#some of the most beautiful paintings I have seen as of yet

[c-nstantine]

to be a muse

Description: Benedict meets a fascinating young woman

Word Count: 0.9K

Warnings: I think I made Benedict a bit of a himbo but that's okay. the reader is still black and even though she's charlotte's daughter, I made it so she's any skin tone which lowkey makes sense given how wild genetics work

Benedict stared at the painfully blank canvas of his family's drawing room. Hyacinth's and Gregory's laughter could be heard running about in the family's home. Kate and Anthony were doing god knows what, honestly, he felt like he was going to throw up from the love that came from the both of them.

"Brother, I fear I'm in a rut," Benedict announced while plopping himself down in between Colin and Eloise. He reached over and stole one of Eloise's bonbons.

"I beg your pardon," Colin said as he jolted awake from Benedict's sudden appearance.

"Nothing, and I mean nothing, has inspired me. Idle hands," He waved his hands in the air for extra effort.

"You are out of inspiration and you woke me up to tell me this," Colin tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes but nothing was working as Benedict yapped on and on about art.

"Yes," Benedict shrugged.

"Have you tried going to the museum? I hear there is a new exhibit. It might spark something for you," Eloise just wanted to eat her bonbons in peace.

"That's why you are my favorite, " He ruffled her hair before dashing off to find his coat before heading to the museum.

-

He stood in front of a painting for what felt like hours. It seemed like he was waiting for something to come to him, his inspiration. Footsteps shuffled around him, yet, Benedict remained unmoved.

"I find his work to capture the inquisitive nature of who he paints," A melodic voice came from behind him. He turned a saw a woman around his age with the most beautiful features. Delectable lips, and round cheeks, and her skin looked like it was kissed by the gods themselves. The gorgeous shade of brown, he had ever seen.

"You do? That is a refreshing perspective. My family thinks them all to be faces on a canvas," He probably should have addressed her more formally but for now he was happy to have someone share interests with him.

"They are but they are also so much more. Each brush stroke is an attempt to capture a moment. No matter how imperfect it may be," She looked at him with a small smile playing on her lips. His eyes lingered there a little long before dragging down the rest of her body. She did not have the clothing of a commoner. She must be a lady, he thought to himself.

"Are you a painter?" He asked.

"I am talentless in art, I'm afraid but that doesn't stop me from enjoying it. And what about you?" She shook her head and he noticed the bouncy curls that fell from her scalp. He was becoming more and more entranced by the moment.

"I dabble. I am not great enough for a museum. My siblings believe it to be my hobby," He admitted rather shyly.

"Yet. You are not great enough for a museum, yet. Mister?" She asked for his name.

"Bridgerton. Benedict Bridgerton," Benedict gave her a small smile as he introduced himself. She chuckled slightly.

"It has been wonderful chatting with you, Mr. Bridgerton, but I fear I may have to leave." She looked disappointed that their conversation had come to an end. Benedict looked up at the painting and began to speak.

"What is your name so I may fin-" He looked down and she was gone. She had disappeared into the crowd before he could finish his statement. He pushed to the entrance of the museum but there was nothing.

-

"All of this happened and you did not catch the lady's name?" Colin asked as he and Benedict made their way away from the mothers who all wanted their daughters paired with a Bridgerton.

"She was perfect. I only entertained Mother's idea of me coming to the ball tonight in hopes of seeing her," Benedict said while adjusting his waistcoat and smiling at some of the season's eligible debutantes but none of them were her.

"And if she's not here?" Colin asked, his eyebrows squinted and a bit concerned by the potential answer.

"I will simply cease," He deadpanned.

"Cease what?"

"To exist," Benedict said and watched as more and more people arrived at the ball. Even the Queen was in attendance, but someone far more interesting trailed behind her. 

"Stop hitting me. Mother, he's hitting me," Colin said as Benedict repeatedly tapped his brother's shoulder. Benedict's eyes were wide as they trailed the woman he met in the museum. 

"That's her. That's the woman," Benedict said watching her gracefully walk across the room. She was dressed in the finest silks and her curls that were wild and free earlier were pinned back.

"Well, that cannot be," His mother started. Her son could not have been talking about her. That would have been impossible. 

"What are you talking about? She is right there. Even more beautiful than when I saw her last," He noted her appearance before quickly bowing in the presence of Queen Charlotte. Sure, the family had her favor, but even they knew their place.

"Bridgertons, I do not think I have introduced my daughter. Princess Y/N, she takes after me in beauty of course," The Bridgertons turned and then bowed in front of the Princess who looked mortified.

"It is a pleasure to meet your acquaintances," She spoke softly as her gaze held Benedict's. He understood why she dashed away. The scandal of an unmarried princess wandering the museum alone. Especially, considering how long the two of them spoke together.

"A pleasure indeed," He would see her again. He had to find his muse.

Taglist: @flyestvenustrap@megamindsecretlair@blxckdesire @prettyvintageafternoon@lilbanas@certifiedloverwoman@melissa-ashe @hoyoooo @blckbarbiedoll idk if you guys wanna be here for this because it's a bit diff from my usual content but just let me know!!

[melancholyhigh]

ARTWORK

ft. leon x artist!reader

synopsis. you're an artist, and leon's your muse.

content. 1.5k words. fluff, smut. nude painting, leon's pov, needy leon, praise kink, masturbation, handjob.

note. this was j supposed to be fluff but i got ahead of myself.

masterlist. i love your guy's feedback :3

“Paint me like one of your French girls.”

You laugh at Leon’s statement. He’s perched on the small, green couch in your home art studio, wearing nothing but his pink, fluffy robe as you prepare your oil paints. 

“You’re my first French girl, Leon.”

–-

You had suggested painting him nude while you were both in bed, lazing around. You’re in each other’s hold, Leon’s arms around your waist and face on your chest when he asks about any new projects you had in mind. 

He loves hearing about what art piece you were doing or planned to do. It was how you expressed yourself, whether there was a deeper meaning or none at all. He found it beautiful. Every work you do it had a bit of your personality in it. He could tell your work from thousands by the intricate details they carry. 

When you told Leon you wanted to paint him, he wasn’t too surprised. You mentioned he was your favourite thing to draw or think of when you had art block. The admission had left him sputtering, his face red as he tried to get his words out.

On the third date, you showed him your sketchbook, pages littered with drawings and portraits of him. Some were quick sketches, while other’s looked like you took time to get every detail of him. 

You’re always on my mind, Leon. You had confessed. Was it a little creepy? At that moment, flipping through the drawings of him, the attention to detail they held, he’d say it was romantic.

People have always said he was pretty as a picture, yet you’re the only one that makes his heart beat faster and his tummy fill with butterflies when you say he’s the type of gorgeous you’d find in a painting. 

“A nude painting,” you specify. It was as if you told Leon he was the object of your affection for the first time again. His head buries into your chest, trying to hide his flushed face. You smile at his sudden bashfulness. 

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, baby.” You run your fingers through his soft hair. “I want to try something new, but it’s okay. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“‘S fine, angel. But can’t you use a picture?”

“Where’s the fun in that, pretty boy.”

He groans, muffled by your shirt, and you giggle. 

He loves to please you — in more ways than one — and nothing compares to the smile that graces your face, so he agrees. It’s not like Leon’s uncomfortable with you looking at him bare and vulnerable. There were other problems he was worried would interrupt your craftwork. 

–-

Leon leans back into the couch, doing just as you instructed. His bare back hits the soft cushioning, and it’s surprisingly comfortable. 

His robe is off, on the floor next to your easel. He rests his chin on his hand, supported on the arm of the couch.

He’s nervous. You said it’s nothing you haven’t seen before, but this almost feels more intimate than being intertwined with you in bed.

Maybe it’s the gaze you hold when you’re analysing him, grasping the compositions and layering basic shapes onto the canvas. 

He can’t help but think of when you told him he’s your favourite canvas to mark up. Sucking the reddish marks into his skin which turn the prettiest shade of purple, as you like to put it. Or when you said the colour on his cheek was your favourite shade of pink.

You always did like to rile him up, muttering the filthiest things to him in the most mundane setting, just like right now. 

“Spread your legs wider, Leon.” You mumble in a casual tone as if you don’t know the implications of your own words. You’re so engrossed with getting your work right you probably don’t.

It’s so fucking sexy seeing you in your element. Your brows pinched together, and your face serious with concentration. 

He obediently listens to you, parting his legs wide, and the problem he wishes wouldn’t happen is currently hardening between his thighs. You don’t notice, mixing paints to ensure it's the correct shade. 

You’re probably 30 minutes into painting, and he’s already hard. You said you’d take a while to finish, and he could tap out whenever he wants to, but he doesn’t want to disappoint. 

Finally, you’re looking up from the canvas and towards Leon. Your brows quirked up in surprise when trying to examine his features, studying the curve of his nose and the sharpness of his jawline to imitate on the canvas. His face is pink, the shade you know and adore so much. 

Your eyes trail down his body, his dick fully erect, slapping against his stomach. Your gaze is on his face again with a smirk on your lips.

He knows, you know, he’s rock-hard simply from the glances you take at him and the words you mutter. His lashes flutter, and he moves his hand to cover his face while the other is shamefully obscuring his cock.

“Be a good boy, and don’t move, Leon. I want to make sure everything looks good.” You say, and he thinks you aren’t going to acknowledge his 7-inch problem.  

“Oh, and make sure your pretty dick is hard for me, okay, baby?” You go back to your painting, trying to hide your smug expression.  

His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows his nerves, but he relents, going into position, not before giving his cock a firm squeeze. 

“Don’t cum too, okay? I want to be the one making you cry.”

A few hours pass, and Leon is on the verge of tears. He listened to what you said, only providing himself with enough stimulation to keep his cock hard but not enough to tip him over the edge into bliss. 

Precum leaks from the head down to the shaft. His dick is red and spent. He wants nothing more than for you to stop painting and make him cum.

“I’m almost done. You’ve been such a good boy for me, baby.” 

Your words are almost enough to make him spill his cum over the expensive fabric of your eccentric couch. 

You’re adding the finishing touches to the painting with each stroke, making sure you get the placement of each mole or freckle correct and each vein of his cock following to the tip right. 

You swear he belongs in a museum. No art can replicate how beautiful he truly is.

“I’m done.” You sigh, moving to get up to rid your skin of paint. 

After rinsing yourself off the paint, you make your way to Leon. You get comfortable in a seat on the couch right next to him. He’s breathing heavily in anticipation, looking up at you through his long lashes. Pretty, pink lips parted as pretty gasps left him. 

You cup his face, pressing your lips to his. The kiss is soft as you move your lips slowly in unison. He breathes out your name when you pull away. One of your hands moves to his throat, softly squeezing. Leon whimpers, his hands moving to hold your waist.

“Good job, baby. You didn’t cum once. I know it hurts, but I'm going to make you feel better,” you whisper, softly kissing his flushed forehead. 

Your hand moves to his pulsing cock, and gives it a soft squeeze, relishing the whine Leon lets out. Your touch sends goosebumps along his skin, and he plants his head into the crook of your neck. 

His hips eagerly buck into your hold. He’s practically sobbing into your neck, his soft hair tickling the underside of your jaw. You rest your chin on top of his head, smelling the fragrance of his shampoo. 

You thumb the slit on the tip of his cock, using his precum as a lubricant to start moving your hand back and forth on his shaft. 

You start at a slow pace. You don’t want Leon cumming quickly, wanting to enjoy every cry and whimper. 

The soft shlick noise of you jerking Leon’s cock fills the room with his desperate cries. He pulls back away from the crook of your neck, tears flowing down his blushing face.

“Please, please, please, g– go faster, angel. I’ve been such a good boy for you. Let me cum, please.”  He pleads, looking at you with those puppy dog eyes. His hips rutted frantically into your palm. How could you deny your boy?

“Okay, pretty baby. Cum for me.” You say softly, picking up the pace of jerking him off.

He whimpers loudly, thighs quivering lightly as his orgasm crashes and hot spurts of his cum spill onto your hand. He’s panting, dazed with lust and staring at you with what seems like hearts in his eyes. 

“T- thank you, thank you, s’much.” Leon gasps like a broken record, and you think he’s fucked himself dumb with your hand.

You peck his lips, effectively shutting him up.

“Let’s get you cleaned up so I can show you my favourite artwork yet.”

[pftones3482]

I want to be excited for the live action Little Mermaid so badly

The Little Mermaid is my favorite Disney movie. Anyone who knows me knows I'm obsessed with mermaids as a whole and will watch any media that has them. Hell, I own my own tails and monofins. But every time I see a gif or a video for the new Little Mermaid, I cringe

(btw, this is NOT because of the casting. If you're against this movie because Ariel is black, you're a racist piece of shit and this post isn't for you)

My issue lies with the CGI. It just looks so FAKE. We've seen through the course of movies and TV shows that use it that CGI does not age well, and that's because technology is constantly improving. What was impressive in 2005 is not impressive in 2023 (Just look at Aquamarine, another movie about mermaids). And the CGI on Ariel and her sisters already looks fake and the movie isn't even out yet!

Compare this image from the trailer

To this screenshot from H20: Just Add Water (a TV show that came out in 2006):

You can see the details of the scales in the second image

The first image is flat. Sure, it's colorful, but it's flat. It's fake. Halle herself is the most beautiful and alive part of the image, because everything else is fake

The difference?

H20 had costume designers, ones specifically trained in mermaid tail making, HAND CRAFT every tail on the show. All of the scales were hand laid, all the tails molded to fit the actors/actresses perfectly, painted by hand

Let's even look at someone with no affiliation to TV or movies:

This is Mermaid Linden, a very well known (in the mermaid community) professional mermaid. You can tell her tail is not as high quality as the ones made for H20 (though it's still a VERY expensive tail) - but it still looks like it's a part of her. You can still see the details. Because professional mermaid tails are also all handmade and molded to fit each person. Even if they don't lay every individual scale, good professional mermaid tail makers are very meticulous about what they do.

This is what happens when Disney refuses to pay practical effects artists. We could have had beautiful, handmade tails that would look real on screen for decades to come and could be reused for promotional purposes - instead, they're underpaying and overworking their non-unionized employees to make CGI tails that don't even look real now.

(to be clear, I'm not shitting on the artists. As I said, they're being underpaid and overworked. This is not their fault)

And before anyone comes and says "But swimming in those is difficult!" Absolutely it is. You should never swim in a professional level tail (or even just fabric tails) without practice and training. Which Disney could have given the cast if they were willing to PAY people (the cast of H20 [a TV SHOW] literally learned how to be mermaids on set. It's been done before)

Disney's "Live Action" needs to be rebranded as "CGI with some real people tossed in" because that's all any of these remakes have been, and it's exhausting when I look at what we could have had.

[nevisiity]

FAMA (408)

Fama Definition: Fama(408) means to be popular or well known, having reputation FAME!!! Personal interpretations of Fama in the houses below!! Please let me know if you relate or care to share anything else! Thx for reading <3 post 1/4 

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆FAMA IN 1ST HOUSE. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ The 1st house is LITERALLY the house of your physical body, how you look, how you are seen by the general public, self image surface level identity. Approach to life, this can also represent early childhood. So, In my own personal interp of this sign I have concluded that girl… YOU ARE THE MAIN CHARACTER. Like BIG star energy, You might have been popular in childhood, if not then you have no problem getting attention. It may come to you naturally, even if you don’t want it…you have it.. And here they come “I never get attention 🥺” PUT. YOURSELF. OUT. THERE. Cause you got it! Don’t be afraid to flaunt it ;) This also reads to me as a natural star, actors, musicians, artists even just big personalities. 

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆FAMA IN 2ND HOUSE. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ The 2nd house relates to personal finances, money, mula, green. It also reminds me of the earth…”natural energy” mother nature. Anything green. The second house also contains personal possessions(jewels, cars, houses, etc) and emotions. Fama in the second house gives off “that girl”(IFYKYK) vibes. Natural earthy beauty. Maybe you prefer less makeup and may get complimented more because of that. But a way you can achieve fame is through hard work, getting money and showing off jewels. Showing off cars. Flaunting your wealth may not be a bad thing after all…Kind of Glamorous if you ask me. If I had this placement I would adorn myself in jewels…try a more natural style, you are beautiful just the way you are…enjoy getting that attention.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆FAMA IN 3RD HOUSE. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ The 3rd house is COMMUNICATION. Writing, speaking, conversing, editing, and translation. Perhaps you are excellent at communicating, Your voice is most likely really nice. Fama here to me indicates a good songwriter…maybe even a poet. You could probably write a nice script as well. Fluency in languages. You can get famous for these skills. Maybe you can even sing! Wouldn’t  surprise me :) Go on and let your voice shine then! 🌟Let your writing speak…you never know who could be listening! If you have this placement and want to write a book..write and publish poetry, music, any of that. Do everyone a favor and WRITE IT or SPEAK IT!! Your words are your superpower. 

