioned me before.’

‘Um,’ Virgil stalled, pulling his hand back to himself and shaking his jacket sleeve so that it fell back over his fingers. ‘I’m not sure.’

Indignance overwhelmed Roman’s being.

‘Oh, come now.’ He leaned sideways against the desk, sticking out his chin just enough to profess confidence, not enough to intimidate. He had refined his poses down to a tee. ‘Your grandmother must have told you tales of the handsome young prince who brightens her days with a soft serenade,’ he finished the sentence in a lilting melody.

Virgil’s eyebrows shot up and his lips parted (they were a beautiful splash of rose against his fair skin, Roman thought). Pride swelled in Roman at the look of recognition on Virgil’s face. Céleste must have regaled her family with plenty of enthralling stories of Roman’s magnetism and penchant for chivalry.

‘Oh my God.’

‘Everything you’ve heard is true,’ Roman drawled with a confident smirk.

‘You’re the guy that grabbed the cactus like a microphone, aren’t you?’

Roman’s smile dropped instantly at the way Virgil’s lips tugged up in amusement.

‘Yes, well.’ He bridled a little, standing upright again. ‘T’was not my finest moment.’

‘Yeah, maybe not,’ Virgil mumbled. He bit his lip in what Roman assumed was an effort to contain laughter.

Heat flooded Roman’s cheeks and he promptly spun away from the table.

‘So she would tell you that story and nothing of my usual elegance,’ Roman grumbled, starting to delicately run his fingers over the blossoms displayed on the shelves. He had not taken Céleste for one to actively humiliate him.

‘No, she - I -’ Virgil stammered. ‘I’m sorry. Grandma - she has said plenty of nice things about you too, I just…’

Roman turned back to him, noting the stiffness in his posture and the pained look that pinched his features.

‘That’s just the one that sticks in the mind, y’know?’ Virgil’s long arm stretched upwards as he scratched at the back of his neck. Roman thought it might have been a way to dispel the awkwardness as Virgil’s elbow bent at such an odd angle that it partially hid his flushed cheek.

Not one to hold a grudge unnecessarily - especially not against such endearing young men - Roman smiled softly and nodded in acknowledgement.

Virgil fidgeted on his stool, seeming hesitant, then slid off of it to stand up. Though he didn’t seem much more at ease on his feet, shuffling nervously and shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. ‘You, um, you're the guy that brings her fruit tea in the mornings and texts her cute animal videos, right?’

‘C’est moi!’ Roman said with a bright grin, hoping his cheery disposition would comfort Virgil somewhat. He felt an inexplicable need to ensure the other man felt calm.

‘Well… thanks,’ Virgil mumbled, pulling his hands out of his pockets, picking at the frayed sleeves around his fingers, then burying them in his pockets again. ‘Dad and I kinda worry about her being here on her own every day, since we live a bit further out of town. It’s… nice to hear her talk about you.’

Not for the first time, and what he was sure certainly wouldn’t be the last, Roman’s chest filled with joy at hearing about the sheer love shared between the Tempȇtes.

‘But of course,’ he said, happy to see Virgil’s shoulders soften from their previous rigidity. ‘I make sure she does not go a day without seeing a friendly face, though I’m sure as wonderful as she is Céleste must have made plenty of friends in her years here.’

‘Yeah, but none like you,’ Virgil replied without pause. There was a small smile curling his lips and it was the first genuine show of happiness Roman had witnessed in him. It was quite captivating.

Then Virgil’s shoulders were suddenly raised to his neck again and he rocked backwards on his feet, putting some distance between them (at least as much as was possible in a 20-square-metre shop packed full with buckets and bundles of flowers). Roman tried to ignore the swell of disappointment in his chest.

He did not think himself skilled at much beyond his talent for tattooing and the great art of courtship, though he was confident in his ability to read the atmosphere of a room and knew to change the subject before the anxious man became any more uncomfortable.

‘So,’ Roman started, turning back to the various bunches of flowers that sat in the water troughs around the edges of the shop. He cradled the bright bloom of a sunflower in his palms and lifted it slightly from its water to better admire its beauty. ‘Where is the celestial woman? She must be on quite a grand adventure to have left behind her beloved blossoms!’

‘She’s sick.’

Roman’s stomach lurched and he felt the colour drain from his face in an instant. The sunflower dropped back into the bucket with a light splash and clang as the stem hit the metal base.

He snapped his gaze onto Virgil, who had opted to take his hands out of his pockets again and was twiddling a stem of white hyacinths between his fingers. He seemed completely undisturbed by the words that had just left his mouth.

‘My gosh, will she be all right?’ Roman asked, his voice shaking. ‘Is she in the hospital? When did this happen?’

‘Oh, shit.’ Virgil’s eyes blew wide and the white petals stopped their twirling in his hold. ‘I didn’t mean - she’s just got the flu.’

Roman was unconvinced of how reassuring that should have been, given Céleste’s ripe age.

Apparently his uncertainty was palpable as Virgil hurriedly continued, ‘My dad’s looking after her. It’s really mild, don’t worry.’

A massive sigh of relief escaped Roman and he felt the tension that he didn’t realise had seized his body begin to ebb away. Céleste had proudly proclaimed her son to be the most attentive medical nurse in the world, and given her compassionate nature Roman had not doubted for a second that that would be true of her own offspring. She was in safe hands.

‘Dear Zeus, don’t scare me like that!’ Roman cried with a steadying hand on his chest, though it was not a sincere reprimand and was followed by a breathy laugh.

‘Sorry,’ Virgil said, smiling apologetically.

Despite Roman’s brief upset, the misunderstanding seemed to have broken the last of the tension between them and Virgil did not flinch away when Roman took a step closer. He did it under the pretence of wiping his fingers dry on the tatty, damp hand towel that perpetually hung on a hook in the wall. They pulled away wetter than they had been before. ‘It’s no issue, Virgil.’

‘If it helps,’ Virgil offered, ‘I reacted just the same when Dad first told me.’

‘Oh?’ Roman prompted, feeling like he wasn’t ready for Virgil to stop talking yet.

The slighter man tended to squirm a little as he spoke, though not in an uncomfortable way; it seemed to be habitual more than anything. Habit or not, his lithe body twisted in such a subtle way that it was almost reminiscent of a pulse or a rhythmic dance. Roman found himself entranced by Virgil’s mannerisms as well as his character. And, undoubtedly, his beauty. ‘How so?’

Roman leaned his hip against the desk, locking his arms in a way that gently pushed his chest forward and stretched his t-shirt lightly. He knew it would be subtle enough to avoid arousing suspicion. Though, he thoroughly hoped that would be the only form of arousal he was avoiding.

Right on cue, Virgil’s eyes danced down to Roman’s chest, then flitted sideways to the window, back to Roman’s chest (where they lingered for a couple of seconds), and then down to the floor where they stayed. Roman smirked.

