#Canvas Salon & Studio

[amnakhansalon]

Best Salon in Lahore: Canvas Salon & Studio

Lahore, the heart of Pakistan, is renowned for its rich culture, vibrant lifestyle, and fashion-forward citizens. In such a dynamic city, finding the best salon in Lahore can be quite challenging, given the myriad of choices available. Among these, Canvas Salon & Studio stands out, offering unparalleled beauty services that cater to the diverse needs of its clientele

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Yandere Brother Pt 3

Tw: suffocating unbearable love, violence, general yandere, female reader shenanigans, infantilization, and of course incest. also christmas

minors and ageless blogs dni please <3

click here for part 1 and part 2

Click here for my new oc Yves (PLEASE READ IT I LOVE YVES)

plotholes and emglish errors everywhere and i could not be bothered :100emoji: please dont point it out thanks xoxo

Caught the Covid fuk now i cant leave my bed im so damn sick and pukey all the time, i dont fuckin know where my roommate is but at least they're not here to get infected, feeling like a busted up rustbucket rn

So this was originally written last year, couldnt find what else to write but this christmas time is perfect, so like dont mind the shoehorning of Christmas somewhere in this fic

You're having your summer break and you plan to pick up on a new hobby. Crocheting, perhaps.

Fuck, your brother picked up your search history from his spyware. Now you're left to deal with $1000 worth of wonderful quality crocheting materials and your big brother being your personal crocheting mentor.

This is where it gets frustrating. Yes, if you have the resources, you would enjoy your hobbies more. But, just like... What if you didn't like crocheting in the end? You're stuck with all these.

It happens to every single potential hobby. Stamp collecting? Your big brother will bid to the death for an extremely rare stamp from the 1900. You're not even fucking collecting the stamps, the stamp book already comes arranged with all the stamps ever produced. A collection that would only give a hardcore stamp collector an instant orgasm upon sniffing it.

Nail art? Where the hell should you keep all the acrylic powders, fake nails, drills and drill bits? Not to mention the dizzying numbers of nail polishes, nail brushes, nail stickers and cuticle sticks. Of course, your big brother is going to hire a professional nail artist to make sure you're practicing your hobby safely while he's learning how to do it himself, so he could replace your mentor too. He would become so skilled that he could qualify to open up a 5 star nail salon. But he's not interested unless you are.

Painting? you absolutely do NOT need all of those tubes of paint. The difference in shades for some of them are so small that you mistook it for the same colour. You would have a headache choosing the right type of paper, right type of primer and right type of fixative to use.

Are you having troubles on painting? Let big brother teach you. You would sit on his lap as he guide your hands across the canvas. Don't you think his warm hand enveloping yours feel nice? Doesn't his free hand feels nice sensually rubbing your thigh? Don't you just feel protected in his hold?

Makeup? Same situation with your nail hobby. You're essentially being babied by him and experienced celebrity makeup artists, you would drown in a mountain of eyeshadow palettes, primers, setting sprays, skin care products, anything and everything related to makeup.

Every instrument ever? Big brother would insist lovingly providing all the music lessons you need. He is a musical prodigy after all. If it's something ridiculously obscure like a Glass Armonica or the Theremin, big brother would master it in a couple of weeks, earn a fucking pHD in it and THEN teach you. No instrument is too expensive or hard for him. Your big brother is crossing his fingers HARD for you to have this hobby.

Chess? Oh, he is also a prodigy in it. He could teach you. Your chess pieces would be custom made to your liking, by the way. It would be the perfect density, perfect size, perfect texture for you. He knows what you like and you hate that.

Sports? Take a look at his "achievement room". It's filled to the brim with golden medals and trophies of every sport competition ever. He's not leaving you alone for this one.

Pottery? Welcome to your very own personal pottery studio, furnished with all types of drying racks, ovens, kilns, turntables and equipments you have never heard of. Big brother is always there to supervise you, making sure there won't be any accidents.