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆FAMA IN 4TH HOUSE. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ The 4th house represents family, roots, old age but also physical structures, our homes (houses, real estate). Fama in the 4th house could mean your whole family is popular or well known where you live, especially if it's in a smaller place. Maybe some of you could get famous from where you come from… how you grew up, childhood, etc. This could also mean a family business that could get you fame or recognition. Reminds me of Tabitha Brown and her daughter (Tik Tok). Or you could get famous later in life. Maybe you could create a future of fame for your family. Maybe you could be a famous interior designer as well. 

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆FAMA IN 5TH HOUSE. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ The 5th house rules creativity,(The house of PLEASURE)  hobbies. something you enjoy doing! This can be anything from painting, music, sketching, tattooing, crocheting, any-damn-thing!!  Your hobbies are where you shine. If it puts a smile on your face and a fire in your belly DO IT!! And post it on social media! I didn’t want to mention zodiac signs yet but hun…this is the house of leo…and what is leo known for?? BEING SEEN!!The sun shines bright and you can’t miss it…The attention-getter of all the signs. Just remember to post it online! Especially if you are passionate about it. This is really the all encompassing house. Fama SHINES here. It takes a little work, but not too much..enjoy what  you are doing first though. To add, if you enjoy working with kids, want to start a business having to do with children you are sure to succeed. You could really just do your own thing and shine though.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆FAMA IN 6TH HOUSE. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆The 6th house represents health, wellness, daily routines and odd jobs. Now FAMA in the 6th house reads to me as a health influencer, Your daily routine will help you shine. Maybe you pretend to have a youtube channel in the mirror, showing your routine. Whether that be skincare, a day in my life, makeup tutorial. Maybe some of you are gym-bros or are really into fitness, maybe you will have a famous social media based on fitness, or healthier meals. You may even be into clean beauty, no real leather, vegan, etc. Your health is your strong suit and maybe people even ask you what they can do to be healthier. Maybe you are more on the fit side and people inquire about this too. You could be really well known personal trainer! Or chef 🧑‍🍳 Reminds me of famous chefs Gordon ramsey and Raechel Ray. 

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆FAMA IN 7TH HOUSE.. • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ The 7th house represents partnerships, beauty, fairness, legalities and even enemies!! If you have FAMA here, You could be a very famous model one day!! Probably very beautiful, whether that's unique or conventional. Besides physical beauty, I feel this also relates to art. I feel we have some amazing artists here. You could also be a great judge, family or relationship type therapist. Just anything ruling beauty and fairness. Maybe you are even a muse for some people. They want to paint you, write about you, etc…this can bring you fame. Famous fashion designer as well, beauty influencer, jewelry maker, etc! 

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆FAMA IN 8TH HOUSE. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ The 8th house represents taboos, death, debt, other people's resources, sex. I read that it can also rule over legacies and wills! FAMA in the 8th house means you would get very famous doing astrology, tarot, spiritual guidance. Some of you may even be witches and could get popular doing that. Some of you may be into sex work….could get very famous that way! Whether that's stripping, only fans, DOMINATRIX. May be a good accountant or personal financer (idk what the profession would be called sorry).  Some good tarot accounts to look into if you’re interested would be (kino tarot, firefly tarot, lexi the leo, The gem goddess) You remind me of them a bit…

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆FAMA IN 9TH HOUSE. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆The 9th house rules over philosophy, religion, higher education, I also feel good careers for this asteroid in 9th are psychics, export/import business. Just a search for the truth. You could be a very popular philosopher, this reminds me of all the greek philosophers (socrates, plato, apollodorus of athens, aristotle) Religion! You could get very famous being some type of pastor or spiritual guru. Maybe a very famous, sought after teacher. You could be a travel influencer. Love to learn about different cultures and could get very famous doing that. Very smart people here and that is your starshine. 

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆FAMA IN 10TH HOUSE. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ The 10th house is at the peak of your birth chart, it rules over professional career image, Public image, business relations and career achievements. I feel you could be a very famous business man/woman. You could even own a company one day!! Giving boss energy. The 10th house also rules over positions of power/authority. FAMA here could mean you even start your own business from square 1! From nothing! CEO’s with this placement. Directors, photographers, superintendent, managers. ALL things BOSS. Maybe even popular overseas due to business relations, lavish lifestyle because of riches here. Could be very popular for work ethic. 

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆FAMA IN 11TH HOUSE. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ The 11th house rules over The friendship of the collective, social media, friendships and groups, and HOPE. as well as idealism. FAMA in this house can indicate big social media fame. You just shine on social media. Like I said with the first house. PUT YOURSELF OUT THERE. Giving alien vibes. Reminds me of the theme of Beyonce's latest “renaissance”. Very modern, maybe even futuristic, Reminds me of fit checks I see on my TL and they have thousands of views. Maybe you yourself represent things people can’t understand, maybe with the way you present yourself. You def keep up on all the trends and memes. Maybe you could get very famous with a commentary type channel, expressing your opinions especially on pop culture. 

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆FAMA IN 12TH HOUSE. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ The 12th house rules over dreams, rest, BIG SPIRITUALITY, traumas, addictions, all that is below the surface.  FAMA here I think is very beneficial for people who want to speak about things that happened to them. Best spiritual gurus, psychics. You could CHANGE LIVES with this FAMA placement.Reminds me of FKA twigs song “Cellophane”. Most of you here could write a novel about things that happened to you. Or how you connect with god(s), spirit, whatever you believe in. You are magical, like a crystal ball.  Also may be gifted with clairaudience, channeling, mediumship, etc. Maybe you could see dead people/talk with them. You are stardust ☄️

Thank you for reading!! FAMA in the signs is next. Stay tuned <3

[borninwinter81]

William Blake - an introduction for Good Omens fans

I have sent @neil-gaiman an ask regarding his feelings toward the poet/artist William Blake a couple of times, but no doubt due to the size of the poor man's inbox I haven't received a response. So I did a Google search to see if he's spoken about Blake before, and it did indeed come up with a fair few hits. I think you might enjoy seeing this Twitter post if you haven't already, the painting is from William Blake's illustrations to Paradise Lost.

It's not surprising that an author like Neil Gaiman might have an interest in Blake. A visionary from a young age, his imagination was such that he was surrounded by angels made visible in his mind's eye, and he interpreted these visions through poetry, painting and engraving, and self-printed and published many of his own works. This gave him complete freedom to say exactly what he wanted.

Though he had a passionate faith in God, he also had a deep distrust of the church as an institution, and disliked the use of religion as a means of control. This poem from "Songs of Experience" perhaps summarises his feelings best:

"I went to the Garden of Love,

And saw what I never had seen:

A Chapel was built in the midst,

Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,

And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door;

So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,

That so many sweet flowers bore. 

And I saw it was filled with graves,

And tomb-stones where flowers should be:

And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,

And binding with briars, my joys & desires."

In his poetry there is often an incongruity with the generally accepted religious ideas of what is good and evil, Angel and Demon. In The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (there's a title that should make any GO fan sit up and pay attention) he tells us that "in the book of Job, Milton's Messiah is called Satan", signifying that he feels it is Lucifer/the devil who is the true Messiah of Paradise Lost.

He gives us The Voice of the Devil and Proverbs of Hell, and has Angels being transformed into Demons through enlightenment. He tells us that Jesus broke all of the 10 commandments, yet was still virtuous because he acted according to his own morality rather than rules.

The god-figure of his later works, Urizen, generally comes across as malevolent, seeking to bind and control, whilst Los, the Satan/Messiah figure represents freedom, imagination and creativity.

"Restraining desire" and acting contrary to your own nature seem to be the only real evils for Blake.

He expressed his faith through a love of the world and the beauty in it, summed up in this quote:

"When the Sun rises do you not see a round Disk of fire somewhat like a Guinea? O no no I see an innumerable company of the Heavenly host crying Holy Holy Holy is the Lord God Almighty".

He saw "God" in everything, in all the wonders we have around us, and considered writers/poets and religious prophets as essentially the same, since they both have a connection to the divine, and express it through stories.

It's quite ironic that probably his most famous poem, Jerusalem (the one that starts "and did those feet in ancient times walk upon England's mountains green"), was made into a very popular church hymn, yet it is supposed to be satirical in nature. The poem recounts the myth that Jesus may have visited England in his boyhood, and Blake is expressing his disbelief at that notion and the unworthiness of England.

Did I have a point to all this? Mostly to show my hand as a massive Blake nerd, but also to hopefully demonstrate that there's a lot of common ground between his ideas and those expressed in a show/book like Good Omens, and hopefully to inspire some of you who may not be familiar with Blake to seek him out. In particular I'd recommend The Marriage of Heaven and Hell to any and all.

EDIT: I should have thought to include this, here's Michael Sheen reading a Blake poem. I have the CD this is from, he reads several by Blake, as well as other poets I love ❤️ 😍

[comfortless]

Everything you write leaves me breathless <333

Sorry in advance for my English

I was thinking about König, (maybe in an ancient rome/Greek settling) being so alone and desperate for connection that he turns to religion: one day he's walking in the woods, deep in thought, when he finds an abandoned temple. The inside is small but lavish, with a life sized statue of what must be its goddess. He sees this lovely sculpture, abandoned and alone and sees himself in her. He becomes a dedicated, fanatic and soso lovestruck worshipper. Unknownly to him his goddess, woken by his prayers, has been watching him and listening to him. One day while he's praying in front of her her statue moves and talks and now his deity is in front of him. Looks like he has an opportunity to worship her like she deserves ;)

granting you ten million kissies for this prompt and your sweet words! your English is perfect, little wisp! <3 also… giving me an excuse to write more loner/loner and mutual worship?! you have spoken to my heart…

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical/myth au; vague time period, brief mentions of violence, fluff, pining, not very explicit smut, mutual worship.

The spirit of the temple feels disorienting, though the architecture is a still, white marble, the floor riddled with leaves and dirt, creeping up the sides of the building as if river water had washed the entire thing ashore… Something feels very alive here, feathered out on the air, a pulse of thunder, the breeze beneath dove’s wings, enthused and yawning. Hungry.

It only becomes more apparent the closer he steps to the statue.

She is unlike any he has ever seen before, carved with the same skill, but so much smaller than the other statues in their temples, so much more lifelike that he almost thinks to greet her. She’s been painted unlike most, a perfect vision bathed in color where she stands out amidst the sea of white and green surrounding her. The temple has not been stained with blood, no offering strewn before her bare feet, left for the rot or dragged away by the dainty hands of this very goddess. No maidens sit in prayer, no men lower there swords to her…

There’s nothing to tell him just who she is, either.

Despite his better judgment, his hand does find her side, a swift draw up from the vision of her thigh peeking from her robe upward to curl over her hip. Her beauty is unmatched, impossible to describe and the call seems almost tangible, shrieking at him in whispers to bend a knee and let her in. So, he does. He prays to her in the silence, alternating between whispers and his own thoughts.

He tells her of his struggles: a soldier brought in from a small tribe up north, robbed from his parents as a boy, how all he knew now were the Roman ways yet could rarely comprehend their customs and deities. Maybe she could offer him some counsel or solace…? Make the weight of his blade feel less heavy as he struck down men that could very well be his own brothers? Give him something to return to when old wounds reopened and he bled, hurt with no one but himself to tend to his heart or his injuries.

The goddess only blesses him with silence: the wind does not pick up outside, there is no disembodied laughter, no sudden thought of an offering or new words to speak to her. She is void of an answer just as the very temple she waits inside is empty of all else.

This does not dissuade him from returning.

Returning to the city after another battle some months later, his first thought is to return to her, to leave the things he’s taken from dead men at her feet, to paint the temple with the blood lingering on his weapon. There is honey, wine, meat and jewelry made of stones from the sea. There is brittle, dried flakes of blood polished from his blade and left to settle onto the floor like the leaves of late autumn. He presents these things to her with a grin, thinking that assuredly this goddess would call back to him then, grant him with a love so consuming that all of the evasion and emptiness cursed upon him would be untwined.

He kneels before her statue, presses his cheek to her thigh, sighs content at the feel of cold marble against the ever-burning of his flesh, gazes up at her like an adoring dog.

Assuredly, if this temple were built for a being that did exist at all she would know just how she was all that this lonesome soldier had, would know the way that he loved her and waited with bated breath and heartstrings pulled taut for her to love him in turn. A greedy, begging muzzle that utters his prayers, words he’s never spoken to anyone whether deity or mortal, only to her in the quiet of the forest.

It’s not madness that provokes him, but the gentleness of her face and the tender look in her eyes, an expression that no other had ever offered to him, no one but this little forgotten goddess. Whether pitying or loving, he did not know. It was only enough to keep him returning: for many days, his path from the city led straight to her feet, even some nights were spent lying upon her floor, finding peace finally being able to sleep next to something apart from lonely walls.

The sun rises and sets each day where he sits and speaks to her as though she were a living, breathing woman. Occasionally he reads aloud to her in the stillness, cheekily tells her when another goddess’ name is brought up within the lines of poetry that they could never hope to compare.

It’s ridiculous when he does not even know what purpose she serves, but this silent figure is his only companion, the only thing that sets his heart ablaze and mind focused in battle because above all else, he has to return to her. Though she can not share his words, he knows somehow that she shares in his loneliness.

Finally, he thinks to ask her the question that has been burning at the tip of his tongue for weeks and months. One, that he has tried to hold back, display a patience that he lacks. It’s after a night of sleeping on cold marble, an ache in his neck from its hardness and his own refraining from bringing a cushion from his own home in his desperation to return to her.

“Why won’t you speak?,” he asks, somber as he makes his way to leave the temple, only halting in place to cast her a fragile look from over his shoulder. He has read the epics, heard the stories and seen the blessings of other deities… Yet no matter what he does or how often he tethers himself to her leg and dotes upon her, she still meets his devotion with nothing but her silence in return.

König is left with the thought that his gifts are not enough, that he, himself, is not enough, even as her sole devotee. To keep his mind preoccupied, he keeps to the city for a time. The bed is cold, the people still see him as a barbaric outsider, and the horrible coil wound around his heart only seems to tighten its grip further. He feels as though he has left a part of himself out there in the forest within the four chalked walls of her temple.

This loneliness does not feel like one he is forced to swallow down, it feels like a vicious sort of ache, the twisting of a dagger beneath ribs to sink in and steal away what little of a life he does have.

He returns to her the following night, with a furrowed brow and a grave look upon his face. There’s an intent to demand she free him of her, that this longing finally pass, but as his sandals reach the entrance to the temple, those thoughts fall away from his mind like droplets of rain, a cool drizzle that begins to fall outside the very moment he is sheltered.

The statue— the goddess moves.

She tilts her head and inspects him fondly, the perfect mouth he has envisioned speaking to him so many times prior tilts upward in the gentlest smile as her bare feet move to carry her body forward.

“A test,” she explains as though answering his question from only the past day, almost saddened by her own words as her gaze lowers to the space between them.

König’s heart does not roar then, it only melts with the knowledge that someone like her has been left alone for so, so very long that she felt the need to prove to herself that he would return to her side. He would. Time and time again he would. When she raises her head to look him in the eye, her own clouded and misty, he only silently prays that she could see such a vow upon his face.

“I am worthy then?,” he questions, forcing himself to remain rigidly in place despite the call- the urge, to circle her, just once, drop at her feet to then feel her pulse beneath his fingertips. Anything. Even an assurance would be reward enough, but there is always a greed in the hearts of men, one he feels burning a hole through his very being even now.

Her lips press to a line and her gaze seems faraway, lost in her own thoughts that must be as mighty as Olympus itself. After a time, she only answers in a soft whisper, “It is I who am unworthy of you.”

All discordance in his chest pulls to a halt at this, all apprehension and sadness are whisked away when she instead comes to kneel before him. She curls her arms around his leg, presses her cheek to his thigh as he had done so many times before. The goddess gazes up at him with not just affection… but reverence, as though he were the strongest warrior of myth, deserving of even the love of something only as ethereal and sweet as she could provide.

His breath catches for a mere moment before he lowers himself at her side. The stares exchanged from both are full of an unspoken wonderment, all of the things that words alone would fail to speak in truth.

He waits out the rain there, sat beside her with the air surrounding them charged with such a great and unspoken affection that even Venus would taste a bitter envy on her tongue should she pass by to see.

She tells him she can not recall what she was the goddess of… or if she was ever truly any goddess at all. The marble surrounding her was put up for a purpose, but she’s never seen the Elysian Fields or climbed Olympus on her own. Her memories are scattered blurs, and she confesses that she feels tired when she tries to parse things together in a way that he will understand.