‘Yeah, I -’ Virgil cleared his throat ‘- I freaked out a bit. I actually told her I was gay the day before she caught it and I thought I’d, like, shocked her body or something.’

A surprised delight washed over Roman and his teeth bared in a disbelieving smile. Wasn’t this just perfect?

Virgil’s dark eyes - which on closer inspection Roman could now see were mismatched, one being a rich brown and the other green - rose to meet his gaze. Roman watched as he crumbled into himself with the realisation of what he had just said.

‘Oh my God, why did I tell you that?’ Virgil lamented under his breath, squinting his eyes shut and bringing his thumbnail up to his mouth.

‘I wonder,’ Roman murmured through a wide smile. It never failed to invigorate him when his charms effectively ensnared a cute boy. His cheekiness ran high on the excitement. ‘Now as much as I would truly love to stand here with you for as long as the hours in the day would allow, I do have a request of you.’

‘Uh… sure,’ Virgil mumbled around his thumbnail. He had recovered quickly from Roman’s flirting, though the colour was still high on his cheekbones, and Roman knew better than to think it was just from the warm weather. ‘What is it?’

‘I need your assistance in gathering the gayest selection of flowers possible.’

A sharp exhale blew from Virgil’s mouth, slightly muffled around the hand which still sat flush against his chin. It sounded partway between a sigh and a nervous laugh. ‘Care to elaborate?’

‘Anything for you, darling,’ Roman said in his smoothest baritone. His heart skipped at how Virgil’s fingers clenched tightly around the hem of his sleeve. ‘I’m a tattoo artist at Rainbow Skins Parlour - have you heard of it?’

Virgil’s eyes lit up beautifully and his hand dropped back to his side giving Roman a perfect view of those rose petal lips that enamoured him so. ‘Oh man, that’s so cool. My friend got her tat done with you. She said you guys were super accommodating of her dysphoria and stuff.’

‘That’s the aim,’ Roman beamed. He was immensely proud of the atmosphere he and his coworkers had created at the studio. Their mission was to create a safe space for those in the LGBT+ community who wanted to get inked and it seemed from all of the positive feedback they received that they had achieved that vision. ‘One of my clients wants a design full of flowers that symbolise gay love, so I came seeking a florist’s expertise.’

‘I dunno if Grandma is too hung up on the symbolism of the flowers, to be honest,’ Virgil said hesitantly, picking at his fingernails then folding his hands behind his back. ‘She’s more about the biology and aesthetics of it all.’

‘Well then lucky for me that Aphrodite blessed me with your glorious presence today.’ Roman settled to sit on the edge of the desk. It being quite low rise, his figure sunk slightly so that he was now directly eye-level with Virgil. The other man’s eyes did not leave Roman’s face. ‘You look like the poetic type.’

Green and brown eyes squinted suspiciously. ‘I bet my Grandma told you I studied creative writing.’

‘Even so,’ Roman shrugged and inched his foot along the wooden floor, letting the toes of his Vans bump against the heel of Virgil’s Doc Marten boot. Virgil did not move. ‘Am I correct in assuming you’ve done your fair bit of research into queer imagery?’

There was a pause wherein Virgil pouted and remained stubbornly silent. Then, after a few seconds: ‘You can’t go wrong with a green carnation.’

The tip of Roman’s tongue stuck out with a smile and he bit it lightly in amusement. Virgil’s cheeks went an endearing shade of dusty pink and he spun around, quite inelegantly bumping into the workbench that stood in the middle of the room. He grabbed a pair of faintly rusted shears with trembling fingers.

‘Uh, so we’ve got a few of those back here,’ Virgil blurted, rushing to the opposite corner of the shop floor.

Roman sauntered after him quietly. He peered over the other man’s shoulder as he pulled a large bushel from a bucket. The plant displayed a large, beautifully frilly bloom of lime green blossom.

A sharp, metallic snap from the shears resounded around the small room and the large bunch was lowered back to the water to leave a single flower held gently between Virgil’s slender fingers.

When Virgil turned back around, a quiet gasp escaped him as he bounced back, only just preventing himself from crashing right into Roman.

‘What, you couldn’t wait over there?’ If Virgil was trying to sound anything other than flustered and breathless, he had failed miserably.

Roman held his hand out wordlessly with a gentle smile.

The flower was pressed into his palm, and Roman made sure to capture it quickly enough to delicately brush his fingertips against Virgil’s.

In the dappled beam of sunlight that penetrated the packed floral displays in the window, the carnation was much the same shade as Virgil’s left eye. Roman hummed quietly as he inspected the flower, then looked up, delighted that Virgil was watching him.

‘Beautiful,’ Roman purred, unfaltering as he looked into Virgil’s eyes.

A loud snort of laughter cut the tension between them and Roman felt his brow furrow.

‘Okay, Romeo,’ Virgil huffed, shaking his head with a faint smirk. He avoided Roman’s eyes. ‘This is a fleuriste, not a fromagerie.’

Roman felt a thrill rush through him (which was only in part accredited to Virgil’s sudden fluent French accent). Apparently such simple flirting tactics would not suffice with this suitor. The promise of a slight challenge was electrifying to him. He did love to play this game.

He lifted the carnation and tucked it behind his ear like a pencil, smiling when Virgil giggled under his breath at what must have been a silly image. ‘What else may you suggest we add to our beau, gay bouquet?’

A few minutes passed by with Virgil selecting and snipping flowers, explaining the historical queer culture behind them as he went. Roman nodded along and dutifully made noises of interest, though did not dare to butt into Virgil’simpassioned monologue.

It was enchanting to hear Virgil ramble freely on a subject that so obviously enthralled him. He spoke in such a way that made even the most mundane facts feel visceral with descriptive language and Roman couldn’t bear to interrupt such eloquent poetic prose.

He only realised how little he himself had contributed to the conversation when Virgil trailed off with an apology.

A pile of evenly cut lavender, violets, gladioli, calla lilies and, of course, green carnations lay in front of Virgil on the workbench and his fingers fidgeted with some of the lilac petals gently.

‘Please, don’t apologise,’ Roman insisted. He stood opposite Virgil on the other side of the islanded workbench and leaned his elbows on the shabby surface, carefully staying clear of the gardening tools that were scattered around it. ‘You’re incredibly knowledgeable of this subject.’

‘Yeah, employing really subtle methods of representation kind of became my solace in university, you know?’ Virgil said faintly, his eyes fixed on where he weaved a long, detached flower stem between his fingers. ‘Being a paranoid, closeted creative writing student will do that to you.’

A cloud of dejection smothered the sunny atmosphere in the room.

‘Classic fairy tales were my own escape as a closeted teen,’ Roman offered, suspecting Virgil would not want such a heavy topic resting on his shoulders alone.

‘Oh, yeah?’ Virgil finally looked up with an eager intrigue dancing in his eyes.