Cooking and baking? You get to have an industrial sized kitchen all for yourself. Everything is decorated such that it looks like you would be on television, starring in a cooking show. You don't need to clean anything, or prep anything, or actually do anything, really. There's a team of professional chefs and assistants to do everything for you. They're paid to cheer and clap and celebrate when you pour cake batter into a pan.

Gardening? Well, there's a massive plot of fertile land for you to garden to your heart's content at the house he bought as your 18th birthday gift. If you want a big project, it will be done overnight. You wouldn't hear the gigantic machineries and vehicles tumbling about due to the soundproof walls he installed. No one would be able to hear you both either, doing god-knows-what inside.

Video games? Your big brother personally do not encourage you to pursue this. But... Nonetheless, he would spoil you rotten with all the latest gaming consoles, limited edition merchandises, pre release copies of your favorite game franchises and whatever your gamer heart desires. All at a hefty price of... Daily cuddles and kisses. And you also have to move in with him. And he gets to decide what game you're playing, if he deems it a "bad influence"? It is not staying in his house.

You rather not.

Nothing is fun because the fun parts are already done for you. You don't get to experience the highs and lows of picking up a hobby, you don't get to explore and experiment. You're literally cursed with luxury.

So imagine your boredom, stress and paranoia during summer break. All your friends are spies for your brother, your hobbies aren't even "yours", leaving your house would inevitably lead you to your brother and all digital footprints are heavily scrutinized by him too. No privacy, no autonomy, all monotony.

You juggled three smartphones at once. Throwing one up in the air, catching the other one with your dominant hand, throwing the last to your other hand. Who gives a damn if one, or all of them breaks? It's riddled with spyware and your big brother would buy you every time a new model is released anyways. Which is... A new phone, a month?

You stopped caring where he gets the money. Obviously he has an assload and can afford to wipe his ass with thousand dollar bills regularly.

It's summer break. One last resort to try and spend your time like a regular ol teenager is taking up a part time summer job. There is a wide variety of jobs to choose from with your qualification. Granted, it's minimum wage and mostly customer service.

If you work as a barista, the cafe or juice bar you'll be working at will LOVE the crap out of you.

Your older brother will visit daily and increase their sales tenfold. Of course, he would pick the drinks that you like doing. It's okay if you fucked up, its only your beloved big brother's order, you can add as much sugar, salt, pepper, cyanide as you want. He will never yell at you, never tell you that you made anything wrong or never even die.

The management will suddenly see a surge in daily customer count. Thanks to big brother's networking. And like him, they also will accept anything you make with no complaint... As per his instructions. You could go full on ridiculous and give them a cup of ice drizzled with strawberry scented dish soap and call it Tutti Frutti, they would still pay for it and take it with them. Though, you're not sure if they ever consumed anything from you.

Without fail, your brother would visit you during every break and hand you your meal along with a kiss on the forehead or the cheek. He would bring you out to eat but you would refuse everytime. You also didn't want his company, which made him pout and whine without fail. But it's nice that he would actually back off after the sixth "no".

However, you know that fucker is watching you from a hidden camera somewhere in the nooks and crannies of whatever breakroom you're resting in.

He would engulf you in a big hug when you get off work, telling you how proud he is of you for getting through another workday like a champ. Praising you for all the hard work and excellent performance, making sure to soothe and comfort you if you happen to come across a rude customer earlier in the day.

You try not to think too much about their fate.

You will be fed, bathed and loved after every shift.

Hell, he would even build up a company from scratch just to hire you. Any position you want, barista, manager, cashier, back office work, janitor- you name it, you get the "job" and get paid a pretty penny. All your other coworkers and customers are probably paid actors and actresses to simulate a "real life working experience" safely. He controls it all, making sure you have just the right amount of drama, the right amount of diplomacy and the right amount of gossiping. You're rarely pushed out of your comfort zone, though. Big brother always has your safety and best interests at heart.

Of course, he will never tell you all of this, to keep the immersion going. You're going to feel sad that you're not exactly experiencing reality. But a bastardization of it. Might as well star in a trashy reality TV show instead, at least, it's much more authentic than whatever your big brother has going on for you.