He listens while he tends to her by offering the honey and dried meat left in offering for her here, then fetches fresh water from the stream that brooks several yards away and returns to her side with a face both damp and flushed.

König tells her of his life too, how during every battle since stumbling upon this sacred place he has kept her in mind; he has no wife to return to, no other women to bed, that since their meeting his life has become hers. He confesses he had the intention of returning only to force a curse upon this madness that had enveloped him, but… he could never have brought himself to do so, even if she had not appeared to him warm and breathing.

Her laugh then could have prompted waves of flowers to bloom and birds to sing in tune, whimsical and so precious he only begins to feel himself fall, truly. Not out of sheer desperation, but with genuine affection.

When her exhaustion does take her, she does not mind the way his arm curls around her middle to tuck her body closer to his own. The goddess has no fury within her, only mirrors his own feelings with a fluttering of lashes and a soft sigh.

So she sleeps, pulled close to him like a lover rather than a stranger. When dawn breaks, when König knows he’s to be called back to train and fight with the other soldiers, have dull talks about what land to cross and take for their own next, she tells him she will wait there for his return.

He can not concentrate as well on his training this day. The plans for future wars and battles do not send flurries, hot excitement through him. The world is an endless gray, reflected above with darkened clouds threatening further rain. There is only one place he wishes to be, one that yearns for him more than his own home or the women waiting on the street for coins the other men readily supply. When one, a native Roman, does ask him why he does not just venture to the brothel to put himself in better spirits, König only grits his teeth to still his hand from quieting him eternally. These men knew nothing of the love he feels, and certainly they didn’t deserve to.

The temple is no different from how he found it the night prior. The goddess sits with her hands curled in her lap, smiling just as fondly at him as she had before. His heart shatters at the thought that she had sat there waiting for him in such a way all day. He swears to her that he will have a proper bed made for her, bring her the softest of furs and cushions stuffed with downy feathers to lie upon. For now his offering is only fruit and wine, things that she shares with him while she shushes his concerns with quiet words and gratitude that he had returned.

She lowers herself again before him after pulling her robe free and lying it upon the floor. It is no proper bedding at all, but she swears that it is enough, that his own warmth is just enough for her to be sated and comfortable. His head swims when she kisses his thigh, drags her lips up from his knee to rest there with that reverent look in her eye. Mortals coupling with deities was not unheard of, but to think it could happen to him…

She is a goddess. How is he supposed to… How could he ever dirty her with himself? He thinks to refuse her before she tugs away the barrier of fabric between them and takes him into her mouth. Stunned, he only watches her, feels her in a way he has never felt a woman before until he finds his voice again.

“Lie down,” he breathes, shaky and tentative as he rests his hand upon her cheek. She complies, giddy and content when she’s splayed out on the white robe beneath her, legs parting immediately and her arms reaching upward to invite him into her hold.

There’s no tact when he lies atop her, feels the warmth of her thighs around him and her arms curled over his neck. His forehead is pressed to her own when togetherness is found, and when she sighs so soft as she envelops him in full, his mouth descends upon her own.

She doesn’t praise him, doesn’t need to in words, because the muffled sounds and cries that leave her lips are more than enough to spear him onward. König, however… he babbles ceaselessly, overwhelmed and overcome by such a profound joy, he can not keep himself from reciting every word that comes to mind, whether vile or pure.

“My goddess,” he whispers into her hair, eyes half-lidded and dazed with each shallow thrust. “We could have had this for a season… you have made me wait so long, hm?”

The way she feels is unmatched, he thinks, when her breathing shudders and she only seems to constrict him further. To think he could bring a goddess to ruin… the grin that crosses his face when he pushes his head against her neck is bordering on both ecstatic and cruel.

“I will give you a demigod,” he hisses against her throat, not at all subtle about just how far he was willing to go to keep her here. With him. More than Olympus, she belonged beneath him, and the tremor that wracks her form then is all of the confirmation he would need.

She sobs his name when the tension becomes too much to bear, fingernails graze the flesh of his shoulders as she shudders, falls into such bliss that her words of praise come incoherent and weak. He follows her to a saccharine abyss with a guttural groan.

The aftermath is softer than any other moment he has shared with her. There are an abundance of kisses pressed between them, littered across her flesh and his own with whispers that leave his mind cloudy. Her worship is subtle by comparison to his own, coming in honeyed stares and such words he would never dare to repeat, no lowly poet deserved to ever hear them, their voices could never compare to her own.

The goddess holds him close, bumps his nose with her own and makes a promise; she tells him for as long as he shall live that this temple was as much his home as it were his own. That even when this body of his does die, she will seek him out in the Elysian Fields, lie at his feet as he had done her own; that no matter what may come, they will never be apart.

[stillmonsterz]

10th Street

pairing: jake sim x reader, jay park x reader kind of (one-sided genre: raw sex with jake :/ summary: you go on a date with jay and it's looking bleak, but the bartender comes around to save the day. warnings: alcohol, unprotected sex, drug mentions, crypto mentions, jay is annoying and rich, oral sex.... word count: 5.4k and unproofread.

            “What really gets me about these rug pulls,” Jay says, steepling his fingers and placing them under his clean-shaven chin, “is that they’re so damn predictable. Any asshole with an ounce of intelligence could immediately spot that an anonymous crypto project is obviously going to rug. I mean, it’s fucking ridiculous, right?”

            “Right,” you say. Your eyes flicker across his face, taking in his features. You wonder if the sex will be worth this, but the cursory glances you’ve taken at his trousers have told you that it probably won’t.

            Your date is Jay Park, this entrepreneur who has made a name for himself in your area’s tech scene. When he had initially met you in a bookstore, skulking out of the philosophy section to not so much as introduce himself as to remind you of his name and status, you had assumed that he would have taken you someplace nicer. Instead, he drove you in his McLaren just outside of 10th Street. He had paid for 4 hours parking and had jostled you down the cluttered sidewalk, his Ferragamos clattering. Jay had gripped your elbow as he navigated you past drunkards, children wandering the streets without parents, and women with glassy eyes.

            Your voice was joking but belied some of your concern. “Where are you taking me, a traphouse?”

            “That’s date number two,” Jay had replied jovially, looking back at you in the light of the setting sun, “if I decide that you’re worth the effort.”

            You had bitten back a groan and continued following him down the street. Finally, he had stopped you outside of a seedy dive bar, with a hole in the glass boarded up with cheap planks. The planks themselves had been tagged with obscene phrases written in spray paint and Sharpie. Jay had pointed to one word and smiled at you with childish glee. “I wrote that one,” he had said proudly. “

            “You have awful writing,” you had said flatly, crossing your arms. “And this place looks like a crack den.”

            “That’s exactly why we’re here,” Jay replied in a wheedling tone, his grip on your elbow sliding down to your hand. He had interlaced your fingers together. “Come on, don’t you wish to shed the trappings of the social strata? Doesn’t this excite you?”

            A protest had begun to rise in your throat, but Jay had already pushed the door open, pulling you along. The bar was dimly lit, the lightbulbs flickering in the grimy lamps. Stains cover the cheap plywood flooring, and as Jay led you to a table the planks made harsh squeaking noises. Industrial metal was playing from a tinny radio, and the one LCD TV mounted in the corner was displaying grainy footage of a football game. The patrons crowding around the bar and littering the pool table are what you would expect. Loud, raucous, with hunched backs, jerky movements, and thinning hair. The glances that some of the men situated by the pool table gave you were reason enough to flee, but Jay’s grip is as tight as a viper.

            “Don’t mind them,” Jay had whispered, his face nothing short of elated. His head had surveyed the room, and a slow smirk settled onto his lips. His well-coiffed hair, youthful face, and understated yet expensive clothes had set him apart, something that greatly pleased him. He had turned back to you. “You’re probably the most beautiful woman they’ve seen in months.”

            “That’s not hard,” you had mumbled, crossing your arms. Your seat was sticky and the table separating you and Jay was riddled with dents and chips.

            “Oh, come on,” Jay had whined, spreading his arms widely. “Don’t be such a little princess. Isn’t this nice? This stripping of artifice, this beautiful and vulgar display of Americana? It’s exciting, isn’t it? Gets you kind of…turned on, right?”

            You had raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

            “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sporting a half-chub, yeah.”

            You had groaned. “You’re disgusting, Jay.”

            “Stop,” he had muttered, holding up his hand. “I might go full mast….” Jay had stood up hurriedly. “I’m going to get us drinks before I inelegantly bust all over the table. What do you want, like a Cosmopolitan or some shit?”

            “No…I kind of wanted a vodka cranberry?”

            Jay had scoffed, opening his wallet in a way that showed you his black card. “What, are you someone’s fucking grandmother? Christ.” He had stalked towards the bar, and you had sat there, trying not to make eye contact with any of the barflies. Finally, your gaze had fallen upon Jay talking to the bartender, at whom he was wildly gesticulating. The bartender was nodding patiently, taking a slow swig of a clear liquid in a tumbler. His apron was stained, his plain black V-neck exposed his thin arms and chest, and his eyes sparkled with a youthfulness one wouldn’t expect to find in a place like this.

            As you had watched the two of them, the bartender’s eyes had briefly slid towards you. His eyes had widened, then narrowed playfully before he went to prepare the drinks. Your chest had felt warm, but you stifled your smile as Jay had stalked back towards your table.

            “I feel bad for that poor bastard,” he had said, sidling into his chair and slinging his arm on the back of it. “Imagine being shackled to this shithole.”

            “I thought you liked this shithole.”

            “Yeah, as a brief recourse from the ardors of being really fucking rich,” Jay had retorted. “Not for the rest of my life. I mean, goddamn. Look at that prick.”

            Jay didn’t have to tell you twice. You took in his messy brown hair, his wide smile, his deft fingers. Then he had walked away from the counter, holding your vodka cranberry and an old-fashioned for Jay. His stride was sure, and he was only looking at you.

            “Here you are,” the bartender had said lowly. “Here’s your old-fashioned-“ he had set the drink in front of Jay with little fanfare- “and here’s your vodka cranberry.” He had slid the drink towards you, making brief eye contact with you. He had been so close to you, you could finally make out his name tag – Jake, written in careful capital letters- and you could smell the moonshine on his breath.

            “Yeah, thanks,” Jay had muttered.

            “Thank you,” you had added softly.

            Jake leaned away slowly, his eyes still lingering on you, before politely nodding. “Let me know if you need anything,” he had drawled before walking away.

            Jay had taken a long swig of his old-fashioned and takes a look at the retreating figure of Jake before groaning. “He should have made it even more obvious that he wanted you. He should have just shoved his cock into your old-lady drink and swirled it around so we really got the picture. Fuck me, I guess.”

            You had sipped your vodka cranberry and laughed. “Oh, come on. You’re reading too much into it.”

            “I’m not,” Jay had insisted, pointing at you with an accusatory glare. “He was checking you out in this lascivious manner. It was disgusting. He was looking at you like you were some piece of ass.” He had taken another long drink of his old-fashioned, barely wincing at the burn.

            “As opposed to you,” you had said sarcastically, “who only has pure intentions for me, right?”

            Jay had laughed. “Hey, it’s different when I objectify you. It’s kind of like when a homeless guy calls you sexy on the sidewalk compared to when an apex predator like me calls you sexy. The point is, that bartender wants you, and it’s revolting.”

            You had dared another glance at the bartender, who was blatantly staring at you while sipping his moonshine. “Relax. I’m probably just the first woman with a full set of teeth he’s seen in a while.”

            Jay had snickered again. “That’s probably true.” Only a few moments of silence had passed before his voice took on a mischievous, almost playful lilt. “You know, you could probably get something from him…”

            You had wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumbs. “What do you mean?”

            “You know,” Jay had said with a shrug, “you could get some free drinks out of him if you flirted a little, take advantage of him. You could probably get him to bequeath his life savings, which could maybe buy you a used microwave or a footlong.”

            Your mouth had gaped open. “Are you openly encouraging me to flirt with him?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Are you a cuck or something?”

            Jay had laughed again, slapping the table. “Ah, you slay me.” He had reached over and pinched your cheek, an action that made you want to bite his fingers off. “Come on, just shove your cute little ass in his face and flirt. It’ll be funny to make him think that he has a chance with you.”

            “I’ll pass,” you had replied. “I mean, it’s not really my thing to just play around with other peoples’ emotions.”

            He had sighed and shook his head in disappointment. “Oh, what am I going to do with you? You’re so goddamn innocent. You’re saying that you’ll feel some modicum of guilt if you fuck around with him?”

            “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

            Jay had downed the rest of his old-fashioned. “Recalcitrance is for bitches and pussies.”

            You had rolled her eyes. “Fine, so I’m a pussy.”

            Once again, that finger had found its way into your line of sight. “You know who’s really a pussy? This asshole who had invested in this obvious pump and dump…”

            As Jay rambles about crypto, you can’t help but look at the bartender. He’s behind the counter, cleaning a cloudy glass with a rag. When he notices that you’re looking at him, he smiles at you warmly before he looks at Jay and returns his attention to the glass.

            Jay corrals you into having another drink, and you listen to his sophomoric opinions on modern society, the current film industry, his tech predictions, and his opinions on right-wing pundits. The only thing stymying your boredom from overtaking you are your furtive glances at the bartender- Jake, you remind yourself. Jake.

            Finally, the two of you leave the shady bar, and Jay makes out with you as he presses you against his car. You close your eyes and think about Jake as his tongue probes inside of your mouth with little grace.

            “Listen,” you murmur, pulling away from his lips, “I have a presentation early in the morning to give, so I’m going to have to cut this date short…”

            “Oh, bullshit,” Jay says, groping your ass on the sidewalk, “you just don’t want to fuck me, is that it? Can you say that for me? Say that you don’t want to fuck me.”

            You sigh. “I don’t want to fuck you.”

            His hands comes off of your ass and he pulls away from you, shaking his head. “That’s all you had to say. I don’t get women. They’re always like, ‘Men never listen to us!’ Then they don’t explicitly tell us anything, we have to parse through their shit...” As Jay talks, he opens the passenger door. “Get in. Please.”

            You slide inside of his car and he closes the door, even buckling your seatbelt for you. Then he walks over to the driver’s seat and drives to your place. He calls you a cock-tease and a winsome harlot and some other choice terms you can barely hear.

            When he finally arrives at your place, he begs you for one last kiss. You oblige, he bemoans that he’ll never get to pound that tight strange, and he drives off, presumably to coerce someone into his bed for the night.

            Against your better judgement, you take an Uber and walk into that bar on 10th Street alone. This time, the lustful eyes of the barflies are less disgusting than they are frightening. Thankfully, the bar area has been just about cleared out, and you take a seat on a stool with a peeled cover.

            Jake is busy cleaning up a spill on the far end of the counter, but when he looks up and sees you his face brightens. He drops the cloth on the table and walks towards you with a goofy smile.

            “Hey, babydoll,” he says lowly, eyes sparkling. He doesn’t bother masking the fact that he’s openly checking you out, his eyes lingering on your breasts before meeting your own stare again. “Was your date that boring?”

            “He was…nice,” you reply, resting your head on your hand.

            Jake laughs. “Yeah, nice, sure.” He shakes his head slightly, like he can’t believe his good fortune. “You want something to drink, babe?”

            “Yeah, could you make me something nice and sweet? Nothing too alcoholic.”

            Jake points at you, cocking his head. “I’ve got just the thing for you.” He busies himself behind the bar, pouring this and that into a shaker. As he does, he can’t stop stealing glances at you. Every time he does, he smiles and bites his lip before looking away. Finally, he pours a light-yellow drink into a cocktail glass, carefully affixing a lemon wedge to the side before gently sliding it to you. “It’s a lemon drop,” he explains in his slow drawl.

            “Thank you.” You pull your wallet out of your purse. “How much is this?”

            Jake shakes his head. “Nah, for a pretty girl like you, it’s on the house.”

            A smile spreads across your face, and that warmth in your chest spreads. “Are you sure?”

            “Surer than anything, babe.” He gestures for you to try it, pushing his mop of hair back.

            You take a sip, and your eyes widen. “This is great.” You hold the glass by the stem as you drink it.

            “Thank you,” Jake says almost shyly. “Glad that I picked up something useful from bartending this shithole.”

            “How long have you been here?”

            “Been working here for…ten years? Owned it for three.” Jake takes a long sip of his moonshine, resting his elbows on the counter. “Not my first choice of job, but when you’re an addict and you need money, you’ll take anything.”

            Your mouth opens, but Jake quickly answers your question. “I’m clean now. Been clean for five years. My only vice is this.” He holds up his tumbler and shakes it before taking another sip.

            “Do you make that yourself?”