Roman stretched his arm across the table so that Virgil could better see the tattoo that decorated his right arm upwards of his elbow. He rolled the short sleeve of his t-shirt up to his shoulder to reveal the whole of it. (If he flexed his arm slightly to better highlight his muscles, Virgil did not say anything about it.) He was immensely proud of the artwork on his arm, displaying a busy conglomeration of various fairy tale motifs all interwoven including a bitten red apple, a shattered glass slipper, and a frog wearing a crown. Though the focus of the design was a bird carrying a golden chain and a pair of red shoes, with a millstone around its neck.

‘Fuck yeah, The Juniper Tree,’ Virgil breathed.

‘You know it?’ Roman asked, surprised that Virgil had recognised the more nuanced imagery.

‘I love the Brothers Grimm.’ With a slight creak of the wood beneath him, Virgil sat sideways on the workbench and leaned to get a closer look at Roman’s arm. ‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a fan of more macabre stories.’

‘Well, I must admit in terms of imagery I appreciate the darker motifs,’ Roman indicated the depiction of a bloodied dagger hidden amongst a tangle of thorns on his bicep, ‘but when it comes to the stories I do prefer a good old-fashioned happy ending.’

Virgil sucked his teeth and leant his chin on his hand with a sigh, putting on an exaggerated air of disappointment. ‘Of course you do.’

‘Please, how could I not appreciate a handsome prince bursting into song and falling for a mysterious, beautiful stranger then doing everything in his power to woo them?’ Roman angled his body closer to Virgil. The edge of the workbench was pressed quite awkwardly into his thigh, but it was worth the slight numbness in his leg to watch Virgil’s eyelashes flutter and his chest rise and fall more quickly in response to how close they were. Roman purposefully allowed his eyes to linger over Virgil’s lips. ‘Doesn’t that remind you of someone?’

The lips pulled into a smirk and Roman’s gaze climbed up to see mirth sparkling in Virgil’s eyes.

‘What?’ Roman asked, only mildly offended.

It was proving to be something of a quest trying to ascertain which methods of flirting were working on Virgil. One minute the man was a blushing, stuttering mess, then the next he was openly laughing at Roman’s attempts to court him. Still, as the knights in his favourite stories never gave up in the face of extreme danger, he would not be deterred by Virgil’s stubbornness. It was obvious the man was interested in him but was perhaps a bit bratty. If anything that only made Roman all the more eager to win him over.

‘Nothing at all,’ Virgil shrugged. His tone was remarkably insincere. ‘So are you just thirsty for medieval knights or do you have some delusion of grandeur that I should steer clear of?’

It was cocky, and the man’s posture proclaimed it. He held his head high, baring his neck (and what a lovely, slender, pale, begging-to-be-decorated-with-splotches-of-purple neck it was). Though Roman saw through the bravado instantly.

He leaned in further, the edge of the bench completely cutting off the blood flow to his leg now, though he hardly cared. Virgil’s eyes darted between Roman’s gaze and the edges of the room hastily, as if the urge to look away and the urge to hold his ground were battling each other in his mind. His confident stance faltered slightly as Roman drew closer, their faces now mere inches apart.

Roman murmured lowly, ‘Why, Virgil? Are you struggling to find a reason to stay away from me?’

The once-pearly cheeks in front of him were now practically glowing pink.

The adrenaline that so often accompanied a successful courtship was running rampant in Roman’s veins and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. Matched with the fact that he was practically drunk off of the lidded quality to Virgil’s gorgeous eyes, Roman almost missed the melodic jingling of a bell.

It wasn’t until a loud, cheery voice called out that Roman realised they were not alone anymore.

‘Kiddo, you forgot your packed lunch!’

Virgil scrambled off of the workbench, and Roman followed his lead by standing back upright, albeit a lot more calmly.

‘Dad, I’m with a customer,’ Virgil grumbled, crossing his arms tightly across his chest.

Roman indulged in watching Virgil’s face go even pinker before turning to the entrance of the shop.

A stout man stepped out from the entranceway with a wide grin and a tupperware box cradled in his hands. His freckles were unmatched by either his mother or his son, though Roman could spy the slight similarities between their features. This was Patton Tempȇte. His face lit up with joy when his gaze fell on Roman.

‘And who’s this?’ Mr Tempȇte asked excitedly, his eyes sparkling at his son as he bounced on his toes.

‘Grandma’s friend, Roman Prince,’ Virgil mumbled. ‘The one who brings her tea and stuff.’

Mr Tempȇte made a delighted noise of surprise.

‘A pleasure to meet you, Mr Tempȇte.’ Roman smiled widely, offering his open hand. He winced slightly as he stepped forward and pins and needles exploded in his thigh. ‘I truly adore your mother, and your son is quickly beginning to grow on me too.’ He shot a quick wink to Virgil.

The look of utter betrayal on Virgil’s face made it difficult to contain a chuckle.

‘It’s wonderful to meet you too, Roman!’ Mr Tempȇte beamed, shuffling the tupperware into the crook of his elbow to shake Roman’s hand energetically. ‘And don’t bother calling me “Mr” or “Sir” or any of that silliness, Patton’s my name so feel free to wear it out! I would give you a big old hug, but I don’t wanna pass on Maman’s flu.’

‘How is she?’ Roman immediately asked, truly concerned for his friend.

‘She’s just fine,’ Patton nodded, seeming to approve of Roman’s concern. ‘She’s pretty much through it all now, I’m just forcing her to stay home for a couple more days as a precaution.’

‘I can’t imagine she’s too thrilled about being housebound,’ Roman sniggered knowingly.

Patton rolled his eyes dramatically with a smile. ‘Not at all. I tell you, she’s untameable, always raring to get out with her friends and go experiencing the world. Honestly, I always say she’s more of a 22-year-old than Virgil is! Isn’t that true, kiddo?’

A faint swell of dread built inside Roman’s stomach at the way Mr Tempȇte had phrased those words. He had probably meant no harm, but it didn’t sound like that kind of critical comparison would do much to heighten Virgil’s confidence.

Sure enough, when Roman’s gaze flickered over to him it was clear those words seemed to have struck the wrong chord. The younger man tugged his sleeves further over his fingers and shrugged, though the movement was so stiff and frantic that it was more resemblant of a reflexive jolt.

‘Whatever, Dad,’ Virgil muttered under his breath, scowling at his feet.

It was disheartening to witness Virgil’s fiery wit be snuffed out so swiftly. Roman felt out of place in the exchange and feigned interest in a sprig of leaves in the flower pile. He subtly massaged his thigh under the table to ease the remnants of tingling from his pins and needles.

‘Oh…’ The energy was drained from Patton’s voice, and Roman looked up to see hurt briefly flash in his eyes before he plastered on a bright smile once more. ‘Well, I’ll be out of you guys’ hair. I just wanted to bring you your food.’

‘I don’t need a packed lunch, I can pick something up on the way back.’

‘Either way, it’s here if you get peckish before closing time.’ Patton placed the tupperware beside the register and apparently couldn’t resist drumming the lid in a gentle rhythm. Virgil groaned and Patton giggled. ‘Listen, be thankful I’m your delivery man. I caught your grandma lacing up her running shoes wanting to bring this to you.’