He doesn't need to even tell you though. You would pick it up easily and quickly especially if you already watched the Truman Show. Don't tell him you did, god help you if he ever gets an inkling that you knew about the existence of the Truman Show. He deemed that movie as demonic propaganda and he needs to lecture some sense into you. If you want out, just say that you're 'bored' and want to do something else. Your big brother will gladly drop everything and do anything in his power to help you "achieve" what you want.

But for the sake of "plot" in this latest installment, you agreed to work in a quaint little bubble tea stall. Where you're the only employee, making drinks for whoever is ordering in front of the shop's decorated window.

Of course, your big brother miraculously happens to work in a nearby skyscraper as one does. It's not that you didn't do your research, you were a hundred percent certain he didn't work in that building, because that fucker never goes to work... At least, physically. Perhaps he does his job, whatever that may be, through online means.

You were planning to use your bicycle to get there that you got yourself with "your" money. He never bought you a car or a bike or anything that would get you around, he saw it as something unnecessary. Why would you need it when big brother is available 24/7 to bring you anywhere?

Actually, you could have gotten yourself a car with the allowance he gives you every day for being cute and adorable, and being patient with his incessant kisses and hugs and cuddles and love and touches and his fucking insanity in general.

But you know that he's going to kick up a massive fuss about driving alone. It was hell to even get your license with him actively trying to sabotage you at every exam- which includes him stooping so low to bribe the examiner to fail you. However, you persevered, and you got that stupid license. All the while, he was lamenting about how you're going to leave him all alone, how you don't need big brother anymore, how society pressured you to grow up too fast and recklessly drive off wherever.

You knew better than to fall for that. Or even entertain it either. Eventually, he gave up trying to guilt trip you into crying, apologizing to him and sobbing in his arms, promising that you won't leave him.

It's not like he DIDN'T kick up a fuss when you said you're using a bicycle either. He began freaking out about your safety, fearing that you might get run over.

Well. You admitted defeat. He's driving you to fucking work and back. It's not worth it to fight this battle.

So you began working in the stall. You had someone train you for your first 2 weeks. Then you were on your own.

The owner, who is also the person who showed you the ropes around there, said business isn't good, but it isn't bad either. So you didn't need to worry about rush hour where hoards of thirsty, sleep deprived office workers trample over each other to get their daily boba fix. It's pretty peaceful working there.

But what you do need to worry about, is your fucking big brother.

He would come and buy a drink, whichever you like to make. It can be the most expensive one, or the cheapest one, the most elaborate one or the simplest one. It's up to you, he will pay for it and happily drink what you made.

You could make him pay for the most expensive drink there is but serve him a cup of lukewarm water, and he would still drink it with glee and fork over his money, telling you to keep the change (which is usually a hundred bucks extra).

Let's say you want to be decent and make him drink that you know he would actually like. Which is anything that tastes generally fruity. And insist that you like making it even though it actually sucks.

He knows. He can tell that you're specially making his favourite drink. And that makes him happy and more obsessed with you if that's even possible at this point.

He would leave a massive tip and a kiss on your forehead.

Although your brother is fucking gross and weird like that, you still love him. Probably a bad idea but you're working so hard, trying your best to earn money honestly just to get him a Christmas gift.

Despite the restraining order between your parents and him, your brother is still invited back home each year to be jolly together. Preparations start a few days before Christmas, where you would see an unusual sight.

All of your immediate family members in the same room, or at least in the same house together without fighting to the death. Your dad's bones are intact, your mom didn't have her insecurities jabbed on for once. They're not exactly on speaking terms, per se.

You woke up one morning to see an... appropriate sized tree for your parent's house, erected in the middle of the living room. Adorned with beautiful ornaments and... are those pictures of you on the ornaments?

Wrapped presents were patiently sitting under the tree. There was a small box with your father's name on its tag, another small one with your mother's name on it. A decent sized box was addressed to your brother, must be a combined present from your parents.

Your shoulders sagged in defeat when you saw your presents took up the perimeter of the tree and even conquered the couch, the back of the couch and under the coffee table. You lost count after gift box #27.