            Jake nods. “I make it myself, in the back,” he says, a tinge of pride in his voice. “This must be about…80% pure alcohol, I figure.”

            “Can I try some?” you ask tentatively.

            Jake laughs, his face contorting in disbelief. “Are you sure, babydoll? This could knock a grown man on his feet.”

            “Oh, I’m sure,” you say. You hate to back down from a challenge.

            With another laugh, he walks over to you, coming around the counter. He holds his glass out to you, and as you wrap your hand around the tumbler he tilts the liquid into your mouth. Jake’s eyes are fixed on your lips, awaiting your reaction.

            At first, it does little to you, and you’re about to say something snarky. Then the burning starts, flames licking at your throat, and you double over coughing. Your eyes are screwed up, filled with tears, and your hands clutch the edge of the counter.

            You can feel a hand rubbing your back, the other hand gently stroking your arm. “Aw, damn. You took that like a champ.”

            Through hacking coughs, you eke out, “I don’t feel like a champ.”

            Jake continues rubbing comforting circles on your back. “I’ve seen men collapse to their feet from a shot of moonshine. You’re a little firecracker, ain’t you?”           

            “Thanks,” you mutter, turning to look at him through watery eyes.

            “No problem. You want some water, babydoll?”

            You nod, and Jake reluctantly lets go of you to retrieve some water for you. He returns to your side with a glass, holding it up to your lips. The water is like a soothing balm for your throat, and after a long drink you sigh. “Damn.”

            Jake sets the glass down and picks up his own tumbler of moonshine, taking a long swig. “That’s moonshine for you.”

            Your eyes widen. “How are you drinking that so…so…”

            “Like it’s water?” Jake smiles at you cheekily, leaning against the counter next to you so that his elbows are on the edge and he’s facing you. “First of all, I’ve put shit up my nose that burned more than this. Second of all, I’m used to it. When you’re dealing with this day in and day out-“ he gestures widely at the bar- “you need something good and strong to get through it.”

            “Your liver must be strong as hell.”

            Jake laughs, setting his tumbler down. “It must be pickled at this point.”

            You can’t help but laugh, and he playfully pokes your shoulder. “Don’t laugh at my liver. It’s the only reason why I’m still standing.” Then he stills, appraising you with a careful gaze. “I never got your name, babydoll.”

            You tell him your name, holding your hand out.

            He takes it and shakes it firmly. “Lovely name. Suits you perfectly. My name’s Jake. Jake Sim.”

            He’s still holding your hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

            “Pleasure’s all mine,” he murmurs. Jake holds your hand to his lips and kisses it, traces of moonshine wetting your hand. He flattens your hand and idly starts tracing your palm, his other hand circling your wrist. “You’ve got nice hands. Real nice.”

            “Thank you,” you reply softly. “Yours are very rough.”

            Jake laughs somewhat self-consciously. He stops drawing on your palm with his index finger. “Yeah, well, you don’t work at a place like this for damn near a decade without getting a few calluses and cuts.”

            Your voice comes out as a whisper. “I like it.” You reach out and gently squeeze the tip of his finger, feeling the callus for yourself, before dropping it.

            Jake smiles, but his eyes take on a dangerous glint. His finger trails from the palm of your hand to your wrist, his fingertips gliding over your veins. “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.”

            For a moment, both of you continued smiling at each other. Then Jake licks his lips, and he lets go of your wrist. His other hand now strokes your forearm. “Why’d you come back here, baby? Coming to this shithole once is one thing, but twice in the same night…”

            You don’t see a point in playing games. “I wanted to see you.”

            The smile drops off of Jake’s face, and he leans in towards you. “Yeah? No bullshit?”

            “No bullshit.”

            His other hand moves to rest on your knee, and his thumb strokes it through your jeans. “Your date didn’t do it for you?”

            You shrug, picking up your lemon drop again and sipping it. “He was okay, I guess. He was weird.”

            Jake’s voice is becoming low, his eyes serious. His eyes flicker over your body, settling on your thighs. This time, he doesn’t bother looking back up at you. “You don’t like weird?”

            “Not that kind of weird,” you reply, your voice catching.

            “You don’t like rich prick typa weird?” His voice is amused, and his hand creeps up your knee. “You prefer broke bartender at a shit bar typa weird?”

            You lean in, your eyes locked onto his full, plush lips. The smell of moonshine has become less of a deterrent and more intoxicating. “Is that a problem?”

            “The opposite,” Jake replies in a husky voice. His lips brush your cheek as he moves to whisper in your ear. “I’m flattered that a gorgeous lady like you has interest in me.” His right hand is now caressing your thigh slowly, intentionally. The other touches your face with his thumb.

            “I’m surprised you’re flattered,” you reply, leaning into his touch slightly. “Women here must love you.”

            “They love me to get free drinks out of me,” he says dismissively. “Besides…most women who come here aren’t a fraction as pretty as you are. You’re like a gem in a pigsty, you know that?” When you don’t say anything, Jake continues, running his finger along your jaw. “Your date must’ve been as stupid as hell to let you go.” He pulls away from your ear so he can look you in your eyes.

            “He couldn’t do anything about it. I just didn’t want him the way-“

            Jake’s eyes narrow, and he comes impossibly closer. “The way what?”

            “The way I want you.”

            There’s a pause, and Jake’s face is unreadable. When he does talk, his voice is strained, “Tell me you aren’t fucking with me. Tell me you’re serious. Say the word, and I’ll shut this place down and kick all these junkies out.”

            You swallow, need and desire building up in the pit of your stomach. “I’m serious.”

            Jake pulls away from you and walks over to the barflies, telling them to get their drunk asses out. They complain and groan, but they leave without much of a fight. Once they’re all gone, Jake locks the door. “Come here,” he says, beckoning you with his finger.

            You walk towards him as if in a trance, and when you’re close he spins you around by the waist and kisses you. You readily kiss him back, your hands resting on his chest. His mouth tastes like moonshine, and you can even taste a hint of his sharp aftershave. Jake presses you up against the door, placing his knee in between your legs to trap you. The kiss starts off playful, but it grows hungry, and Jake seems as though he would swallow you if he could.

            When he pulls away from your lips, a string of saliva in between your mouths, his eyes dart all over your face. Then he nods slightly, as if he’s come to some grand conclusion.

            “What?” you ask, your hands snaking up to his cheek. “What is it?”

            Jake pecks your lips gently and smiles. “I just realized…I’m not going to be able to take my time with you.” Before you can say anything, he wraps his arm around your waist and guides you behind the counter to a wooden door that looks liable to give one splinters.

            When he opens the door, the smell of alcohol is almost staggering, and Jake’s grip tightens on your waist as if he had anticipated that reaction. Bottles of alcohol are stacked in crates on wooden shelves on the far wall. To the right rests three DIY pot stills, all using dented kegs. To the left, there’s a small faux-leather couch with chunks of it peeling off. You think back to Jay’s words about the artifice or whatever the fuck, and suddenly you wish there was at least a bit of pretense. But when you turn to Jake, he’s smiling at you like you had hung the moon in the sky yourself. “I know it’s no Hilton,” he begins sheepishly, but you shut him up by kissing him squarely on the mouth.

            “It works for me,” you say, biting your lips.

            Jake’s grin widens. “Shit, okay.”

            You tumble together on the couch with Jake, your mouths connecting sloppily and wetly. You suck his tongue into your mouth hungrily, causing you to choke slightly. This only spurs Jake on further, and he grinds his crotch into you. Your hips rise to meet his, and you hump each other desperately and almost painfully. His hand crawls up your stomach, and he gropes at your breasts. Finally, he pushes himself off of you, settling into a kneeling position. Through the dim light filtering in through the cracks of the door, you can see that Jake’s lips are swollen, his hair messy, and his eyes wild.

            “Take it off,” he grunts. “Everything. Now.”

            Your hands fumble with the zipper of your jeans, excitement clogging throat. As you tug your jeans down, Jake unbuckles his belt, throwing it to the side. You kick your shoes off, shimmy your jeans off, and toss your shirt away, leaving you in only your bra and panties. When you’re suitably undressed, you look up at Jake.

            Jake’s shirt is off, revealing a dark mass of skin you recognize as tattoos. One of his hands has slipped into his boxers, and he’s staring at you. A moan escapes his lips as his eyes wander your body. “So fucking perfect,” he says, voice strained as he plays with his cock. “So goddamn beautiful. Play with yourself for me, baby.”

            You tentatively tug your underwear down, collecting your arousal to coat your clit before stroking it with two fingers. You’re so sensitive that just the first touches cause you to whine in pleasure.

            “Spread your legs,” Jake hisses. “Nice and wide…”

            You oblige, widening your legs so that Jake gets a full view of your pearly pussy. He moans again, his mouth watering at the sight of it, at the hot, sweet smell. “Let me taste it. Let me taste it,” he begs, dipping his head down.

            As his wide tongue touches your clit, you cry out in pleasure. Jake laps at your clit with fervor, his hands pushing your legs apart as he licks wide stripes. His mouth makes obscene smacking noises, and when he briefly pulls away to catch his breath, his entire lower face is slick with your arousal. “So good,” he mutters before diving back in. You squirm, knowing that you’ll cum quickly if he doesn’t stop, but Jake’s nails dig into your fleshy thighs, holding you in place.

            “Oh, Jake, Jake,” you pant out, head leaning back. “Jake, I’m so close, Jake…”

            Seemingly encouraged by your words, Jake continues attacking your clit, and two of his bony fingers slip into your vaginal walls, spreading you open. They pump themselves in and out, in and out, like the undulations of the ocean. Like that, he rips an orgasm from you, continuing to lick the arousal spilling from you as you ride out the wave of pleasure.

            You lean your head back on the armrest of the couch, trying to catch your breath. Jake gently caresses your thigh as you come down from your high, peppering your neck with kisses. “Tasted amazing,” he says, voice ragged. “Tasted like paradise.”

            Your brain is so fuzzy you can hardly piece together a coherent sentence. “That was so good, Jake.”

            Jake smiles at you and gives you a kiss on the mouth, slow and gentle. You greedily lick your own juices off of his lips, even sucking it off of his tongue. As you kiss, you can feel the head of his cock poking at your entrance. “Sorry,” Jake says blithely, “but I need to fuck you right now.” 

            You nod. “Please.”

            To his credit, he takes his time. He fucks into you slowly and carefully, wanting you to adjust. He’s not long, but he’s girthy and fills you well. He feeds you his cock inch by inch, moving in and out as so not to hurt you. Once you seem at ease, he pushes your thighs up so that your knees touch your breasts and fucks you at a faster pace. After a minute or so of that position, he seemingly gets tired of it, opting to place your legs over his shoulder. This allows him to hit a sweet angle, one that has you moaning.

            He’s fucking you so quickly that your breasts begin to hurt, so you cover them with your hands. Jake swats your fingers with his free hand, the other wrapped around your legs. “Stop that,” he huffs out. “Let your tits bounce.” You let go of your breasts, and he licks his finger to swirl it around your nipples, marveling at their stiffness. He kneads your breasts as he pounds into you with grunts of effort.

            Jake pulls out of you, and the loss causes you to cry out. He grabs you by your shoulders and pulls you around so that your head is lolling over the edge of the armrest. He hovers over you, one hand prying your mouth open. “Need to fuck this mouth of yours. Will you let me, babydoll?”

            You pant out your assent, and he slides his wet cock into your mouth. First you kitten-lick the head, tasting your own hot arousal, then he presses his cock further down, treating your mouth like a pussy. As you gag around his dick, you play with his balls, fondling them with one hand. With the other, you play with your engorged, reddened clit. This doesn’t go unnoticed by him. “You’re amazing,” Jake pants out. “Playing with yourself while you get facefucked.”

            You tap his stomach, and he pulls his cock out, stroking your cheek gently. “All good?” he asks tentatively.

You nod and spit somewhere on his floor before taking him back into your mouth. “So good to me,” Jake praises. “So, so good.” Once he’s done fucking your mouth, he pulls out and his cock on your cheek, almost playfully. Then he pulls you over so that you’re flat on your stomach, your head still hanging over the edge of the couch. He spanks your ass once, twice, then slips his wet, stiff cock into your folds, moaning as he does.

This time, his pace isn’t furious, but moderate. He pulls you up so that your back rests on his chest. He’s on his knees, fucking his cock into you upright. Your hips meet Jake’s, so that you’re bouncing on his dick. He kneads your breast with one hand, the other hand holding your waist. Your lips meet in a sloppy, rushed kiss before he pushes you down and grips your hips. He pounds into you with strangled moans, sounding more animalistic than anything else.

“You like this?” he asks, the question sounding less like dirty talk and more like a desperate need for assurance.

“I like it!” Your voice is tremulous, shaking as he thrusts harder and harder into you.

“That rich prick you were with couldn’t fuck you like this, right?” He punctuates his sentence by pulling out of you before slamming himself back inside with a groan.

You moan loudly, trying to clutch the armrest for support. “No, he couldn’t. He’s nothing like you.”

“That’s right,” Jake says, closing his eyes. “He couldn’t. He couldn’t make you purr like I do.” His thrusts become sloppier and faster, and you slip your hand down so you can rub your clit to chase your own orgasm.

Peals of moans spill from your lips. “I’ve never been fucked like this before, Jake.”

“I thought so.” Jake flips you over so he can enter you from the front, pushing one of your legs to the side. He slides in and out of you with ease, your juices having pooled on the couch. “You need to be fucked like this, don’t you?”

“I need it,” you choke out, your stomach desperately burning. “I need it, Jake.”

As he comes close to orgasm, you can feel his cock twitch inside of you. “Fuck, a girl like you just begs to be treated like this.”

“That’s right,” you babble.

Jake doesn’t talk anymore, instead letting out low grunts as he comes close. Your second orgasm hits you first, and you scream out his name. The tightening of your vaginal walls is enough to bring him to climax, and with a final grunt and a low, “Fuck!” he spills into you. He pulls out of you and weakly rubs his cock to spill his last few spurts of hot cum on your stomach. Then he wearily collapses, leaning back on the opposite side of the couch.

Both of you recover from the heated session, and you gasp for air. After a while, you feel Jake’s hand on yours, and he pulls you onto him. He strokes your hair and kisses both of your cheeks. You wrap your arms around him and rest your cheek on his chest.

“I can’t just let you go,” he murmurs, fingers tangling in your hair. “I’m going to need you again soon.”

You look up at him, surprised. “Again? Soon?”

Jake laughs, his playfulness returning. “We’re going to rest up for a little, and then I’m going to take you again. We need two more rounds, at minimum. What do you say?”

“I say you’re insane,” you reply, any snark momentarily eviscerated by the residual pleasure spreading in your body.

“You like it.”

“Shut up.”

With another laugh, Jake kisses the top of your head. “You’re cute.”

You allow your eyes to flutter shut as you revel in his embrace, taking in Jake’s scent and comfort.

[number1jeonginstan]

Hi! I was wondering if you could write a story in which hyunjin overstimulates y/n? And if you want, could you make y/n sensible and scared? Ty! I love your writing btw!

A/N: Sorry for taking so long to get this out, I’ve been kind of in a slump for writing and then I got the idea for what I should do because I was kinda struggling for a minute. I hope you liked it and I’m so thankful for the request! Thank you so much for your time and patience, I really appreciate it.

WC: 1.25k

Pairing: Hyunjin x (established relationship) afab!reader

Minors don't interact, 18+

Warnings: SMUT, overstimulation, some light slapping, good girl, baby, use of that stuff, idk what else tbh this was written at like 1 am

It was a lazy day between you and Hyunjin. Both still in your pajamas, you in silk shorts and one of his t-shirts, and him in his matching yellow and white checkered pajamas. You enjoyed this new mystery novel on his bed while he painted in his studio. It was the comfort of being next to one another that you had no idea what was yet to come. 

As you turned to the next page in your book, Hyunjin got up coming towards you. “Wanna have sex?” He asked, lying down next to you on the bed. You barely paid attention to him, too immersed in your book, simply humming. 

“Come on” he groaned lifting his head to you, “I need you baby” he huffed, still not eliciting a reaction from you. To try and get any reaction out of you, he began to run his fingers on your thighs. 

Ts when he ran his fingers along your thighs, placing wet kisses along your smooth thigh. “Jinnie, please” you whined “I want to finish this chapter, they are about to say who did it” 

“Wow, a book is more interesting than fucking your insanely hot boyfriend?” 

“Right now, yes!” you giggled, finishing reading the page you were on. Before you could even turn the page, he snatched the book out of your hand. “Don’t you dare fold the corner” you yelled, trying to snatch the book back. He giggled adding the bookmark he made you as a gift to mark the page. He got up and placed the book on his easel, far from your reach. 