Roman chuckled lightly to himself. That certainly sounded like Céleste.

For the first time since Patton had entered the shop, Virgil looked up from the floor and his eyes locked onto Roman. It was as if his laughter had reminded Virgil of his presence.

Virgil quickly shot his father a pointed look. ‘Okay thanks, dad. Bye.’ The words merged into each other in his haste.

To his credit, Patton didn’t seem to be upset by his son’s eagerness to get rid of him.

‘It was lovely meeting you, Roman!’ Patton waved with a wide smile, already making his way out of the shop. ‘See you later, ma petite chauve-souris!’

Virgil’s huff of annoyance was drowned out by the bell jingling again.

The awkward tension was thick.

‘So, can you make flower arrangements?’ Roman asked casually, choosing to entirely ignore the stunted exchange with Virgil’s father. It seemed like Virgil would not have wanted to acknowledge it, given his obvious embarrassment.

‘Um, not really,’ Virgil mumbled, still hugging himself tightly. He peered out from his fringe hesitantly and Roman did not miss how his body relaxed when their eyes met. ‘I mean - okay, yeah. Kind of,’ he corrected. ‘Grandma taught me a little bit when I was younger. Mainly I just do it for fun, though. I’ve never made one for a customer.’

It would have been responsible for Roman to simply take his flowers as they were, pay for them, and get back to work, leaving Virgil to do his job. He could even have left his number and hoped Virgil would have the confidence to text him later on. Though, looking at the slump of Virgil’s posture and the way his sleeves were clawed and pulled taut by his painted fingernails, Roman felt a desire, nay, a duty to ensure Virgil was smiling again before he left.

‘Fancy trying your hand at it?’ Roman suggested gently, not wanting to pressure the man who was clearly on edge.

Virgil’s gaze flitted between Roman’s face and the workbench. His fingertips danced on his sleeves as he considered the flowers and Roman realised he was itching to reach out and touch them. ‘I can try, I guess.’

Hesitant hands pulled away from purple sleeves and within seconds Virgil was rustling through the stems with intent. Roman leaned over the surface slightly, though with no sly objective in mind to fluster Virgil this time. He simply wished to watch him craft.

‘I’m not very good,’ Virgil said quite stunted, even as he started rearranging the flowers into colour-coordinated piles with a clear artistic goal in mind. ‘So, you know, don’t expect much.’

Roman knew the self-deprecating tactic well; how one hoped that by lowering everyone’s expectations, they could avoid harsh critique of their work. He had employed it plenty of times himself before he had grown more confident in his artistic abilities.

‘It doesn’t have to be perfect,’ Roman decided on saying. It would hopefully relieve the pressure Virgil had put on himself.

A small smile tugged at Virgil’s lips and he raised his eyes briefly from the flowers to send what seemed to be a look of thanks to Roman.

‘Besides, I trust that you have an artistic streak in you.’ Roman felt more comfortable in reigniting their previous flirtatiousness after having coaxed a smile out of Virgil. ‘I mean, with such a steady hand and aesthetic eye for that makeup, I’ll be lucky if the bouquet is half as beautiful.’

Virgil swiftly knelt down on the floor to reach under the bench - where Céleste kept the floral foam, Roman remembered - though Roman caught a glimpse of a wide smile and pink-dusted cheekbones before his face was hidden.

‘Basket or pot?’ Virgil called up from the floor.

Roman dropped to his knees and sent Virgil a bright smile underneath the table. ‘Whatever you want. I’m giving you full creative control.’

‘Risky move.’ Virgil raised his eyebrows with a cheeky smirk. ‘Our most expensive arrangements can rake up to one-hundred-and-fifty quid.’

‘All right, full creative control as long as it’s under forty pounds.’

Time went by fluidly from then on as they chatted over Virgil’s work. His flower placements were tentative at first, and his eyes kept darting up to check Roman’s face for a reaction, but Roman only ever smiled lightly and continued the conversation. (A couple of times his text tone rang out loudly, though their talking remained unfettered by the mild interruptions.)

Eventually, Virgil became more certain of his decisions and was tapping into skills Roman was wholly unprepared for. His slender hand pulled a leaf stripper swiftly down long stems with practised ease, he shuffled the flowers around between his fingers fluidly and his features smoothed as he lowered the blooms into their rightful places in the arrangement.

Roman had no idea how long he had been in the florist by the time Virgil finally deemed the display finished, but he could hardly bring himself to care. The bunch of flowers which were already such a beautiful collection before were now a piece of art, the lilac and emerald blossoms broken up by leafy ferns and surrounded by spindly branches of waxflower. The bouquet was truly stunning.

And as for the glow of pride on Virgil’s face? Absolutely breathtaking.

‘I think I’m happy with it,’ Virgil said nonchalantly, though the excitement hidden behind his tone rang loudly in Roman’s ears.

‘This is amazing, Virgil,’ he gushed, entirely sincere. ‘You’re a natural!’

Virgil bit his lip, stifling what Roman knew would have been a bright grin. He notably did not refuse the compliment.

‘Um, do you mind if I…’ Virgil brought his phone out from his pocket and opened the camera app, showing the screen to Roman with an eyebrow raised in question. ‘Kinda wanna show Grandma later,’ he admitted with a shy smile.

‘Of course,’ Roman held his hands out to the arrangement in invitation and stepped back so that he would not interrupt the photoshoot.

He watched from the sidelines as Virgil tiptoed around the workbench to find good angles, taking a few pictures of his work. Once the phone was placed back in his pocket, he turned back to Roman with a lopsided smile. ‘Thank you.’

Roman was fully and wholeheartedly smitten.

‘Don’t thank me before I’ve paid.’ Roman took his wallet out and waved it with a mock-frown of disapproval. For all of his years of acting classes, though, he could not wipe the smile off of his face. ‘That’s not a very sound business practice.’

Virgil shook his head lightly but moved back to the front desk carrying the arrangement with him. He rang up the numbers on the mechanical till quickly and Roman paid with a soft smile.

‘So,’ Roman said after Virgil had given him his hand-written receipt. He leaned toward Virgil slightly and delighted in the way Virgil mirrored him, bringing them even closer. ‘I don’t suppose a mysterious, beautiful stranger such as yourself would want to -’

Primadonna by MARINA suddenly blared from Roman’s pocket.

He sighed and closed his eyes, feeling a blush stain his cheeks. Though his smile still did not falter.

‘Very fitting ringtone,’ Virgil teased, his voice strained with concealed laughter.

Roman opened his eyes and sent a weak glare to Virgil even as his cheeks ached from smiling so much. He took his phone from his pocket to silence it, seeing that it was Remy’s contact flashing up on the screen - then his expression finally dropped as he saw the time.

‘Oh, fuck!’ His next client was due in five minutes.

‘You okay?’ Virgil asked shakily, clearly anxious by the sudden shift in mood.