Since everyone is in the kitchen, you quickly place the presents you got for your parents... and your brother.

You panned to the fireplace. Your Christmas stocking is filled so much to the brim that your brother must have added 5 more next to your original one. Your parents' and your brother's stockings are relatively empty. You stuffed them with candies and nuts to make them look less embarrassing.

You straightened your back, that should do it. Your ears perked up when you heard some clamoring in the kitchen. It must be your brother.

You let out a surprised yelp when you're yanked back by a pair of arms that snuck around your waist. "Merry Christmas, my little wittle precious baby!" You squeezed your eyes shut and scrunched your face as he attacked you with a barrage of kisses.

He giggled and squealed as he held you in his arms and twirled you around in glee. You let out a scream of horror as your feet dangle off the ground. He does this every Christmas morning when you were a child to wake you up further and get you excited for the holiday. But you're not a kid anymore, and this is horrifying.

Finally, he stopped and put you down. Your hair is frazzled and the world around you is gyrating. He squeezed you in another hug and gently rocked you side to side.

He immediately unlatched when you said you're hungry. Your big brother gleefully lead you to the dining table, where he fixes up a napkin around your neck like a bib. You asked him why is he tying a ribbon on your hair, he said that you are his Christmas present and he is spoiling himself this year.

Before you could respond, he gave you a brief peck on the head before frolicking away into the kitchen.

Your parents came out of the kitchen, greeting you. They're holding a tray full of steaming hot breakfast foods, no doubt your brother forced them to make it for you. Every Christmas generated a metric ton of leftovers. It's because your brother wanted you to try all of the foods from all over the world. But don't worry though, the leftovers could be so intact that it was given out to neighbors and friends and extended families. Some didn't even need to cook after that, the sheer amount of leftovers was enough to fuel ten more Christmas gatherings.

Croissants, quiches, various types of bread, eggs, ham, bacon even panettone made from scratch. Looking at the spread in front of you is dizzying, your big brother sets down the last plate right between your hands. It's a breakfast plate your brother customized to fit your usual preference, everything is shaped into a heart. He patted your head as he took a seat next to you.

Everyone ate in silence. Everyone was focusing on their own meal except... your brother. Who else would rather stare at you adoringly instead?

He asked if you wanted to go make snowmen outside. Not without proper winter protection, that is. You shrugged, it's not like you could escape your family anyway. Your friends are all busy with their own families, and you don't even have friends. Everything is closed and if you lock yourself in your room, your brother will just pick the fucking lock and force his way in.

Your parents tried making small talk, this earned a feral glare from your brother because it interrupted the connection between the both of you. They paid him no mind and began asking about your life. You tiredly replied to their questions and asked some back yourself, to try to find any sense of normalcy. Your brother would be disengaged with the words coming out of your parents mouth, but highly interested in what you had to say.

The rest of the morning went by uneventfully. You offered to help clear the table and do the dishes. Your brother just 'aww'd at you and gave you an appreciative kiss on your forehead. That wasn't an explicit yes, he appreciated the gesture, but he wouldn't allow you to dirty your hands doing chores.

He told you to wait for him to clean up. In the mean time, he gave you permission to open some of the gifts he got you. Frankly, you don't even want to deal with it at all, it's just too much crap. You decided to go through the stockings instead and grab some snacks for yourself.

As expected, he filled it with the most expensive treats and the freshest oranges. These types of foods are usually served in a formal setting, like eating gold crusted caviar at a 10 star restaurant, all dressed up in fancy clothes. But he just... shoved it in a Christmas stocking as if they're mundane chocolates.

Whatever, you shoved some into your pockets.

You turned around to see your brother smiling lovingly at you. He wrapped a puffer jacket around you, his scarf with his cologne on it, a pair of thick mittens on your hands , a winter hat snuggly fitted to your head, and a pair of thick pants he made you wear in front of him.

He picked one of your numerous christmas presents and handed it to you. He clasped his hands together expectedly as he watches you.