“Fine” you groaned, falling back onto the bed, your head hitting the pillow. He walked back to the bed, crawling on top of you so his thighs locked yours in place. He placed a kiss on your lips, causing a giggle to leave your lips.

He moved to your neck, kissing and nibbling at the spot that drove you crazy. You could slowly feel yourself getting wetter. “Jinnie, please stop teasing” you whined, rubbing your thighs together to get any sort of stimulation. “I need you” 

“Be patient baby, we have all the time in the world”

He kissed your lips once again, trying to savor your taste. He began to move down your body, lifting your (his) shirt slightly to kiss your stomach, slowly moving down to your shorts. Without hesitation, he pulled down your shorts and underwear, throwing them somewhere in your shared room. 

“Fuck baby, this pussy is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen” he ran his fingers across your folds, capturing your wetness and putting his finger in his mouth, licking it off his fingers. “And you taste even better” 

You moaned watching him, and before you could even say anything, he dove into your pussy. His plush lips kissed your clit as he slowly inserted one of his long fingers into your hole. You grabbed his hair in his hand, forcing him to eat you like a man starved, and he was happy to. 

He was licking every inch of your pussy, slowly inserting another finger to give you the extra stimulation you needed. His fingers were long, not as long as his cock, but longer than your own and he was skilled with them. It took him another minute for you to cum around his fingers, moaning his name as your walls clenched around them. 

He began to kiss down your thigh, his plush lips covered in your cum from eating you out. “Jinnie, please, need you” you whined.

“You are a greedy little girl aren’t you, just made you cum with my mouth and fingers, but you are still begging for my cock” 

He slapped your thigh lightly, moving so he was on top of you, in between your legs. “Fuck, you are such a slut” he groaned, pulling his already hard cock from the confines of his boxers. The tip was already red, pre-cum slowly dripping out of the tip.

“Who’s the slut now?” you giggled, trying to joke around, but it only made Hyunjin to tease you more. Before you could react, he grabbed your face, making you look directly into his eyes. “If you keep acting like this, I’m going to fuck you like the little whore you are” 

“Sure Hyunjin, you can try and do that” You rolled your eyes, knowing that your boyfriend would never “fuck” you. Whenever the two of you had sex, he always liked to describe it as making love. He was someone who believed that sex was something that should be cherished. 

“Don’t test me baby, tonight you are going to be my cocksleeve” Before you could even react, he thrust his cock inside of you, not even giving you a warning. “How can you be such a whore and have such a tight pussy” 

You just moaned you had never seen him this way, and you were a bit scared, and your face reflected it. “Aww, baby don’t be scared, you’ll get to cum, don’t worry”

He nibbled on your ear softly, his pillow lips wrapping around your lobe as he continued to thrust into you. He slowly began to lift your legs slightly, signaling you to wrap your legs around his back, allowing him to hit that one spot inside your cunt.

“Such a good girl, moaning for my cock. Is it just that good?” 

He continued to thrust into you, not faltering his pace as he continued to abuse that one spot inside of you. All you could do was moan out in response. You were too fucked out, getting fucked too well to even understand the words coming out of his mouth. 

He slapped your face slightly, causing you to look up straight into his eyes. “I asked you a question, is my cock that good” 

“Yes Jinnie, your cock is the best I’ve ever had” you moaned out loud. He kissed your lips, muttering “good girl” on them, and with him thrusting into that one spot that made you whine, it was all you needed to cum. 

“Fuck baby, I can feel your walls clenching around me, but just because you came, doesn’t mean we are done” You whined, feeling overstimulated as he continued to abuse your pussy like there is no tomorrow. 

It all felt too much, him continuing to thrust into you even though you had just cum. You thrashed around slightly, not being able to take it. Just as you thought you were going to break, like the world around you was going to go black, he came inside of you, kissing your lips. 

You were still out of it as he quickly got up, getting a cloth to clean the cum that was spilling you out of with as well as a glass of water. “Baby, I need you to drink this” 

You just nodded, slowly drinking the glass of water that your boyfriend was holding in front of you. 

“Sorry if I was too rough, I just overheard you say that you wanted me to fuck you more often, I hope it was okay” 

He looked like a hurt puppy so you pulled him close to you, kissing his lips gently. “It was amazing Jinnie, but next time, give me some warning because I was scared shitless” 

He just giggled as he wrapped his arms around you as you both fell asleep together. Maybe not knowing the end of the book is worth it. 

[darby-rowe]

༊*·˚ princely.

coriolanus snow x dark!fem!reader

word count 1.5k cw dark themes, NONCON SOMNOPHILIA, dead dove do not eat, reader has a gross internal monologue, handjob, coriolanus is unaware of his assault, not proofread notes hey! i don't condone anything described in this fic irl! what the reader does here is gross and is literally assault. PLEASE HEED THE CONTENT WARNINGS BECAUSE SHIT GETS WEIRD! got it? good. then pls enjoy ♡ wanna give a quick thanks to my mutual @shellxrls for inspiring me to write more dark content, and for encouraging me to post this. if it wasn't for her, this fic would have never seen the light of day.

Your fingernails grip so hard into the blanket you fear you may rip the soft fleece from its stitches. Staring down at the beautiful boy sleeping next to you in your bed, looking so utterly soft and peaceful. You watch his chest rise up and down slowly with each breath he takes, studying how his muscles move beneath his skin. His soft blonde curls sprawl delicately across his face. You didn’t even know it was possible to look so princely while you slept, but Coriolanus Snow was living proof.

You had previously allowed Coriolanus to stay at your apartment for a few days while his place went under renovations, courtesy of his newfound inheritance of the Pinths’ fortune. He was your best friend after all, so who were you to deny him hospitality?

But on the first night of him sleeping in your bed, you find yourself questioning every aspect of your moral compass now that you had him beside you looking so vulnerable. Your fingers twitch. The temptation is nearly killing you. He’s most likely deep within some kind of dream, so…

Before your mind comprehends what you’re doing, your hand is on his smooth, toned chest, feeling him breathe underneath your touch. You want to pull your hand away, to stop before you start, but your hand feels as if it’s stuck to his smooth skin. What’s happening? Why aren’t you stopping yourself? Oh god, Coryo looks so hot when he sleeps. Is he dreaming? Is he dreaming about you? If he’s dreaming about you, then surely that means he’s into you, so he wouldn’t mind if you were to just—

Before you could realize what you’re doing, your hand is moving further down south Coriolanus’s torso, heeding every single physical and verbal cue that could indicate he’s waking up. You bite down hard on your lip — almost a bit too hard — as your hand approaches closer and closer to the waistband of his boxers. So crisply pristine, a pearly white color, almost too perfect. Did he not have a single pair of ruined underwear? Surely he must have a pair in the hamper with his cum stains painting the front. Maybe even multiple pairs. Yeah, multiple pairs of ruined underwear caused by Coriolanus’s physiology. The thought makes your pussy throb, and you look down as you thumb the waistband of his boxers.

But you decide to not venture towards the promised land just yet. Instead, you ghost your fingertips over the print of Coriolanus’s large cock. You have to swallow hard as your mouth waters, frantically flicking your eyes back and forth from his face to your hands. You think to yourself, is it too late to turn back? Could you still save yourself from the horrifying embarrassment of getting caught touching your friend in his sleep?

A small groan escapes his throat, and at the speed of light you retract your hand and wait for further instruction. Coriolanus does not open his eyes, but you still wait a few moments before putting your hand back.

Oh, Coryo. Oh sweet, princely, beautiful Coryo — if only he could see how pretty he looks right now resting his soft curls on your pillows, then maybe he’ll understand why you’re doing what you’re doing. Just can’t help myself, you think.

You really begin to think about the circumstances. You’re a hot girl. You’re insanely hot with a sharp tongue and even sharper brain. You have ambitions, goals, and fully thought out plans for the future. You’re perfect girlfriend and wife material. Would Coriolanus really be bothered by someone like you touching him in his sleep? In fact, he would probably be grateful.

Ugh, no! What? Stop thinking like that. You’re so full of yourself you’re choking on your own ego. You’re a violator. A venomous pervert. A venomous, conniving, irresistibly hot pervert.

You sigh to yourself. Your brain just keeps thinking in circles and in circles and in circles and in circles. You can’t be doing this. Just a little won’t hurt? This is as far as you’ll go. He won’t even mind at all because you notice the way he looks at you like you’re a lamb for the slaughter. This isn’t right. You can’t be doing this. Just a little won’t hurt?

The room temperature rises. A lining of sweat appears on your hairline as you continue to lightly ghost your fingers over the print of Coriolanus’s hardening cock. He’s starting to make noises more frequently. He must be dreaming now.

You dare to whisper, see if maybe your voice will bleed into his dreams. You’re dying to know how he’ll react. Ever so softly, his name escapes your lips like a delicate puff of smoke from inhaling a cigarette.

“Coryo,”

You wait.

You wait for a moan, a sigh, a physical response.

Nothing.

You say a silent prayer to yourself before leaning in closer, attempting to manipulate his dreams once more.

“Coryo, I’m here,”

You perk up as a tiny moan escapes Coriolanus’s mouth, and even more exciting, his cock twitches beneath your fingertips.

This was your sign to keep going.

Carefully, you retract your hand and drool a generous amount of saliva onto your fingers and in the palm of your hand before slipping your hand underneath the waistband of his boxers. And as your fingers made contact with his hardening cock, you shiver.

Your entire body flares up with goosebumps and your pussy throbs and aches almost instantly. You have to take a moment to yourself before you begin stroking him, to just hold his shaft within your perverted, filthy hand. Your heart is beating so fast that you’re afraid you might pass out before you can indulge in the fun.

Your hand trembles as you begin to stroke him, keeping a light yet generous grip as you pump his cock up and down. He’s beginning to moan more loud than before, and more frequently. You think to yourself about how you could cum right then and there just from feeling his dick and listening to him moan.

It’s dark in your bedroom, but your eyes adjusted a while ago, giving you a fair view of Coriolanus’s cock in your hand. You swipe your thumb across his slit, and for a moment you stop as a sharp gasp emits from the sleeping boy. But when he shows no sign of waking up, you continue.

“So big…” you whisper to yourself, voice barely audible. You feel his cock begin to leak with pre-cum and you slick up his shaft with his own bodily juices, making your hand pump his cock more smoothly as you pick up the pace.

You wonder to yourself if you could even get away with straddling his hips to sit down on his dick, slowly impaling yourself as your tight pussy envelops him in his sleep. How would he react? You can picture it now: you, stripped of your panties and nightgown, tits bouncing up and down as you ride his cock. Eventually, he’ll stir awake to the image of your hot body on top of him, moaning and whimpering sweetly. And he won’t fight back, oh no. Because you’ve seen the way he looks at you — you don’t think he knows how you study the way he licks his lips as he eyes you up and down. Your pussy is on his mind 24/7. He’s obsessed with you. You’re surprised he hasn’t tried to touch you in your sleep. You’d welcome the sentiment, though, as your eyes would slowly flutter open to the sight of Coriolanus pounding his cock into you. You wouldn’t tell him to stop.

Would he tell you to stop?

You’d like to think so. But you can’t afford to think of alternate versions of this night as your hand is now thoroughly pumping his cock in a proper handjob. Coriolanus mewls and twitches in his sleep, and your mind can’t begin to comprehend how hot he looks completely at your mercy.

“Pretty, so pretty,” you whisper. “Don’t even know I’m fisting your fucking cock, yeah? Wish this was my pussy? Wish I was fucking you in your sleep instead of giving you this lousy handjob?”

You don’t know what comes over you as you lean down to kiss his sleeping lips, and before you know it, he’s lazily grunting as he spills his cum all over your hand.

And you’re so turned on you feel more as if you have to pee more than anything. Your pussy pulsates as you feel his cock throb underneath your hand, and you have to practically force yourself to pull your hand away and lay back down.

Mere seconds after his orgasm, you feel and hear Coriolanus stir and wake up. He mumbles a curse word under his breath as he assesses his sticky situation.

You just lay there, with your hand still covered in his cum, as a deep, dark dread fills your chest. Someone pours liquid lead into your heart as reality settles back in for you.

What have I done?

darby-rowe, 2024. do not plagiarize my content, nor distribute my content onto any other website like AO3, etc. my writing is exclusive to tumblr only.

[highladyandromeda]

Shadows of the Heart

Part 1

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: After years apart, Y/n returns to Velaris, bearing the weight of sacrifice and secrets from her past. Reunited with Rhysand and his Inner Circle, she navigates the complexities of rekindled friendships and unresolved tensions. 

Warnings: mentions of blood, but nothing particularly graphic

WC: 1k

[Prologue]

Three days drifted by before Mor finally stirred from her deep slumber, her body frail and still reeling from the mutated faebane she had ingested. Though she nearly fainted again once she saw Y/n across from her, surrounded by an amalgamation of healing salves and blood-soaked bandages. Rhys, looking haggard from days of ceaseless worry, was by her side in an instant, having anchored himself to the room, steadfast in his refusal to leave them.

The inner circle, their family, had rallied around, taking turns to keep Rhys company, with Azriel stepping up more than anyone. He told himself it was because of his duty as the spymaster, accustomed to the long, sleepless nights. Yet, in the quiet moments, it was Y/n who captured his thoughts, her name a whisper in the back of his mind. Rhys had introduced her simply as "a dear old friend," but the weight of those words suggested so much more.

Azriel found himself drawn to her, ostensibly under the guise of safety. He watched—the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the delicate flutter of her eyelashes, and the gradual resurgence of color painting her cheeks as Mor's condition stabilized. Rhys's tenderness around her was palpable; he hovered constantly, his hands gently tending to her wounds, smoothing salves, replacing bandages, and even brushing her hair with a care that spoke volumes. The crimson magic that danced around her injuries seemed as lost as she was, at times spiraling along Rhys's arms, at others, drifting curiously towards Azriel's lurking shadows.

Once, her magic reached out, touching the darkness before swiftly retreating, but not before his shadows whispered to him

Beautiful. They said. But tired. Tired. Wants to sleep. 

Driven by a mix of concern and curiosity, Azriel had just hastened back to the room, alerted by his shadows to Mor's awakening, only to witness her launching herself out of bed in a frantic bid to reach Y/n. His quick reflexes prevented another fall, catching Mor in a steady grasp, and sitting her down.

"How—what happened?" Mor's voice trembled, her eyes wide as she took in the blood-soaked scene. "Why is there so much blood—wait, is that all her blood? Rhysand!" Her voice climbed, a note of panic threading through her confusion.

Rhysand's face, a mask of exhaustion and worry, softened as he turned to Mor, his voice low and soothing, "It's okay, Mor. You're safe now, both of you are. Y/n... she saved you."

The room was thick with tension, the air heavy as if the very walls were holding their breath. Mor's eyes, wide with disbelief, moved from Rhys to Y/n and back again, as he recounted the ordeal. 

Feyre and Cassian burst into the room then, their expressions a mix of relief and concern. "How is she?" Feyre asked, rushing to Mor's side, her gaze flitting between the two women laid out before them. 

"Awake, finally," Rhys responded, his voice threaded with fatigue yet underscored by a tangible relief. He remained anchored by Y/n's side, his hand lightly resting on hers. 

Cassian moved closer, his gaze lingering on Y/n with a newfound respect. "This is some serious magic she pulled off," he muttered, his voice a mixture of awe and concern, "to save Mor like that."

Mor, gathering the remnants of her strength, attempted to stay seated, her eyes locking onto Y/n's still form. "But... why? Why would she do this for me?" The question hung in the air, raw and laden with emotion.

Rhys's gaze softened, "It’s Y/n… Could she really just stand aside and do nothing, knowing you were in danger, Mor?"

"But she—" Mor's voice broke, looking the most forlorn Azriel had seen her in years. 

"I know," Rhys cut in, his voice firm yet gentle. “And you know that it was complicated back then. Promises were made. That doesn’t mean she has changed, not really.”

"Centuries, Rhys. It's been centuries. I wasn't even sure if she was... still among us," Mor whispered, the weight of years echoed in her voice.

"Centuries? Hold on, how do both of you know her?" Cassian, ever the one to voice the burning questions, brought the room's focus sharply to the heart of the mystery.

The room's attention swiveled to Rhys and Mor, with even Amren and Nesta quietly joining the circle. A silent communication passed between Rhys and Mor, a shared history in a single glance before Rhys cleared his throat.

"Well," he started, the word hanging in the air as he gathered his thoughts. "Without diving too deep into her story—out of respect for her privacy—it's safe to say that Y/n and I share a past. We were raised together in Hewn City... She was, quite possibly, my very first friend."

A ripple of surprise and intrigue swept through the group, each member processing the revelation in their own way. 

“Why did she leave.” Feyre broached. 