‘Everything’s okay,’ Roman quickly assured, ‘but I really have to go, I’m running late.’ He shoved his phone, wallet and receipt into his pockets and pulled the flower arrangement to his chest protectively.

Virgil had stiffened. Evidently his defences were rising again due to the sudden change.

‘I really do have to go, I’m sorry. Seriously,’ Roman paused with a sigh as he gazed over Virgil’s beautiful face once more, ‘you have no idea how sorry.’

‘Yeah, of course,’ Virgil nodded in agreement, but his voice was as quiet as it had been when Roman first came in however long ago. His disappointment was painfully obvious.

‘I’ll be back later this week,’ Roman promised as he reluctantly made his way to the door. There was absolutely no reality where Roman would not come looking for this enigmatic emo again. ‘I look forward to seeing you soon, my chemical romance!’ The doorbell jingled overhead as he rushed out of the door and called behind him, ‘Give my best to Céleste!’

Roman darted through the streets with a sharp stab of regret piercing his chest, though he really could not have afforded to indulge his infatuation much longer. He was a professional artist, he had to be back in time for his client.

Being incredibly protective over his cherished flower arrangement, Roman made it back to the studio in record time. It was not the first instance in which his high stamina had saved him face.

Panting for breath, Roman peered into the front window of the parlour and winced at the look of rage on the receptionist’s face as he sent a choice hand gesture to Roman from the other side of the glass.

‘Get your arse in here, Prince!’ Remy’s muffled yell met his ears.

Accepting that he would have to make a Starbucks run later to make up for his tardiness, Roman shuffled over to the glass door. He cradled Virgil’s arrangement in one arm as he reached for the door handle, then paused.

In his reflection, he noticed the green carnation from earlier still sat behind his ear. It looked utterly ridiculous. He had apparently been running around town with a massive green flower protruding from the side of his head.

In any other circumstance, he would have felt embarrassed. But the memory of Virgil’s huffy giggles played in his head, and all Roman could feel was giddy.

He pushed into the parlour with a wide grin that quite probably made him look like even more of a fool.

He didn’t care.

oOo

Inspired by a prompt from @writersmonth

Reblogs and likes are greatly appreciated! ♡

AO3 link | Next chapter

#my writing #prinxiety #prinxiety au #prinxiety fanfic #ts roman #ts virgil #ts fic #ts fanfic #writersmonth2020

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frodos-bizarre-adventure · 4 years ago

Text

@gingerreggg ooo the lore deepens

Heads Up- Part 10 (Joseph x Bust! Caesar)

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

With Joseph going to university every couple of days, and Suzi visiting often but still usually sleeping at her own home, there were days that Caesar was left home alone.

Joseph had invested in extra door locks to keep him safe, makeshift mini-elevators to help the bodiless bust get up and down the kitchen and living room tables, and put up canvasses and customized paint holders to encourage his fondness for painting to pass the time.

Caesar was a great painter-- especially for someone with no hands.

With much practice in holding a paintbrush in his mouth, something that Caesar found much easier as opposed to colored pencils that broke when pressed too hard, Joseph's artistic masterpieces had begun producing masterpieces of his own. Simple, abstract scribbles at first, but over time began to make art of the things he saw around the house. Still lifes of tables, furniture, windows, in his own crude, mouth-scribbly style.

Today was one such day. Joseph was away at the art school, working on projects of his own. And Suzi hadn't called for today, and probably wasn't coming for a while.

And so Caesar spent his time painting. But he was tired of the things within the confines of the apartment, and opted for a new medium.

Pulling the blinds of the window open with his teeth, Caesar exposed the view of the vacant lot behind Joseph's house. One that was somewhat still a wild region, overgrown with grasses, with a few sparse trees, and further into the horizon, the skyline of the big city with towering skyscrapers that seemed like mere toys from such a distance.

A smile crept across Caesar's face. This seemed like a perfect muse for another painting.

And as Joseph created art with a purpose, he wondered if this was his.

---------

Suzi looked over at the bag Joseph had given her.

She was in her own home, an apartment somewhat smaller than Joseph's. The post-graduate artist hadn't really done very much in the past year, and her house reflected it: it was quite a mess, with many boxes, items and inexplicable odds and ends cluttering every tabletop and shelf, a problem compounded by the artist's somewhat scatterbrained nature at times.

She sat on her couch, typing away at her laptop. She'd been very curious about the past few days about where exactly that design on the bag came from-- definitely a Mesoamerican influence, perhaps some sort of mystical trinket from long ago.

It had been the bag that Joseph had found in his attic, that had contained the lump of clay that had become Caesar. As Joseph had said before, it didn't seem like a particularly special material at first: yet now, given that it literally was alive, there certainly was something unique about it. Especially given that all other clay they attached to Caesar, in their failed attempts to give him a body, had invariably remained lifeless and cold.

And as she scrolled through pictures on her laptop, she happened upon something extraordinary.

A site cataloguing local folklore, with details that seemed oddly familiar.

Legends told in ancient Central America about sacred soils that could channel strange energies. One myth, in particular, caught her attention: a tale of a talented artist who, in her sheer devotion to detail in her work, managed to usher in spirits of inspiration to take new life into her work.

Idols that harbored the souls of the ancestors that led them to convene with their successors generations on.

Suzi scoffed. This seemed like strange superstitious magic, wasn't it?

Yet deep down, as much of a mature, rational woman as she was, a small part deep within her had always believed in magic, wished to believe. Perhaps it was the hopeful, wide-eyed child within her now enveloped in the shell of a responsible adult, that sometimes shone through when she was around people she was comfortable, like Joseph, and now, Caesar too.

Perhaps that was why she wasn't too surprised about Caesar when she first met the living sculpture in Joseph's apartment a couple of weeks earlier.

Because a bit of her had always believed in magic-- and Caesar's very existence served only to confirm it.

---------

Joseph strolled around the art gallery of the university, beholding in wonder at the vast, museum-like halls bearing the works of its many previous students.

Statues, sculptures, paintings and murals of all shapes and styles adorned the walls, platforms and shelves of nearly every corner of the building's interior. Everything was art, they said, and the masterpieces certainly reflected it.

And as much as Joseph was in awe of the beauty of the gallery, something made him uneasy, as he looked at them, especially the sculpted statues that resided in glass cases, carved in eternal repose with their lifeless eyes gazing blankly into empty space.

Would this have been Caesar's fate?

Joseph couldn't bear the thought of Caesar, his roommate, his friend and companion, spending the rest of his existence like this.

What kind of life would that be?

Joseph's disturbed thoughts were interrupted when he bumped into somebody, as he was too preoccupied with the art to look where he was going.

"Oh, I'm sorry, young man," said an old, throaty voice, with a prominent Italian accent. "You need to be careful around here too."

"Apologies, Mr. Zeppeli," Joseph said awkwardly, with an uncertain scratch of his head.