Your brother urged you to open it, go wild. Rip the wrapping to shreds. You felt so bad seeing how well wrapped it is and the quality of the wrapping paper is... indescribably good. It doesn't even feel like paper, it feels like silk.

So your carefully dismantled it, trying not to tear anything. You look up to see that your brother is pointing his camera at you, capturing this very precious moment. He encouraged you to go on.

You managed to remove the packaging and revealed a box of expensive winter boots. These are high quality and you would have been the source of envy even though most of your "friends" are also from wealthy families. Not everyone gets to have these.

You appreciate it but... You already had a pair of winter boots, the ones from last year, and the year before that. And the year before that, and a week ago where your brother is freaking out about you potentially having frostbite on your toes.

"It's the latest model! It was released as a part of a Christmas special, it will keep you warm and protect your feet too. It was selling out fast, I'm so glad I managed to get a pair for you, I can't have my sweetiepie sad on Christmas day!" Gushed your brother. You slipped them on.

You can't tell the difference between the one you had last year and the one on your feet now. Maybe some minor difference in it's stylistic design but... they're equally as comfortable.

You thanked your brother and finally gave him what he actually wanted from all this: a hug. He put away his phone and returned the embrace, sinking so deep into your jacket that neither of you can move without stumbling. You know he expected you to show gratitude for all his gifts through his main love language; touch.

It is exhausting.

After that, he brought you out to his private plot of land which he made into a park, complete with swingsets, monkey bars and slides. But these aren't for the public, it's for you. All the equipment are well maintained and look brand new even though you know it's been there for years.

He's not fond of throwing snowballs because it could hurt you. But he allows you to throw as much as you want at him. Even after the stunt you pulled last year.

You packed snow around a rock and hurled at him with all your might, it went straight to his head and his right eye was busted for months. Your brother didn't see that as something wrong, though. Even if you tried to apologize, he said that it was an accident and it was alright, he still loves you dearly and you did 'nothing wrong'. The first thing he did after recovering from his injuries at the hospital is to take you out for hot chocolate and then give you a backrub back home because winter could make your muscles stiff; and hence you must feel strained and sore.

He was still mildly bleeding from his gauze at the time, it was covering at least 70% of his upper head. Your brother was clueless when you asked if he needs any painkiller for his recent injury. He claimed to not feel the pain, but his wincing tells you otherwise. He rewarded you for your concern nonetheless with hugs and kisses and another massage.

You laid yourself on the snowy ground and started making snow angels. Your brother had his camera out and began capturing every moment he has with you.

You felt uncomfortable. And the cold is nipping at your bones even though you're thoroughly insulated by the sophisticated winter gear your brother made you wear. You're ready to go home now.

It shocked your brother and made him a bit desperate. He stammered and stumbled over his words, asking you if you wanted to play on the swing, build a snow man, play on the slides, the merry go around and... throw snowballs at him. Are you cold? He was in the middle of removing his own jacket to layer it onto you, but you stopped him.

You said you're tired. You don't find this fun and you're too old for this.

Maybe you're thirsty? He packed a flask filed with steaming hot chocolate for you- no? You're not thirsty or hungry? Maybe you wanted to use the bathroom-- no? You don't have to go?

He tried listing out all the possible reasons you wanted to go home and all its' solutions. Desperately wanting you to stop growing up so fast.

You got sick and tired of this, you yelled at him at the top of your lungs that you wanted to go home. You then stormed away towards the car, leaving your brother to stand there in silence, his camera capturing your explosive outburst.

Your brother saw you slamming the door angrily as you got in.

He sighed, gulping and hovering his finger over the delete button. But he ultimately decided against erasing the footage, it's still a video of you after all. Your brother assured that he's coming to the car, he wipes a stray tear away as he heads to his vehicle.

The both of you stayed silent as he drove you home.

Once you arrived, you bolted out of the car and ran back in. Locking yourself in the bedroom and barricading the door with random furniture. Hugging your knees close to your chest as you pray that your brother does not go after you by climbing into your windows.