"It's... complicated, darling," Rhys pondered the best way to explain. 

"To simplify, her father held a position of significant influence under my father's command, privy to the secrets of Velaris. Given how I became High Lord, he and his family chose to leave, out of respect for my rule, given Keir’s proclivities for rebellion.” 

“What he doesn’t say” Mor interjected, her voice laced with a mix of frustration and sadness. “Was that he offered Y/n a position, he–we requested she stay. Repeatedly.”

“It was more complicated than that, Mor”

“Was it, Rhys? Mor bristled. “She left you when you needed her most, Rhys. We all felt the void she left behind.”

"It wasn't just about politics or positions," Rhys's expression turned somber, his usual charm and ease giving way to a moment of vulnerability. "Y/n…had her reasons, tied to her family's legacy and their own secrets.”

Feyre, sensing the tension, reached for Rhys's hand, offering silent support.

“It was difficult for all of us. I know it hurt you, Mor. We all had regrets.”

Mor sighed, turning around to lay back down. It wasn't easy to concede that her initial shock had morphed into anger, rooted deeply in pain. After all these years, the thought of being reunited with her friend under such harrowing circumstances, indebted to her for her very life, was a reality she hadn't been prepared to face.

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

A/N: I promise there'll be more interactions between Azriel and Y/n in the next parts, I just wanted to set the scene for her complicated history. I also just love platonic interactions between the inner circle and want build up how Y/n is/becomes a part of their family.

[chrollohearttags]

DOLL FACE • chrollo lucifer

synopsis: in which you become chrollo’s newest obsession with no chance of him ever letting you go.

content + themes: yandere, drug lord!chrollo, black!fem reader, reader is an escort, mirror sex, porn without plot, rough sex, spit kink, dacryphilia, prone bone, heavy breeding, unprotected sex, dark themes, drug use (consensual), read at your own risk, short drabble

word count: 0.8K

📝: just a little something/rehashing from a previous story I wrote for a while ago. May have to revisit this someday. Shoutout to @lostgxrlblog for reminding me of this! Should also go without saying but minors are not welcomed!!

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰───────✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰────

leather pumps with bottoms painted in red, pointed to the ceiling…

the scent of bourbon and nicotine permeating throughout the air along with the smell of sex..

strips of cocaine lined up on a shard of glass..

sounds of rampant thumping and loud cries filled the room..

it was a sight or rather, a very lucid reality that you had been experiencing for quite some time now. A pleasurable fantasy fulfilled by none other than the man who had placed you in this situation in the first place. Face down in the plush cushion of a hotel bed mattress as he ruts his hips into the plumpness of your ass. Watching it ripple each time he peered down and thrusted in. Thumbs pressed into the visible dimples on your back..it was one of the many admirable features he loved about you. Honestly, he could ramble for hours on end about how beautiful, soft and sexy you were. How he loved you dearly..and you were the most precious thing in his life. So much so, he made love to you as if it would be his last. Vigorously pounding you into the bed; causing it to vibrate at the sturdy seams.

“Yesss..! Just like that, doll face. Look up..look at your pretty fucking face in the mirror.”

a backhanded yet endearing pet named he’d so affectionately adorned you with once you became his employee and lover. Truth be told, the former was not of your own volition. It had been a year since you’d become the proverbial ‘bottom bitch’ to the illustrious crime lord, Chrollo Lucifer. His top escort and appointed leader to all the other sex workers who served under him. Although not an ideal line of work, being in his presence was enough to endure anything. A feeling he shared mutually; proving so through discarding the demeaning term and giving you the aforementioned moniker. You were gorgeous..absolute perfection if he’d ever seen it. In the same breath though, he considered you as nothing more than an object. His toy and plaything to mold and shape in his image…in more ways than one…

“You take my dick so well…god, I love being inside of you. How am I supposed to let anyone else have this pussy when it’s so conformed to my shape? It’s made for me..”

powerful words he’d hiss into your ear whilst he hovered over your frame, taking full dominion over your center. Your sticky, sweat and otherwise stained skin smacking against each other. You’d take those deep, unrelenting strokes as much as you’d could but to no avail..that thick cock stretching you open but still not wanting to give way. As some semblance of comfort, you’d grasp and claw at the crisp white sheets, chewing into the pillow but much like the other pieces of normalcy in your life, he’d rip that away and forcefully tug you back by your wrists. Maneuvering you to his own accord..a fate you were used to. Forced to glare up at your own pathetic reflection in the mirror..a fucked out face marked with smeared makeup and saliva from both your own mouth and him filling it up with spit of his own. Claw marks from him, fish hooking his fingers into your jaw and your expensive dress ripped to shreds. That done the courtesy of the client that you had just seen prior to him bursting in the room and claiming you for his own. All but running the man out by gun point. It couldn’t be helped really..especially when he saw you strutting about in that bright red ensemble, rubbing on his chest and kissing the ugly fuck..he couldn’t take it! Hence why you were being marked and bred until he was satisfied. Make no mistake, it wasn’t the actions of a brutal tyrant. It was because he was so hopelessly in love in you! Having already filled you with two loads..that twitching cunt that couldn’t stop orgasming for him, already housing so much but willing to take so much more. As long as it pleases him, as long as it made him happy, as long as it kept feeling so fucking good..

“You’re mine, I’ll make certain that it’s implanted in your cute, empty head. Even if it takes me all night. Even if I have to put a baby in that pretty belly of yours.”

you’d forever remain his pretty little plaything. His precious doll face.

[beescake]

PLEASE PLEASE MEGADUMP THE ARASOL!!! PLEAAASEE MR BEESCAKE I AM ON MY KNEES BEGGING YOU

HFHGHD GLADLY aaa i’ve been adding notes to it here and there for months but just hesitant to post it bcs im 🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂

also this is just my own takeaway of the events, it doesn’t necessarily comply to the Ultimate Truth of Canon-Alignment or represent the actual facts of what hussie intended! v sentimental smh but hopefully its still interesting to read

i love when characters inform each other by proximity, it's one of my fave things to see in media :') it feels even more significant when two characters deliberately choose to stick together, so that when one operates, you can tell the other is similarly aligned in associative solidarity.

sollux is a keystone of this trope — whoever he aligns with is a wordless statement, a nod of approval. this stood out to me bcs the main four humans were alr friends by default, but once you reach hivebent you realize the trolls can actively choose who they want to hang out with.

and as we all know, after assessing every troll's biases/loyalties, sollux is the only one who maintains his selective preference for innately Good 👍 people.

aradia is such a beautiful character honestly, she evokes such incredible feelings in me. she might not have been consistently written with care but the best parts of her character are truly stunning. i think it's easy to remember sollux as the self-sacrificing one bc he's so open about it (and his friends frequently react to his Moments) but when you compare him to aradia, it's always struck me

how much more. raw it is

to be so alone as an agent of time, having to orchestrate immeasurably harrowing events nobody understands or gives a fuck about

with your role painted in the story as one who must tend to the needs of the narrative, responsible to match every next note

because when you're given the capabilities, it becomes your duty to carry it out.

it becomes expected of you to keep experimenting and arranging the machinations to work for everyone, dusting off hundreds of necessary failures to keep going

and having to be so unwavering in your drive knowing miserably that there's no one who can help you but yourself.

or alternatively: to make things fun! so other people won't think twice about letting you go off on your own.

sure she's had some very good buds, notably thanks to Team Charge v Team Scourge antics.

and yet, at the end of the day, the one friend that kept choosing her time and time again was the friend with the highest standards.

i can see why people like to define arasol as moirails/matesprits but surprisingly i find the nondescript, unlabeled aspect of their relationship more straightforward to understand.

there's no shortage of people who would accommodate sollux. most of the surviving trolls are his oldest friends bcs he’d chosen them well. his transparency with his feelings had built him strong friendships that won’t falter or break, regardless of how much of a dick he can be. they’ve already seen and accepted him at his worst, and they still like him for who he is.

contrast that with aradia, who'd been so approachable, friendly and reliable in her exchanges it was super fun to talk to her. but the moment she became depressed, all her connections broke down.

her friends became hesitant to interact with her (until she became god tier, “happy” and amicable again) because her gloom and resignation didn’t serve them. she dealt with it alone.

there’s def something of note here abt the disparity between the way male & female characters are written+perceived in homestuck (esp parallel arasol with davejade) but i won’t go into that lmaoo

with this in mind i like to think of sollux as a gift to her, a loyal companion given to complement and commend her resolve. she's capable of doing so much alone but hussie took the time to build her and sollux's relationship as one of a unit; a set.

the ambiguity of their status does complicate things, but i do believe it makes sense with their characters. aradia's relationship with romance is a rocky one, the dubious stringalong equius had with her is a pointed reminder that her feelings of attraction are ultimately controlled by the author writing her.

unlike the other trolls who can openly address and own up to their crushes, aradia had romantic emotions forced upon her (especially when hussie implies 'she kissed equius back on her own volition'). and it seems like her character is so intrinsically neutral abt attraction that even when forced by the almighty powers above, she's unable to retain it wholly.

however, looking back to pre-game when she could actually "choose" her own feelings, she did have a crush on sollux.

their soft spots for each other were so obvious to the point where other people could see it.

taunting aside, when vriska comments on their unit as bf/gf it actually informs the audience that arasol's relationship is romantic in nature despite not aligning with the quadrant system.

even while dead, aradia could still describe her care for sollux, expressing that she would like to see him happy. if they had more time to explore their relationship on alternia, it's possible they could've settled in a quadrant once they grew older.

but going back to the lack of labels, their dynamic was affected once more when aradia became god tier.

to me, her ascension was both the perfect culmination and possible closure of her character. it's the light at the end of her journey toiling through countless of timelines where she had to actively assess and participate. that's why it's cool to see her being silly and having fun giving guidance, passively exploring and watching other people do their parts.

and yet the joy of her freedom makes it hard to explore further introspection. if we take her by her word, she'd already come to terms with the hurt she's been through and forgiven those involved.

i can't help feeling attuned to how impersonal and detached it can be, to devote and meld your identity so completely with your designated position as Maid of Time until you've become hard for your old friends (and even some readers!) to personally connect to.

idk post-canon but i assume there’s some degree of similarity to be bridged here with aradia's god tier and how the hs2 humans' Ultimate forms was described as a consolidation of all their possibilities. since aradia's classpect is inherently of service to Time, going god-tier may have elevated her beyond personhood with the "game construct" possessing her entirely. sollux doesn't realize the extent of it bcs he's still mortal, but a part of him may have subconsciously understood this.

i think there is a core aspect to aradia that was lost to the dehumanizing glory of god tier — a core aspect that may have contained an element of why sollux enjoyed talking to her in the first place.

to him, aradia hadn't just been a nice girl, she was a cool girl. despite not having much in common, he's still willing to chill next to her so she's not alone while she does what needs to get done.

back on alternia, they held a mutual and equal-level regard for each other that could've definitely settled into something permanent. but now, he's placed himself in a position where he can be kept around or left behind at will. the parameters of the relationship are largely in aradia's court, so any label she suggests to identify their relationship with he's likely to accept.

but that's why it's so difficult to label it. because god tier aradia may not necessarily Want quadrants or relationship labels. rather than the initial romantic attachment, their commitment to each other had evolved into one fundamentally of companionship.

no label? ok fine. no matter what, he still thinks she's a good soul worth latching on to. the best, actually. aradia > everyone else.

even if it gets stilted at times. there's an unexpected struggle to connect when sollux's go-to default for talking points is his feelings about things, and aradia may not want to talk about emotions all the time.

not to mention god tier aradia became an observer, especially of chaos. but sollux's avoidance of involvement comes partially from his innate pressure to get involved if something goes wrong. and he can't always tell when something goes wrong, because aradia doesn't mind if things go wrong anymore.

it's a non-negotiable preference that causes them to take the occasional time apart, a new boundary that wouldn't have existed before the game and aradia's god tier.

but just like how his friends tolerated his moods, sollux accepts aradia as she is. with no quadrants, their connection doesn't break down because there's no implicit romantic expectations to be disappointed by or resentful over.

sometimes when i see hs content that deliberately distances sollux from aradia, i assume this is the dissonance people might have felt. people might find it "easier" to be cynical about them bcs of this strange tension.

but idc lmao. grab that shit by the neck

lack of easy resolutions and cleanly tied ribbons is pretty standard of homestuck and imo it doesn't make arasol's dynamic any less incredible. with the right affection and consideration, there's still so much potential to develop the nuance of their relationship outside of the popular quadrant-based depictions.

hs has a lot of really great character compatibilities but the way aradia and sollux are in their own special orbit is why i can write this much about them in the first place. it's that frail innocence between first loves that makes it so sweet to me, two kids who grew up too fast playing guesswork without being clear where they're going.

ultimately i do think you're meant to feel a little tragedy for just how much they care for each other, even if they can't quite establish it in simple terms.

maybe they keep taking breaks to progress their own paths. maybe they remain as anchor partners while seeing other people. but even if you decide to separate them, they're still (awkwardly) texting each other updates all the while. and when they reunite it feels like coming home.

and well. more than anything, i like to believe that they do want to be exclusive.

they're just afraid. after all, they're still learning how to love, beyond the projections of the foursquare quadrant system they had inadvertently distanced themselves from since young.

they might not have everything figured out, but they'll get there eventually if you just hold them together and write them there.

optional post-canon segment:

one of the limitations of main hs is that (monogamous) relationships are often written as the go-to solution to wrap up character growth; it's an easy "patch" to imagine characters getting their happy ending because they have a partner, and those who don't end up with someone don't get that closure (most notably jade).

hs2 reaffirms this by suggesting that aradia's character cannot progress without letting sollux go, because happily settling in a relationship automatically locks your potential.

that pathetic panel of sollux staring emptily into the sky is still my fave hs2 spoiler ngl i find the impact of their parting so emotionally provoking precisely bcs they were written in original hs to be each other's forever, coming back together again and again

but now, they're subject to the decisions of the post-canon authors who might choose to deviate from that.

it's not new for them to part, but now there's an underlying worry that her dropping him off this time might be the last time. while i think the prospect of shattering their stability to make them grow separately sounds fun on paper, no amount of me desperately hoping for a good execution is gonna guarantee it

idk. i guess prediction-wise im expecting sollux in classic dramatic-hs2 fashion to tell dave to back off aradia LMAO. otherwise it's just gon be sollux and karkat pathetically watching aradia and dave from a distance swimming in their unresolved feelings for narratively-powerful time players smh obvs it sounds corny as hell but who knows its still plausible

srsly tho i hope they take the opportunity to develop arasol's relationship in a fresh direction that doesn't hurt me too badly...... and i hope they force sollux out of his comfort zone. i like watching him struggle :-)

[marypaol]

Piano Boy

Draco Malfoy x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader’s parents were invited to a meeting at the Malfoy Manor, and while exploring alone, she finds Draco playing the piano.

Warnings: Mentions of stress, carrying family burdens, numbness, sadness, nothing much just fluffy :)

Note: No use of Y/N-And also I had to write this one I totally picture Draco playing piano! 🫶🏻

___

Her feet softly patted across the floor, the fabric of her smooth dress surrounding both her and the floor as she made her way to an undecided destination. She went wherever her brain decided, since whenever she came across a corner she would randomly decide which to go: left, right, straight, or back where she came from.

She would never go back, though, but the thought of it being an option made her feel free. For the reason of never going back would prevent her from discovering more, for going back would only make her retrace her steps and see things she’s already seen.

A soft smile laid on her lips, for no apparent reason yet deep down she felt like it was because she felt content at the moment. And her and Merlin knew that it’s been a while since she felt so, the stress from school and burdens from her family heavy on her shoulders.

But all that changed when Mrs. Malfoy invited her family to tea, having a business meeting with her parents but they encouraged her to “wonder around” as if she was a little kid and they wanted to keep her busy. It worked, nonetheless, since her curiosity and wondrous mind got the best of her most of the time. She couldn’t help but smile as a way to say ‘excuse me, while I go explore.’

So she did so, practically skipping out of the room once she was out of sight, mind already spinning on possibilities of things she could see, could touch, (despite that voice she knew would be in her head telling her not to do so) and could think.

What kind things would be in the Malfoy Manor? Would everything be gloomy and mysterious like she assumed, or would things be darkly beautiful, calling her name to come closer until she found some evil chamber that revealed their cruel plans for the world of magic?

I hope not, though I assume they wouldn’t ever do that, she thought. She believed at that moment that the thought was just something that her mind was trying to make her think to make her afraid. But it wasn’t the time to be scared, it was the time to feel adventurous and free to whatever she wanted while her parents talked away on things she couldn’t understand.