Mr. William Zeppeli was one of the oldest professors in the university, and had long taught the class on the subject of three-dimensional art. Instantly recognizable by his trademark moustache and top hat, Mr. Zeppeli had mentored Joseph in his first year in the university, and was quite familiar with him.

"I'm glad to see you've come so far, Mr. Joestar," Mr. Zeppeli said with a pat on Joseph's back. "I believe you would be graduating this year, are you not?"

Joseph smiled proudly. "I sure will be, sir!"

Mr. Zeppeli gave a warm chuckle. "That's the spirit!" he said. "So, the final project is due next month. What is your grand masterpiece?"

"A bust sculpture," Joseph said impulsively, before realizing he probably shouldn't have said it out loud.

A proud, yet solemn smile emerged on Mr. Zeppeli's weathered features. "Come with me," he told Joseph.

He led Joseph towards the hall of statues, where Joseph was amazed to see a vast array of clay figures, of people, objects and places, all impressively detailed even for him. Sculptures of birds in flight, each feather intricately carved in astonishing perfection. Miniature models of famous landmarks around the world, such as a replica of the Colosseum in Rome. Faces of people molded in clay, so expressive they seemed they almost could speak.

Something that, at this point, wouldn't have surprised Joseph anymore.

"He would have loved to meet you," Mr. Zeppeli said woefully. "I've seen some of the sculptures you've made before and they remind me of him so much."

"W-who?" Joseph asked, curious at the person Mr. Zeppeli had referred to.

"My grandson," replied the old teacher with a bittersweet note in his voice.

"He went to this school a decade ago, and was one of the best students this institution had ever known. All these, the figures you see before you, are his creations, and I...I am proud to call him my grandson," said Mr. Zeppeli, as he wiped away a tear.

The old professor gestured to a small sign next to the case displaying his grandson's masterpieces. "He was a jolly fellow, if not without a strange sense of humor. You two might have become friends."

Joseph looked closely at the sign. There was something very familiar.

And as its contents sank in, his heart nearly stopped.

"IN MEMORY OF ANTHONIO ZEPPELI (1983-2008), GONE BUT FOREVER REMEMBERED," said the caption.

But what captured his attention, and struck him to the very center of his being, was the picture of the late artist displayed on the sign.

He had no pink cheek marks, and he, of course, had a body.

But he was, unmistakably and otherwise identically, Caesar.

"Is--is this him?" gasped Joseph in disbelief.

"I guess you'd recognize that face," Mr. Zeppeli gave a faint laugh. "Remember that statue of Julius Caesar displayed here, several years ago? He based it off himself. That isn't even remotely close to what the real Julius Caesar looked like, he was a talented, if strange, boy who found it amusing to stick his own likeness onto his art."

Julius Caesar, Joseph thought. His reference.

He felt a strange sensation, as if his whole world was suddenly shattered, and was slowly piecing itself back together like a jigsaw puzzle, into a new reality that seemed way too fateful for his peace of mind.

"Uh...uh...I just suddenly remembered I have a class to go to," said a flustered Joseph, quickly conjuring up an alibi. "See you later, Mr. Zeppeli!" he said, and promptly dashed off in a hurry.

-------

"Jojo? You would not believe what I just found," Suzi said, as she entered Joseph's house later that evening.

"Well, you wouldn't believe what I found out today," Joseph replied, with a shell-shocked look on his face.

Suzi was taken aback. "Looks like you've seen some serious stuff," she gasped. "Y-you go first."

"Do you know a certain Anthonio Zeppeli?" Joseph asked her.

"As in...the student who died a while back?" she said. "I've...I've heard of him, he was talked about a couple of times by my friends one year ahead of your batch. And about...what happened to him."

Caesar, who at just the right moment, had been bouncing by, was intrigued. "Happened to who?" he asked, pausing in his tracks.

Suzi sat down on the sofa. "They say he was a student from a few batches prior. He was a talented sculptor who was great at working with clay, marble, concrete..."

"Yeah, I've seen his stuff," interjected Joseph.

"Well, the thing is, they told he had been commissioned to carve a mural into a hotel's front lobby, nearly ten years ago," she told. "He was perched up on a ladder, chipping away at the wall, when suddenly, he broke a support on a stone ornament, shaped like a cross--"

"--and he was so startled when it began to topple, that he stumbled right off his ladder, fell to his death...and then the stone cross fell and landed right on top of him."

Joseph winced. That sounded like a terrible way to go.

"Well, there's something you wouldn't believe," Joseph said, pulling out a yearbook he'd borrowed from the library. Look at his face."

Suzi leaned closer for a look, and gasped in shock.

"I'd never seen what he'd looked like, but...but..."

"Caesar. It's you."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Caesar exclaimed. "I can't see anything from down here!"

Suzi picked up the bust with some effort and rested him onto the tabletop. He hopped over to the book to check out what all the commotion was about--

--and was silent for an uncomfortably long time.

"See, this is what I was gonna tell you," Suzi said. "I'd been reading on the design on the bag that you found Caesar's clay in. There were legends in ancient Mesoamerica that artists who were talented enough would be able to usher in spirits of predescessors into idols of a special sacred clay to serve as inspiration," she said.

"And maybe, just maybe, Caesar is alive-- because he is Anthonio Zeppeli's soul."

"So am I a ghost?!" Caesar screamed in terrified confusion, hopping backwards a few bounces from sheer terror. "I'm a dead man in a clay head?!" he cried, disturbed by the revelation.

"More like a reincarnation," Suzi explained. "The legends told that they became spirit guides to their creators, that they held the wisdom and knowledge of the past, but remembered little of their past lives-- rather, they carried over some traits, but were their own, unique person."

"Did they have bodies?" Joseph asked right off the bat.

"Yes... you were just unlucky to not have enough clay," she added.

Caesar groaned in frustration.

"You know, I honestly wouldn't have believed some ancient mythology," Joseph said, "but given I've been living with a talking, walking sculpture--"

"Not exactly walking," Caesar corrected.

"...er, bouncing, sculpture for the last couple of weeks, I'd take any explanation at this point." he admitted.

"I think he chose you, Joseph," Suzi said with a smile.

Caesar looked at Anthonio's picture in the yearbook, and saw only himself. The same green eyes, blond hair, unmistakable face. He lacked the pink cheek patches, however, which Joseph admitted he'd tacked on to Caesar just for kicks. Anthonio had a body.

Could he really be Anthonio Zeppeli returned from the dead? Caesar pondered. If that was true, he remembered nothing of being Anthonio.

The idea of having once been a living human unsettled Caesar.

But at the same time, he couldn't help but feel oddly vindicated.

He'd wondered often recently why he even existed, as just another of Joseph's art. What use did he serve?

But now he wondered, upon hearing of Suzi's tale-- maybe this was his purpose.