And... he didn't. He left you alone for once. For a few hours too. It gave you the much needed relief, you felt like you could breathe now.

You're starting to feel a bit hungry. And you're hungry enough to be willing to face your older brother. So you began unbarricading, placing your dressers to it's original place.

You carefully unlocked the door, fully expecting him to be waiting outside for you. To your surprise, no one was in the hallway. You could hear some noises downstairs, in the kitchen.

You cautiously went down, the tree is still intact. Nothing is broken and there doesn't seem to be signs of a fight. You released a breath that you didn't know that you were holding, happy to know that you don't need to spend another Christmas at the hospital visiting your badly battered parents.

You whipped your head to the sound of your brother calling your name softly. He's holding a baking tray and a bowl, you can't tell what is in there because he's too tall. He smiled at you as he set it down on the dining table. The tray contained freshly baked parts of a gingerbread house and the bowl contained vanilla frosting.

You scanned the rest of the table. There are numerous small glass bowls containing different types of candy and snacks; from pretzel sticks to colourful chocolate rocks, to real gold leaves. Piping bags with metal tips are present too next to a box of plastic gloves.

Your brother pulled your chair out and invited you to sit there. You did, and he called you a good girl. His good girl. As you put on a pair of plastic gloves, he kissed you on the temple.

You asked where your parents are. He said that they're preparing the food for dinner, which includes ham and a roast turkey. And 15 other dishes.

You quizzed on, asking if there will be more people coming in. He shook his head: no. It's only the four of you. In the meantime, you should enjoy yourself building this gingerbread house. He puts on his own pair of plastic gloves too and began filling the piping bag with icing.

The two of you worked in peace, you opting to decorate the house while he pipes the details on the gingerbread men.

There is only two, a large one and a smaller one. You can guess which represents who.

You noticed the odd choice of attaching the small one to the large one's torso. With strategic use of the candies and frosting, he made it look like the larger gingerbread man is carrying the smaller one on its hip. He piped your defining features onto the baby gingerbread, and piped his features on the larger one.

He noticed you staring, your brother asked if you had a hard time connecting the pieces with frosting and if you needed his help. You said no, you just need a spatula from the kitchen. He tried to get up from his seat, but you pushed him back down, saying that you can get it yourself. He pouted, telling you to be careful and not touch the knives or stoves. Your brother went back to obsessing over the details on his gingerbread men.

You went inside the kitchen and greeted your parents who are busy cooking. You go through the drawers to find a silicone spatula and decided to help pick up some stray food scraps on the floor, throwing them into the bin. But as soon as you step on the pedal and have the lid swing open, you saw two crushed, but perfectly edible, gingerbread men in the garbage bin.

You returned to the dining table to see that your big brother is proudly presenting his work. He said this represents you and him... as if you already haven't figured it out. He said he dreams of having you live with him in a perfect fantasy house, fantasy world where you never have to grow up. And he will always be there by your side, taking care of you till the end of time. You will be pampered and spoiled rotten, you don't have to do anything, you don't have to lift a finger. Your big brother will do everything for you. He would even breathe for you if he could.

You nodded in acknowledgement, too tired to engage with him. You sat back down, continued with the gingerbread house. You failed to notice the flicker of sadness in his eyes, your brother felt so neglected and unwanted these few years. He wished that you were a kid again so the both of you could play together and be happy. The more he tries to win your favour, the more distant you get from him. He is endlessly chasing and you are running non-stop.

The rest of the afternoon went by uneventfully, other than the fact that your big brother rests his head on your shoulder the whole time.

Now, it's time for dinner. You tried helping them bring out the dishes, your brother praised you for being a darling as usual. He lets you have the first bite of the turkey, tearing a small inconspicuous piece of flesh from the bird and hand feeding it to you. It's still warm, juicy and delicious. Maybe it's the feeling of being special that makes it even tastier.

You chew as you brought out the casserole, setting it down on the table.

You looked at the spread. It looks like a buffet at a high end hotel. So many varieties and extremely nutritious.