Her eyes wondered along the walls, scanning over all the paintings displayed, eyes moving quickly because she wanted to soak everything in. She somehow feared that any time her parents would turn around the corner, telling her that it was time to depart, and she would no longer be able to look, so she took the time she had to admire everything possible.

She ended up stopping abruptly at a certain painting, hanging apart from the others and the table below it holding flowers in a vase as well as a tiny lamp for decoration, the soft light flickering a little bit, providing some sort of comfort to her, the lamp lighting up the painting in the most precious way.

What was the painting of, you may ask? The Malfoys, of course. But that wasn’t what stopped her, some normal family painting in their house. For it was the boy, the one that was one between the two adults, the one that actually had a smile on his face, despite the many snarls that beheld his lips in the past years she’s known him.

But the reason for the smile in the painting was because he was young, his face babyish as his pale cheeks scrunched up because of his mouth stretch of a smile. It made her heart warm at the sight of him, showing a smile that no one really got to see, which was a misfortune for the rest of the school; they deserve to see something so beautiful. His smile was so wonderfully painted, like the painter knew it was something that wasn’t shown often and they wanted to highlight every aspect of it, every beauty piece; which was every part of it. The paint brush strokes on the painting were so delicate, her fingertips brushing over the texture of the paint beneath them, running over his green robes he was wearing. (She would touch the smile she loved so dearly but the painting was far too big, making her wonder how long they had to stand there for the painter to paint them, it must have taken so long.)

But as she looked on, she noticed that there was more family paintings for years that came and went, each one Draco’s face forming into the snarl he held today, each one his lips dipping deeper and deeper into a frown that seemed to permanently take over his facial features. She frowned herself as she walked, watching as pure happiness changed to fake happiness, to slight distraught, to numbness.

As her feet stopped at the most recent one, the one with the least amount of dust on the frame, the frown on her lips dipped so deep she could feel her cheeks hurting from the in normal movement. She knew he was slowly pulled away from pride and accomplishment, thinking back on watching in the Great Hall as his happiness slowly left him, something else, something darker, taking over his chest and taking home there for years to come. Her own chest hurt, thinking about the pain he must be in.

“He’s just a boy.”

She overhead Mrs. Malfoy saying that, not remembering when but sure that she felt just as bad for Draco as the girl did. In fact worse, he’s her son after all and she’s just a classmate that was in the same House as he was. She was sure he knew her name, he seemed to know every Slytherin’s name for the benefit of it, but they’ve rarely talked.

But she knew a lot about him just by sight and noise. But she wished to get to know the real image, not the fake image of his personality, before sadness took over his chest and before the frown took home on his lips.

She wished to know him.

Draco.

It was at that moment, that she heard soft music, piano, if you will, softly playing as if a quiet record was playing behind a closed door, as background noise to listen to to help one focus on something else that her thoughts were interrupted and the frown left her lips, replaced with a confused yet curious look.

She could no longer focus on the painting and thoughts running through her head, however, since the music distracted her from the gentle paint strokes in the frame on the wall.

Her feet stepped away from the wall, her knees hurting slightly from standing there so long thinking about the son of Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy.

The music was very soft she could barely tell where it was coming from, her ears almost playing tricks on her from using them so purely. She then noticed how it was around the corner, so her feet took her there, coming in contact with a emerald door, mostly closed leaving just a crack of light from

it being open slightly, the straight line casting on the floor beneath her giving her legs some warmth.

She knew the music was coming from inside the room, the soft keys being pressed so gently-almost hesitantly- as the unknown person played.

She leaned in closer subconsciously, ear angled toward the crack so she could hear the song at its best.

To her horror surprise, her head dropped a little too far and pumped into the door, forcing it open, more light blinding her as she stumbled in, skipping over her own feet. The piano instantly stopped playing, the last note abruptly ending as the person’s fingers quickly brought themselves up off the keys.

Her head snapped up to see the wondrous player that left her tranced to the room she was mistakenly standing in, to find the last person she thought would be playing the piano secretly while his parents talked to hers about business, using words neither of them would understand.

Her eyes widened at the sight. Draco was sitting on the bench, on an all black suit-even the tie was black- and pale hair pointing to and fro, like he was running his fingers through the strands that sat on his head.

His lips formed in both a surprised and annoyed snarl.

“What are you doing here? Poking around I see?”

On her part, she could unhesitatingly say that he sounded very irritated at the disturbance.

She swallowed her throat dry but spoke nonetheless.

“Yes- I mean no, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to bother. My parents said-“

“Your parents?” He said, interrupting her despite hes annoyance towards her when she did the same thing to him just moments prior. “Your parents are here?”

She was taken back both by being cut off and his confusion.

“Yes, why didn’t you know?”

Draco shook his head, locks swaying. “Does it look like I did?”

It was her turn to shake her head, looking around the room. It was gorgeous, just like the other rooms on the house but this one had a sense of comfort and melody; very fitting for a music room.

She looked over at him, and his hand was still on the keys, fingers fiddling with it like he had an urge to continue playing.

She found herself walking towards the instrument, leaning her elbows on it as her skirt fell into place at her ankles, the material cool against her tired legs.

She gazed at him as he watched her every move, wondering why she was still here when he clearly gave her signs he didn’t want to have company.

“Did you know that pianos are considered a member of the percussion family?” She asked gently, a soft smile on her lips.

His eyes glanced at hers before looking back at the white and black keys, fingers playing a melody that wasn’t a part of what he was playing earlier.

“No, I didn’t know that.” He mumbled, not seeming so annoyed anymore.

She smiled a little wider. “While now you do.” She said, careful not to leave fingerprints on the what looked like the freshly polished piano.

Draco noticed her slight discomfort, one because of her body weight switching from foot to foot, and two the simple movement of her doing so distracted him from the instrument in front of him.

He scooted over, hand patting the seat as she smiled, walking over slowly and sliding onto the emerald cushioned piano bench beside him.

She then watched as his fingers effortlessly played the instrument, his hands gliding across the keys as if it was water and he was pouring it into a glass, controlling ever drop so it wouldn’t spill everywhere. He had so much control over it, everything he told the instrument to do it would do it without another word.

She couldn’t help but admire, slightly dazed as his long fingers took over the once sitting in silence keys. The music flowed from it, the beauty of the music was all coming from his hands, and that amazed her.

He stopped, playing something that was a part if the song she just heard, and apparently it was incorrect despite it sounding wonderful, and he mumbled something under his breath out of frustration.

“I think it sounded exquisite, Draco. I didn’t know you knew how to play the piano.” She complimented, looking up at him.

His fingers halted their movements from the unexpected commentary and she took the opportunity to place her own hands on the keys, pressing whichever ones she desired and listened as the note came about into the air, spawning to life for her and his ears to hear.

His fingers came into her view, stopping her from doing anything else, and both confusion and hurt poured over her, wondering if she only annoyed him further.

It wasn’t until she felt the soft presence of his other arm around her, his other hand landing on hers as he placed her fingers on the keys accordingly.

“There.” He spoke soft, almost right into her ear and a deep flush washed over her, starting at the tops of her hair strands to her cheeks, deep in her chest, and straight down to her toes.

She then felt his fingers pressing down hers so she could play what he was playing. She smiled slightly, but the concentration on trying not to separate their fingers was the main goal on her mind at the moment.

Once the last note rang in the air, and his foot let off the petal beneath their feet, his hands left hers as his presence left her, and a cold wave flushed over her, leaving her wanting his touch back more than ever.

Silence took over for a couple seconds before she heard the music once again, this time a different song, and her eyes watched as he played.

The song sounded sad, like someone was deep into a headspace they couldn’t leave and was trying to find the light.

Her head dropped slowly, her temple landing on his shoulder, which tensed for a moment before getting used to the feeling of touch.

The soft music and his unique scent took over her, her eyes closing as she unwillingly took the time to rest.

It may have been her imagination, part of her dreams whirling with real life, but she thought she felt another head lay on hers in response, a soft smile stretching on her lips.

-Thanks for reading!

Ich liebe dich! 🩵🤍

[creatingblackcharacters]

“The Same Place as the Music” Lighting & Color

“Where is the light coming from?” “The same place as the music.” Andrew Lesnie, Cinematographer of LOTR

How & Why It's A Problem

If I had to summarize the frustration I have with this topic in one image, I'd use JeCorey Holder's (queer Black creative!) meme:

Now here's the thing. I'm not saying you have to be a master at lighting. I'm surely not. Hell, I still play around with lighting in my art in ways that aren’t the ‘most realistic’. You can’t ask me the technical explanations behind ‘color theory’ or 'contrast' without me doing some more reading. However… I don’t think anyone needs an art degree to understand this point:

We should be able to SEE your brown skinned Black characters!

I brought this up in my lessons about skin tones and blushing, and it applies with lighting as well. If all of your other characters have focused light and shadows, so should your Black characters.

However, this does NOT mean making them lighter-skinned!!!!

It's not funny nor logical at all to suggest that they somehow can't be seen like your other characters when you’re the one creating the piece. It's like a classic fifth-grade racist joke, “You blend in at night”. Har-de-har.

I was once rudely told to my face (well in the DMs) that a Black character that was completely Europeanized looked like that “because of the [sepia] lighting”. So I'm going to give you all, gracious readers, an example to show that that's not true.

This is Ana Flávia, Afro-Brazilian model! Gaze upon her beauty! Notice how in both of these filters, Ana did not, in fact, turn into a white woman! Because, my friends, that is not how that works! At all!

Here are some other examples of Black people in non-color lighting:

None of these people vanished from the frame just because there was no color. They didn't have to paint on lighter makeup to be captured by the camera. What do they all have in common (in this example)?

Lighting!

Now let’s discuss different ways to think about and potentially try instead!

What I want you all to keep in mind, is that the art you’re painting:

And I know that's silly right, like yeah no shit Ice, we knew that. BUT my point here is don’t be afraid to study photography, theatre, and staging for ideas. They actively work with light! It’s why I share so many images of models; it’s purposeful, focused staging of light with many of these compositions!

Brown-skinned Black people- brown-skinned people in general- GLOW in the light! Our skin reflects environmental light! There’s so much opportunity to play with that, and you can see different examples in those mediums.

Here are a couple articles of lighting in film focused on Black actors.

When lighting a person with dark complexion, the answer is not LIGHTENING THE SKIN, it’s understanding how light reflects off of dark skin.” -Nilah Magruder

Nilah Magruder (Black creator!) has an ENTIRE, thorough and wonderful essay on the topic, far better than I could give! She incorporates the use of cameras, lighting, painting, and more- so rather than be redundant here, I'm going to spotlight (ha see what I did there. It's okay, I know I'm funny) her and her explanation.

Incorporating Blackness in Color/Colorful Lighting

@dsm7 has an excellent and short visual explanation of how picking certain colors will lead to washing out or whitewashing Black characters, and how certain lighting and backgrounds (think the black and white photos on brighter backgrounds) will change the way their skin tone looks.

@nicosbighead has one of my favorite images on here, that shows how many different colors can still be used to convey the image of Blackness. Notice how all those pinks still worked?

@gaksdesigns has a beautiful picture here that I feel utilizes the light in a very minimal yet effective way to show highlights even on a palette that's fully brown.

This article approaches from a lighting perspective via filmmaking, but essentially Sade Ndya suggests instead of increasing the amount of light, change the color/lens of the light based on your character’s skin, as well as for the circumstances of the scene. They'll remain vibrant that way, and you’ll still capture what you need.

I know one way I do this on CSP (I think I’ve mentioned this but I can’t remember) is to use the Add Glow tool with the same or a similar shade of the character’s brown skin tone as a highlight under natural light, or maybe use different colors or filters depending on the sort of light on their skin at the time.

Here’s a reddit about it too, just because I know y’all value Reddit on here, and someone else discussed the topic that both Nilah and Sade discussed.

Is It Intentional?

There are going to be times where you intend for the light to be minimal. Maybe it’s a style choice. That should still show purposeful composition. Here’s an interview with famed Black director Ava Duvernay discussing the intentional darkness on Black actors in the prison scene in the movie Selma. To show that they're both trapped in prison AND that Martin is temporarily low on resolve- it's a part of the story that's being told.

I'm always talking about this: there is a difference between intention (and following through), and neglecting to think about it at all. And neglect isn't what we want, because often we can tell visually when it is- when an artist simply did not think to do it for one versus the rest.

Sidenote, on Youtube in the suggestions after Ava's interview, are also plenty of videos discussing lighting for dark-skin as well- why not take the chance to look?

Conclusion

We do not lack for light! We aren’t flat and lightless when you see us in life. It's actually a pretty awesome part of being brown-skinned. If you’re giving proper, flattering lighting to everyone else, give it to us as well. Study and experiment with ways to highlight brown skin.

You already know what I’m going to say. It’s going to take practice, same as anything else, because it’s the thought that counts, but the action that delivers!

[gkutfdvnn]

It had been quite the summer, some friends of mine had rented some new apartment and we all decided to chip in to wallpaper and paint all the different rooms. Though some of us complained that it was too hard a job and exhausting, I found that it was quite easy. The four rooms were shared between the six of us, first we would do the three bedrooms in groups of two and then the kitchen all together. Luckily I had been paired with Frank, he had already started his own painting business and walked me through every step, taking off the wallpaper before putting the new one with glue. Eventually Dylan, Bryan and Chris whom the apartment belonged to, and Jeff, to had asked for his help, after making sure I could finish alone. Eventually after three days we were all finished wallpapering and painting the bedrooms and decided to take a one day break. Mark complimented me on my work, stating that I had put the wallpaper perfectly on and that the paint looked great, jokingly asking if I would join his business. That's when Bryan and Chris chimed in, suggesting that we could finish the kitchen, against pay of course.

That's how Mark and I ended up doing the kitchen together, I didn't mind the extra money, and he seemed to be used to the job. Since he had already walked me through the different steps we were quick to work, we had plenty of time to hang out and chill. When it came time to pay, Chris suggested he could transfer all the money to Mark, who then could issue me a check. Just wanting to go home I promptly agreed and we left it at that.

That's when to my surprise I received a letter, with my check, through Marks business, stating me as an employee and worker. I sent him a short message explaining the mistake before heading out towards the bus station, leaving for my afternoon classes.

Mark's response came in the middle of the ride, apologizing for the mistake and joking that it wouldn't be so bad to have me as a worker, he then assured me that he would fix the mistake immediately. I laughed through my nose and thanked him, bending myself forward to grab what would have been my bag, except that in its place instead stood a big black gym bag. I looked to my left and to my right, maybe it had slipped to one side or the other while the bus was turning. There were few people sitting around me and my bag was nowhere to be seen. None of them looked like the gym bag could belong to them. That's when I noticed it had my name written on it.

Curiosity got the better of me and I opened the bag. Inside layed some well folded change clothes that seemed a bit too big for me. Some lunch and an axe spray. The smell of fresh paint hit me strong and I had to lift my head up to sneeze. At the same time my feet felt cramped inside my shoes. At first I stretched my legs thinking it would help with the pain. But then it seemed to travel up my calves and into my thighs. My brown shoes bulged and turned softer, lighting up before taking the appearance of beaten and used white sneakers. The shoes appeared slightly bigger yet both my feet seemed to fit perfectly. Next my calves and thighs cramped again. I spread them further apart helping with the pain as I noticed my legs taking a bit more space on my seat. My beige pants became looser and thicker, the texture changing from cotton to synthetic fabric. New thicker seams appeared above my knee and around the growing pockets giving them the same look as those pants Mark wore most of the time. The clean pants were rapidly becoming dirty and used, white splotches and streams of dried paint appeared on the cloth.

I looked around me worrying about what was happening to me, but none of the other passengers seemed to notice or even bother as my whole body changed. I caught my reflection on the windows, my black hair was lighting and gaining a brown hue as it shortened and thinned. More changes happened to my face, my jaw got thicker and my noise pointer and thinner. The blue of my eyes vanished behind a beautiful rich brown as memories of my life were altered. Knowledge about economics, politics and sociology faded while I could remember working for Mark. Tattoos grew on my right arm as both my upper body and biceps grew firm. My hands and finger were wriggling as they grew thick and calloused making it look like I did a lot of manual labor. That's when it hit me. Mark was actually making me one of his employees ! I scrambled for my phone as fast as I could, finding in its place a smaller and older IPhone with earpods, I swiped across the screen and opened my messages as most of my known friends had simply vanished from my contact lists, I couldn't even find the last conversation with Mark. That's when it hit me. He must be the one labelled as "Boss".

I wanted to press on the writing symbol, yet I froze. It didn't make sense for me to write my boss out of the blue, except for emergencies. I closed my phone again and spread my legs apart as I lifted my arms to put them behind my head. A tan complexion washed over my skin as I closed my eyes to listen to the music. All I had to worry about was doing a good job.