--------

(Previous Chapter)

(Next Chapter)

#jjba #battle tendency #jojo's bizarre adventure #caejose #caesar x joseph #gingerregg #hands of life au #bust!caesar #sculptor!joseph

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eskewcity · 5 years ago

Note

Veronica drop the rant about crunch culture we love to see it

alright well first off it’s fucking stupid because i know a lot of those hours are invested in ensuring that the game looks as incredible as it can possibly get without regards to actually enhances the game’s world building or adds anything to the story. as that post I just rbed mentioned, it results in time issues where certain elements that were meant to be included have to be scrapped in order to appease the corporate overlords. and as mad as I am at companies that exploit their employers into 16 hour work days, I also get almost equally pissed with the people that don’t give a shit about the wellbeing of who developed the game they are playing as long as it looks nice. and gaming corporations fucking know this so in their advertisements they will often hype up how great their game looks while trying to hide the glaring problems within their company by taking about all the pretty stuff. I’ve seen enough E3 shows in my life to see that majority of the companies presentation are always just like ooo look how good this looks and doesn’t actually show gameplay.

this is also on a personal level I suppose but I never understood people that complain about delays and extended times waiting to play a game because it neglects the fundamentally human aspect when it comes to game design. Like programmers don’t just mash some fucking keys to together and suddenly there’s a polished game that you release within a year. It takes a lot of effort of people coming together to create the cohesive project that you see on your screen. Like there’s certainly games I do not like but I still appreciate the amount of work it must have taken even if I don’t necessarily vibe with the product itself.

I also honestly think the episodic game model works the best where developers can put out the content that is finished that they believe is to their standard without being pressured to release the entire thing when they don’t feel that their game is 100% to the degree that they want it (yes this part is about pathologic 2) . but unfortunately this is more of an option that indie developers can take and not necessarily a choice when it comes to AAA studios since they would rather just put the basics in and then make you shell out money through dlcs to make their game somewhat worth the $60 price tag

#asks #lesbianaglaya #ask and you shall receive gabby

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dilemmaart · 6 years ago

Photo

Day 11 . Disney Princess.

ooo boi.

So I never really had anything against ‘mermaid-ifying’ characters, its more or less the same thing as taking a theme or a food or a fish/animal even and turning them into a mermaid design. I think a lot of people can be very creative with turning their favourite characters into undersea beauties and I support that fully. However, I don’t like doing it because it feels...like an easy way out. Just take a character fitting the theme and drawing them with a tail hurrah. Its just me, not to say anyone who does do this is being lazy. Its just what I feel when I try to push myself with these themes. SO...For the theme of Disney Princess...I guess I did kind of take the easy way out in a sense. I don’t really have a fave Disney Princess.... it would be the OG Tinker Bell (the snarky homicidal bitch who straight up tried to murder Wendy out of jealousy omg loved her) or Moana...but neither of them count as a ‘disney princess’. The only one that does who I can say I like is Ariel..and even that is a stretch. The only thing I like about her is that she’s a mermaid. Well..Disney’s version of a ‘mermaid’. Therefore to try and stay in the realm of this theme, and try and do something I enjoy, I took Ariel and did a design based off her, trying to re-imagine her as an actual FISH PERSON, not some sugary thing she is in the film. I did debate on removing the stupid ass shells off her titties all together but I liked the purple and since its the little mermaid, kids might find this and I might get more complaints about how ‘tits are evil’ fuck you and fuck off if you have a problem with my mermaid tits.

SORRY FOR THE ESSAY JESUS I NEED TO SHUT UP.

---NSFW BLOGS DO NOT REBLOG/REPOST. DO NOT REPOST---

#mermaywitherika #mermay #mermaid #ariel #disney #the little mermaid #disney the little mermaid #disney princess #dilemmaart #character design #redesign #fan art #this bitch was so stupid why go after prince eric when theres some fine ass fish dudes in the sea bitch fuk outta here he werent that cute

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 4 years ago

Text

Speak No Evil (Last Part)

There isn’t much yet, just a few simple bowls and plates that she has shaped and TyLee has painted and a single ceramic shell. Soon enough the tables will be overflowing with pottery and maybe a few sculptures; TyLee has taken to making little figurines and animals out of coconut shells.

And in due time they will open the shop for folks to drop in and make bowls and cups for themselves. “How about this? I think that putting some potted heliconia in each corner would liven up the place. And then I was thinking that we could surrounded them with shells and polished stones…”

‘That’s fine.’ Azula etches into the clay. Much of the hard work has already been done; the rooms are well furnished and the place has been scrubbed top to bottom. Everything looks pristine, as though they are the first people to have occupied the building. Much of the furniture consists of work benches, pottery wheels, designated shelves for finished and unfinished pieces, shelves for pieces to be sold, and cabinets full of tools and paints.

She has left the upper floor available for sleeping should they want to spend the night in the shop instead of going home. Up there, there is a bed and a pai sho table as well as several cushions and scrolls to read.

Azula taps her chin, she thinks that there is still something missing. Perhaps they should string up a few more lanterns. Yes, and a few more small candles and stones for the window sills would be lovely. Red jasper and tiger’s eye perhaps? And maybe a sunstone. She writes this down for TyLee.

The atmosphere isn’t unlike that of their permeate residence. They have fixed that place up well and good too. Her old family beach house feels much warmer now with an absurd over-abundance of seashell print pillows and cushions--TyLee’s choice--and an arrangement of many candles of Azula’s own choosing. The incense and candle smoke helps clear her mind and soothe her. There is a zither in the corner for when she is bored and needs a new hobby to try, mostly it is for decoration. Paper fans and kayak oars hang upon the walls among starfish and shells that they have facened to the walls. And the ceiling is overtaken by banners of fishing nets which TyLee has artfully strung more shells into. And Azula has taken to arranging little dragon figurines and crystals upon end tables and nightstands.

Azula thinks that the walls of the pottery shop could use some more glamor. ‘We should hang something up.’ She gestures to the wall.

“Maybe we can paint the walls, just whenever we get bored. Or we can let other people come in and do art?”

Azula shakes her head, ‘too unorganized, I want some coordination. Besides they’re already going to be painting bowls. ’

TyLee nods. “We can get more turtle shells. Oh! And maybe we can get one of those ship steering wheels!”

‘That is so tacky.’ Azula rolls her eyes.

“So that’s a yes.”

Azula nods. ‘People like tacky.’

TyLee laughs. “So this is good enough for now?”

Azula wanders over to the curtains and straightens them. ‘We can open the shop tomorrow. I’d like to get a few more pieces finished before then.’ She rolls up her slab of clay and begins shaping it.

.oOo.

It is always a treat to watch Azula work. Her focus is entirely unwavering. TyLee watches her fingers press and pinch the clay until she is satisfied. She is eyeing the turtle crab that Seicho had fished up for her two days prior.

TyLee couldn’t possibly part ways with it, not after she had already named it Miki. She is certain that Azula thinks that it is silly but she has also caught the princess running her pointer over Miki’s shell several times.

“We should get an iguana-parrot!”