Your brother fixed your napkin bib for you again and took food for you. Slumping in your seat, you were thinking of protesting but you knew it's easier to just wait for him to carve the best parts of the turkey for you and let the food pile up neatly on your plate first. He returned it to you, all your favourite dishes are on it within sensible portions. But these are still a lot of food for a person.

He didn't care about praying. Your brother wanted you to eat as soon as possible because you must be hungry. And it is absolute sacrilege to let you go hungry.

You insisted that you join your parents in saying grace and you're not that hungry. Your brother looks uncomfortable, still believing in his sick mind that you're starving to the point of emaciation. But since you are adamant in doing such 'pointless' things In his mind, he agrees, only if he leads it.

Everyone bowed their head down and held each others' hands.

Your brother said the shortest, most insincere, laziest grace ever. Once he fulfilled your requirement, he urged you to eat.

You're upset, you felt really angry and you thought he was mocking you instead. So you opted to eat alone in your room, you made it clear that you didn't want anyone in. Especially not your big brother.

He cried out a desperate plea to get you to stay with him. You ignored him and took a couple more of your favourite finger foods. Predicting a fight between your brother and your parents.

You wrenched your arm away from his powerful grip and fled the scene, hurrying up the flight of stairs. Only slowing down when you're out of sight.

As you thought, sounds of verbal fighting started resonating throughout the house. You heard your brother screaming his head off at your parents for being bad influences and poisoning you to hate him. Your parents defended themselves and this only fuelled the fire. You didn't want to be around when your brother started hurling chairs, so you slammed the door as hard as you could. The sudden loud noise did stop the commotion downstairs briefly. But it continued soon after.

You ate alone, in your barricaded room. Wishing that you're born into a 'normal' family, with 'normal' trauma. To a lot of people, you are complaining about a blessing. But you are always feeling alone, the only person facing a problem which everyone sees as a solution.

You scraped the last bits of food with your spoon. Waiting for the sounds of the ambulance or at least for the fighting to quiet down.

You looked at the clock. It's 1 AM. It's been relatively quiet for a while now, they should be finishing up their fight or cleaning up. Time for you to return your plate.

You grunted as you pushed the furniture away from your door which felt like the umpteenth time. You left your room and head downstairs.

Hearing soft sobs from one person, your brother. He's sitting in front of the tree, hugging the present you left for him earlier. The presents addressed to your parents are both missing, presumably being taken back to their room. A blanket is loosely draped around his shoulders.

You took slow steps, unsure if you should comfort him or not. But before you can even decide to chicken out, he spotted you. However, to your surprise, he didn't approach you or tell you to come forward. He gave you a soft assuring smile, before returning his attention to the tree.

You set your plate aside and went by his side. Your brother watched you with puffy eyes full of love, yet it tells you that he has been irreparably hurt by something... or an accumulation of things.

"Thank you..." He whispered, refering to the gift you gave him. It isn't something particularly valuable to you. It's a picture of the entire family in a photo frame. Your brother is going to cherish it, because it is a gift from the person he loves most in the world. But deep down, he secretly wishes that it was a photo of you and him alone.

He still looks extremely upset and distraught. Almost like he is at the brink of a breakdown. Your brother usually verbalizes what he wanted, but he couldn't this time.

You wonder what your parents got for him. You peeked over his shoulder to see that an unopened box containing a plain T-shirt and a pair of socks is carelessly discarded to the corner of the room.

Then, it clicked. Just like you, he felt alone. Maybe you will never understand why he holds you so dear in his heart. Just like how no one will understand him either, his struggles are unique to him with no one to relate.

He destroyed the relationship between himself and your parents. His friends are all superficial. You're grown up and constantly rejecting his love.

Not a single one of you paid attention to him. Yes, it is hard to think of a present for someone who has everything. But they could have put in a bit more effort, the colour of the shirt and socks aren't even in his favourite colour or in the correct size. You could have removed your parents from the photo, your brother will never remove it himself. Because that would mean defacing your gift for him.