[everparanoid]

For you, I'd steal the stars w/ Wriothesley

Modern Teyvat Au! Wriothesley x f! reader

cw: fluff, minor hint at soulmates.

word count: 3.5k

𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠...

╭────────────────────────╮

Wriothesley couldn’t recall how he found himself standing on an unimportant cyan Tuesday afternoon in Autumn, staring at a painting in the Fontaine National Art Gallery not too far away from his office. The painting, Wriothesley reckoned, couldn’t be any larger than two sheets of parchment and yet it hung alone in the centre of a white room. A masterpiece of simplicity. Above him, a giant white ball spun in slowed motion as plain as the rest of the room, a compliment to the art. The canvas however was a deep navy blue, the same shade as the night. Covering this deep blue were speckles of white, spontaneous in their positions. Some gathered in clustered constellations unknown to man. Others, singular. In the middle a golden speck shone, overwhelming the image the longer he stared. He stared and stared until it appeared to be shooting out of the blues and whites and filling his vision. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why such a simple concept had moved him. Why an image alone in a room far away from all the other extravagant displays of artistic prowess had managed to give him such peace; for in the time that he had been staring at the image—lost to time and the world—he had experienced a thousand lifetimes. He’d been everything; from a small sapling to an ancient oak tree; from a huge wolf to a small squirrel; from a primordial narwhal to a tiny transparent fish swimming in the bottom of the darkest blue seas. He’d experienced nations crumbling and rising again and loves that transcended time and space. All beautiful. All but a millisecond in the eyes of the vast universe.

“To you in every universe,” an unknown voice said.

“Huh?” Wriothesley responded, his attention stolen. His reality returned to the same bleak normality which he had just escaped.

You nodded to the painting, “That’s its name.”

He stared at you with an uncertainty reserved for strangers. He hadn’t heard your footsteps as you entered the room nor had he seen you stop beside him, and yet here you were. A stranger. A golden fleck in his blue world.

“Are you interested in it?” You spoke using a soft tone that Wriothesley particularly liked. He hadn’t heard a voice like yours before. He hadn’t heard much past the same blue tones of business tycoons and wannabe entrepreneurs who wished to fill his and their pockets with mounds of green. Being a successful CEO of a Fortune 100 made one lose the many colours of life to shades of blue and green. At the end of a long day, he often found himself wondering what the sun might look like beyond the aeons of blue.

“In what, sorry?” he responded, confused.

“The painting.”

He noticed your name card pinned to your collar announcing you as a member of staff from the gallery.

“Oh, yes. I am,” he said almost sheepishly; his interest was still new to him. Wriothesley always prided himself on his curiosity though he’d never thought himself to be one interested in art. Yet on that random Tuesday when his assistant had got his meal wrong, he’d found himself wandering into the art gallery as if compelled by some supernatural force. “I’ve never seen this before.”

Wriothesley was sure that if he had known such a masterpiece was here, he would have come to see it.

“It’s new,” you said.

“Ah, I see.”

He felt your eyes linger on him for a second before you continued. “Most people are disappointed when they pay the five thousand mora to get past the security only to see this.”

He supposed objectively that he could understand why. If one was hoping for a room of mirrors or a light show they were bound to be disappointed. Then again five thousand mora did buy a meal deal at the local supermarket. But what was five thousand mora to him?

“How long has it been here?” he asked.

“As of right now?” you appeared to be looking up as if calculating, “Three weeks.”

“And how are the numbers?”

“At first people came for the exclusivity and the curiosity. But because the artist is anonymous, they didn’t advertise their art. It’s their thing, I guess. A sort of authorless art. I think it lets people project more. You know? Imagine themselves as the artist…”

Wriothesley did know. Even as a successful man, more than half of the projects happening in Fontaine were due to his discreet puppeteering. He did not like the limelight. He’d make appearances here and there but the people who needed to know him knew him, and those who didn’t could read the credits. It was his philosophy that one didn’t need their face everywhere to do their job.

 “But now… I guess we are lucky if we get twenty people in a week. There is other interesting stuff to look at in the gallery so…” your speech faded off.

Wriothesley hummed in acknowledgement.

“Honestly, there aren’t many people that show true interest in this piece,” you continued.

He could feel the excitement seep from your pores like solar flares, and he almost found himself stepping closer to absorb its heat.

“Do you want to know about it?” you asked suddenly.

Buzz Buzz.

“No,” he hesitated, glancing down at his phone. “Thank you.”

Your shoulders dropped but your smile remained.

“It’s okay.”

“Perhaps another time?” He found himself saying. He hadn’t known why he had proposed that. He had no intentions of coming back. He didn’t have the time to come back. To see; to stop; to experience, but he would. He knew that he would. Even if he had to make the time. He’d return in hopes of experiencing that feeling once more.

#

On a random cerulean Tuesday in Winter, he returned. It had been two months since he first witnessed the painting. Once again, he had wandered into the art gallery during a lunch break. And once again, he stood in the empty room. Alone. Lost in a dream within a dream. This time, as he stared into the painting that had once again entranced him, he became a blade of grass growing next to a beautiful flower. Watching it; admiring it; loving it. He couldn’t understand why in every instance you seemed to seep in. He didn’t know you, and yet it felt like he’d seen you in everything since that day.

‘A moment where time stops, worries fade, and everything feels right. That is the feeling we are chasing. That is the feeling we must never stop searching for. In those moments, I will recognise you in every lifetime. Across every state of being. My heart will seek out yours like eyes do at night, in search of a northern star. I will seek you in every beautiful thing. To you in every universe—’

Wriothesley leaned back, perplexed. The plaques lining the walls of the white room and under the ball held no information about the artist. What had it meant? He couldn’t fathom the thought of something so abstract.

“It’s you,” that same voice from before said from behind, tearing Wriothesley from his thoughts. He didn’t need to turn to know that the owner of the voice was you. Your silent presence had a magnetic quality, pulling him in without him realising it, and suddenly there you were, standing beside him.

“Hello,” he said, though the greeting felt insufficient when he laid eyes upon you. He couldn’t decide whether you had grown more beautiful, or his memory hadn’t held up the splendour that took his breath away when you stood with that genuine smile on your face, and your hands tucked into the pockets of the blazer you wore. You looked like a painting yourself, like something that had just stepped out of a Constable landscape and wandered into the gallery. An angelic apparition. You had a gentle sway to you like you couldn’t stand completely still. Wriothesley wondered if a gust of wind were to blow through the white room, would it blow you away too, like a leaf flees a tree in a breezy morning?

“Did you experience something different this time?” you asked.

Wriothesley’s features darkened. You couldn’t possibly see into his mind, and he wasn’t one to wear his emotions on his face. He’d learnt not to.

“Have I been standing here for a while?”

You shook your head. “No more than ten minutes.”

He blinked.

“It felt like longer, right?” you asked, cheerily.

“A lifetime,” he admitted, his voice softening.

“It does that.”

“Should I leave? Am I holding up the line?”

“No, you’re good,” you said. “No one comes here anymore anyway.”

You turned to the painting. It hadn’t changed, and yet for Wriothesley, the beauty of it seemed to spill out of the edges and illuminate you. Golden. Flickering. He found himself stealing glances at you, an intriguing stranger who had effortlessly piqued his interest. An intriguing stranger, who he only knew the name of and nothing else. Unconsciously, he leaned toward you, and you did too, as if pulled into each other’s gravitational field.

“Why is it alone?” he asked.

You stepped back and looked up at the giant white ball above, spinning in slow circles, and then to the plain white walls in the otherwise stark room.

“It’s not alone.”

“But it is,” he snapped, growing quite annoyed with his inability to understand your abstractness.

Wriothesley liked answers. Puzzles were fun, and they had their place in his world, but answers were like keys to locked doors.

“What makes you think that just because there is a singular piece in a room the whole place is not art?”

His brows furrowed.

Your smile widened as you turned to the painting. “If this room was filled with paintings, would you have noticed it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

He didn’t have time for this, but he couldn’t seem to tear himself away from you and your questions.

You took another step back, and Wriothesley watched you as you stopped directly under the giant white ball this time. With an open hand outstretched to him, he gathered that you wanted him to join you in the centre of the room. Eventually, he took one long step, and then another till he stood closer to you but not beside.

You lowered your hand.

“Let me put this another way for you, when you sit in your—” you looked him over, “meetings, and you attend your fancy work dinners, do you notice all the art around you? The furniture, the architecture, the choices made by your colleagues to look expensive. Do you stop to take it all in or does it become lost in singular shades of monotony?”

Wriothesley pictured the blues and greens of his life but dismissed the idea of you understanding his thoughts. “You don’t make millions by not noticing.”

You shrugged. “But you do become numb to it.”

“Correct me if I am wrong, but you’re saying that the whole room is art?”

Wriothesley couldn’t say that he was fond of modern art, but he did appreciate that it had a time and place.

“This room, stark and colourless, is as much a part of the painting as the painting itself. Without the painting, the room remains devoid of colour, but with it, the room comes to life. It’s as if the artist intended the painting to be a guide in an otherwise monochrome world. By which, you who see it realise that the painting was never confined to the canvas. But can see the beauty of the entire world, in all lifetimes, across universes. Or maybe it is something completely different, art is subjective after all.”

“To you, the world must be a beautiful place,” he mused aloud.

“And yours is not?”

He chuckled, “I can assure you it’s not as vibrant as yours.”

“What makes you think that mine is vibrant? What if mine is like this room? Bland and empty.”

He wouldn’t believe it, but then again, he wouldn’t not believe it either. It was always the people with the brightest souls who hurt the most.

“I’ll do you one better. What if it’s mine?” he asked.

“Are you seeing your golden star right now then, mister?”

“It’s Wriothesley, and maybe.”

Wriothesley noticed your eyes widen briefly before you suppressed a small smile and took a step back. “Well Wriothesley, I’ll have to agree. It is yours. It’s your mind, your world. The painting is your universe. At least that’s how I think the artist intended it.”

“There is no artist,” he said.

You tilted your head to the side slightly and clasped your hands behind your back.

“There always is,” you said and glanced back at him before returning to the painting. “If you have the time to hear about them, I will gladly tell you.”

In his pocket, his phone rang, filling the silent room. His time was up once again.

“Next time,” he said.

A sadness flashed across your eyes before you smiled.

“Sure,” you said.

#

A month passed, and the sad lingering look in your eyes haunted Wriothesley through his blue days. Green still rained from the sky, but every time he caught a glimmer of gold passing his office or on the street, he’d imagine it was you.

On a random Wednesday in Winter, one that felt more azure than usual, Wriothesley came again to the gallery. But this time, the white room was filled with modern paintings. Gone was the white ball and the night sky painting, and you. Gone was the security guard who would grumble every time Wriothesley dropped a small wad of mora in the man’s hand to let him into the paid exhibit. In its place, people heaved; phone cameras flashed and made snapping noises as they posed before the art, hoping to add it to their social media feed. Wriothesley didn’t enter the room; he couldn’t. He didn’t like crowded places, and none of the art was of interest to him. And none of them were you.

Wriothesley cleared his throat and straightened his tie as he approached the help desk by the entrance of the gallery. Behind it sat an older man, staring down at his mobile phone, humming along to a Vocaloid song that played in his earbuds. Beside him, a younger man, barely eighteen, who looked excited at the possibility of not staring into space any longer, waved Wriothesley over.

“Can I help you, sir?” the young man said. His name card, Timmie, glimmered under the artificial light.

“Yes, I think you can,” Wriothesley began. “There was an exhibit here about a month ago. One with a singular painting in it—no artist.” He wanted to ask about you but thought better than to do that.

“No artist?” Timmie asked.

“Yes, no artist.”

Timmie rubbed the back of his neck as if he couldn’t comprehend the idea of an exhibition without an artist.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I am.”

After apologising quickly, he began typing aggressively at his keyboard. Typing and then deleting and typing again. Presumably, he was bringing up the list of art that had been exhibited over the last year. Wriothesley waited, tapping his foot, and watching people pass, nodding at the occasional person who stared.

“I’m sorry, Sir, I can’t seem to find the exhibit you are talking about.”

Wriothesley frowned.

“Oh? But it was here last month?”

“It’s not showing up on my files without an artist’s name unless you remember the name of the piece?”

“To you in every universe,” Wriothesley said, remembering only the colour of your eyes and the gold aura that seemed to follow you. He was sure he’d remember that name until all the stars left the sky.

Timmie typed it out, and for a second, Wriothesley had hope. Until Timmie looked up and said, “Oh, that. It’s moved temporarily to the International Modern Art Gallery in Inazuma.”

“Inazuma?”

Timmie nodded.

“As has the artist,” His eyes widened. “Who would have thought? She’s one of our own.”

Wriothesley perked up at the information.

“Did you happen to have her name by any chance so I might look her up?” Wriothesley asked, trying to mask his desperation with cool indifference.

“I mean if you want,” Timmie said.

#

In the art shop attached to the gallery on an emerald Friday, more than a year later in Spring, Wriothesley found you assisting an elderly woman, wrapping a print of a painting. He paused, captivated by the sight of you. You were even more stunning despite the time passed and in comparison to the modelesque women he saw in his everyday life. Your beauty, accentuated by the soft lighting of the shop, and your radiant smile, seemed to light him up inside. He lingered amongst the shelves waiting for you to finish up with the elder woman, who was eagerly telling you about her seventh great-grandchild, to which you seemed to listen with just as much interest. He found himself mirroring your joy as he admired you until he stumbled upon a postcard of the piece he had spent months searching for. The one that had moved to Inazuma, then to Mondstadt, then to Snezhnaya, Sumeru, and Natlan, till he bought it at an auction, white room, giant spinning ball, blue painting, plaques, and all. In this picture, the last plaque was too small to be noticed, just as it had been when he’d stared at it both times in person. But he knew it was there, the final part of the collection of plaques. And the full name of the exhibition.

When the elderly woman left, he approached you, his eyes locked on you who had become his universe.

You looked up and smiled, “It’s a beautiful piece,” you said, gesturing to the postcard in his hand.

“It is,” Wriothesley replied, his gaze fixed on you rather than the inferior postcard print. Nothing could compare to the real thing. “But the exhibition has gone.”

“It has,” you confirmed. He was sure you knew that it was him who bought it. It wasn’t hard to figure out, he was obvious despite his outward coolness.

“Are you leaving too?” he asked, a hint of concern in his voice. He had thought you were a dream. You’d been gone for so long that he feared he would have to wait a lifetime.

“Why?”

“You weren’t here,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual.

 “I was volunteering at a cat shelter,” you lied. “Did you miss me?”

“Mildly,” he responded, though he too was lying.

“Only mildly?”

He laughed, “Okay, maybe a bit more—”

“Just a bit?” you interrupted, your eyes sparkling.

“I missed your commentary,” he admitted.

“My commentary? Wow,” you said, feigning surprise.

“Oh? Not enough for you?”

You shook your head, your eyes dancing with mirth. He pretended to think, but in truth, he was searching for a simple way to express such complex emotions.

“I missed your sunny presence,” he finally said.

“My sunny presence?” you echoed.

“Are you going to keep repeating everything I say?” he asked, unable to suppress his smile.

“Maybe,” You leaned forward on the counter, your intelligent eyes tearing down his icy walls. “What have you been up to? Aside from missing me, of course.”

“I just abandoned a meeting to chase after a shooting star,” Wriothesley confessed, for once wearing his heart on his sleeve.

“And? Did you catch it?”

“Half of it,” he affirmed. “When does your shift end?”

“I’m just finishing. Why?” you asked, curiosity piqued.

“I was wondering if you’d like to grab a coffee with me?” he proposed, hoping he wasn’t too late. He’d already blocked off the rest of the night. He’d block off the rest of the year if he knew he’d get to spend it with you.

“I don’t like to drink coffee this late.”

“Tea, then? With dinner? I would love to hear about the artist of that piece. What was its full name again? For the painting and the room.”

“To you in every universe—” you began.

“For you, I’d steal the stars,” he finished. “Very sneaky of you by the way.”

Your lips parted as you took in a breath.

Wriothesley could feel every nerve in his body fighting to touch you, to be closer to you. You who brought gold into his monotonous world. You who he’d steal all the stars in the universe to be closer to.

“You know I never believed in coincidences,” Wriothesley said.

“Neither have I,” you said.

“I learned a long time ago that if you want something you have to fight for it. So, no pressure of course, but does tea and dinner sound good?”

Your grin was a small act that set his night sky ablaze with more glimmers of gold. To him, the shop couldn’t be filled with any more colours than they were then. Gone were the shades of green and blue, washed away by a spectrum of magnificence; where suddenly he was him and you were you, existing in the same universe.

“It sounds perfect,” you said.

╰────────────────────────╯

KO-FI MASTERLIST