Her concentration breaks briefly. She rolls out a new discussion slab and etches a quick, ‘we already have a turtle-crab to take care of.’ She pauses. ‘And it won’t sit still enough for me to use it as a model…’

“Of course not! It’s a turtle-crab, it has no concept of becoming a work of art.” She leans over Azula shoulder and sweeps some loose strands of hair out of her face. “It’s getting long again, you’re going to have to start tying this up.”

Azula wipes the back of her hand across her forehead before writing, ‘yes, I’ll worry about that next time.’

“It looks really good.” She gestures to the clay likeness of Miki.

‘Are you going to make anything?’

“I already have.” TyLee gestures to her own table.

Azula blinks. ‘TyLee...what are those?’

There are about twelve little lumps sitting on the table. Each lump has its own clay hat or tool, some of them have both. Like the one with a straw hat and fishing pole. “They’re blobs with jobs! See, that one’s a fisherman and that one’s a farmer. That one runs a tea shop and that one is a fire lord.” She points at each and reveals it’s job.

‘Why do I have a feeling that everyone is going to love those?’

“Because they’re super cute and you love them too.” TyLee carries them out to the kiln and re-enters the shop. “I think that we should have a whole table full of them.”

‘If you can make that many.’ Azula affixes a final claw onto her own piece before taking a step back to appreciate her work. ‘It just has to dry.’ She moves to flip her talking slab over.

“You should put that in the kiln too.”

Azula furrows her brows and points at the slab.

TyLee nods, “yeah we can save all of our conversations.”

‘Perhaps I do not want to preserve them all.’

“Because you don’t want anyone to know that you misspelled mango three days ago?”

Azula folds her arms across her chest, a small pout decorating her lips. TyLee stoops down and gives them a kiss. The princess touches TyLee’s cheek before standing up. ‘Let’s go take a walk to Seicho’s while the clay dries. Perhaps she’ll know where we can find a ship steering wheel.’

“Doesn’t her brother captain ships?”

‘Her brother has a lot of jobs.’ Azula shrugs.

Whether they come back with a ship wheel or not, she is glad that Azula is up and about. She seems much more vibrant and happy since they have arrived on Ember Island. Her skin has regained its color and her eyes are brighter. They don’t seem so tired and she doesn’t seem as tense.

It isn’t uncommon to find her walking along the beach in the earliest hours of the morning or standing on the dock and staring off into the horizon at sundown. It is even less uncommon for TyLee to wander out and join her. Sometimes Azula will make conversation in the sand, most of the time she like to lay in TyLee’s arms and watch the horizon. It has become a habit to listen to the lapping of the water and the steady sound of the princess’ breathing. It is her favorite way to start or end the day.

She takes Azula’s hand and smiles, it is such a far cry from how things used to be. How loud and how terrifying things had been. She feels Azula’s fingers close around hers. The princess is still fussy and moody sometimes, but Agni, she is a lot easier to confront and talk to. TyLee wonders if Azula agrees that she has been conversing much more freely without her voice.

Azula pauses for a moment in front of the pottery shop and TyLee turns around too. She takes a step back and clasps her hands, “Azula it’s so beautiful!” This thing that they have built for themselves. She isn’t sure if she is speaking of the pottery shop or of their relationship. “I think that this is going to be really great for us.”

Azula looks up and nods.

There is a sense of confidence and accomplishment in her aura. An aura that had formerly been so distressingly muted.

.oOo.

Azula smile’s at a first day’s success.

The first success of her new life.

TyLee slings an arm over her shoulder. “We’re doing good. I think that we’re doing really good.”

Azula nods, ‘good indeed.’ She mouths. It is actually quite better than good, she thinks. Significantly better.

The breeze billows the curtains and clicks and clacks the shells hanging in the doorway and on the rafters. The smell of coconut oil and burning clay is a constant. She sits with TyLee on the patio watching the last two customers in the shop wander back down the shell paving stones.

Azula lights the patio torches and a few incense cones and puts fire in the paper lanterns. From somewhere down the beach she can hear distant party music, a constant beating of drums and plucking of strings.

“We got some letters from Zuko and Mai.” TyLee holds them up.

Azula sits herself down and picks a slice of pineapple off of the platter in front of her. “What do they say?”

“Zuko just wants to know how everything is going and if we’re settled in yet.”

Azula gazes out towards the water. She certainly feels cozy enough. She takes the letter from TyLee’s hand and skims it over. She will respond in the morning, for now she is content to enjoy the moment. It isn’t anything particularly grand and yet there is grandeur in simplicity. In having something so small to appreciate and someone to appreciate it with. Perhaps tomorrow she will invited Seicho and her brother to join them after they close shop for the night.

She wanders to the railing and surveys the world below. The stretch of sand and the people crossing it. “It’s a really nice view.” TyLee muses. She leans upon the railing next to her. Nice is certainly one way of putting it even if it is an understatement. Truthfully, the view is more than that. It is reassuring somehow, it brings a vibrence to her soul. A little something for her to look forward to.

When she looks away from the sunset reflecting upon the water she is greeted by the jungle, by a lush and rustling canopy. By palm fronds brushing against one another and a kaleidoscope of colorful birds.

She looks over her shoulder. In the other direction the volcano looms in the backdrop.

She hasn’t thought about that volcano in a long time. She decides that it is where it belongs; in the background. A silhouette that reminds her to keep climbing.

Briefly she thinks of returning; of taking TyLee and Seicho to its rim but then what good would that really do? No, she is content to keep it as mundane as any other large rock on the beach. Really, there isn’t any sense in looking back at all--not when there is a future to look towards.

She wraps her arms around TyLee and listens to the rush of the waves and the titter of the birds as they settle down for the night. And in the morning when they take flight again she will open the unlock the doors to the shop once more. Will open the windows and mold her clay with the taste of brine on her tongue and the sun on her face. Will listen to TyLee hum as she makes another set of her silly little blobs. Perhaps she will send one of those back home to Zuzu.

It will be nice to write something lighter to Chiako. Something more optimistic.

It is only when she puts her brush to the parchment that night does it truly settle in that she feels okay. More than okay. She feels well and content. She finds that she has a lot to say in her letters, a lot to confess and a lot to share.

TyLee is already curled up on the bed, otherwise she would be peeking over Azula’s shoulders at the letters. Although, Azula supposes that she wouldn’t mind if the woman did. She jots down a few final thoughts. Thoughts about how fixing up that old beach house feels like fixing up her life; reclaiming the delights that Ember Island had brought her so long ago feels like reclaiming her life once and for all.

She seals the letters and climbs into bed. Even after all of this time it is still a relief to have the woman in her arms again. To hear her sleepy mumbles and to have her rolling over in the middle of the night to cling to her.

She closes her eyes.

Her throat no longer aches.

The place where her voice no longer dwells doesn’t feel so empty.

Her heart doesn’t feel so vacant.

She doesn’t feel so hollow.

Azula squeezes TyLee and TyLee squeezes a stuffed tiger-monkey. One a fabric daisy sewn onto its ear and a golden ribbon tied around its neck.

#Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula #TyLee #TyZula #Fanfiction

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