And growing up, your parents never saw him as... a person. As someone with feelings and a personality. They only saw his value as a trophy piece to show off to their friends and family. Same goes to his friends now, if it wasn't for his skills and possessions, he would be nothing to anyone.

He had to beg to be loved. Even that isn't reliable, he could give it his all and everyone around him will expect more. Your brother could never dream of being the receiving end of his own affection. It seems like an impossibility to him.

Perhaps he is doing all of these despite getting nothing but disgust and disdain from you is all to protect your innocence, to not put you through what he had to face. It's just that he went about it the wrong way. Or maybe he is just... wrong in the head. Or maybe he was hoping by loving you so much, you would give him the intense type of love he was yearning for his entire life.

Either way, he is alone.

The both of you are now seated in front of the fireplace. You didn't want to open presents, your brother is okay with that. He did not nag you to do it for once. Snuggling closer, the both of you shared a blanket. He still looks unhappy and crestfallen.

You remember you still had the ribbon bow on your head.

He hovered his arms around you as you squirm in his grip. You managed to crawl into his lap and rest your head on his chest. He lets out a chuckle and some sniffles, clamping his arms back down around you.

You reminded him of one last gift. Your brother is confused until he saw your ribbon.

From that moment on, he burst into tears of joy. He found you so unbearably adorable, so unbearably cute that his heart couldn't take it. An excited squeak escaped his lips as he held you even tighter. Peppering kisses all over your face, neck and head.

He started blabbering in baby talk, calling you every pet name and listing out everything he loved about his 'gift'. Repeating that this is the best gift he ever received and this is all he ever wanted. You are all he ever wanted. Praising that you remembered what he loves.

You hope that he could feel a little less lonely tonight. You can't peer into his head and know exactly what is going on inside. But you knew, he was happy.

Your breathing calmed him down and he closed his eyes, nuzzling against your neck. The collar of your shirt wet from his tears and your arms are secure around him. Your brother mumbled "I love you." as he adjusted you on his lap. Pressing your form against his, enjoying the heat that the both of you shared. Wishing that this moment will never end and you will never part from him.

You realized another thing too as he strokes your hair.

Your older brother is the only person in the world who harbors true, undying, unconditional love for you.

Even though he has his flaws, there will be no one else like him. Ever.

So you closed your eyes and melt into him. Just like before, you felt safe.

The both of you fell alseep in front of the hearth, surrounded by gifts, mostly unopened ones. Snowflakes floating down from the skies and landing delicately at the edge of the roof. Feeling unburdened and content in the living room.

Merry Christmas.

[moonlitmistyforest]

Charles Giron - Femme aux gants, dite La Parisienne (The Woman with Gloves, known as The Parisian Woman) 1883 oil on canvas,  200 x 91 cm Petit Palais

Ready to go out, La Parisienne wears an afternoon dress whose jet embroidery and velvet applications enhance the intense black. The drapes arranged on the hips are inspired by the 18th century pannier dress, the art of which was then brought up to date by great Parisian collectors.

The presence of a gilded wooden console in the rococo style confirms the citation of the century of Louis XV, while the wall decoration of interlacing prefigures the floral sinuosities of Art Nouveau.

Simone Giron, who donated this large painting to the Petit Palais, was very familiar with this work, which her father, Charles Giron, always kept close to him. She states in the monograph devoted to the painter that he had met his model in Ville-d'Avray near Paris and nicknamed him the Black Diamond. It was this portrait of a woman buttoning her long gloves that Giron presented at the annual exhibition of the Société nationale des Beaux-Arts in 1883.

The catalogue of the retrospective exhibition presented at the Museum of Fine Arts in Bern in 1955 gives her the emblematic title of "La Parisienne", which is well suited to this elegant woman with a pretty, mischievous profile, highlighted by the hat covered with black marabou feathers.

Born in Switzerland, Giron, who had trained in Paris in Cabanel's studio, enjoyed his first success at the Salon of 1876. His life was divided between Paris, Geneva and Cannes, then continued in the Swiss Alps where he painted rural scenes and mountain landscapes. His fame spread throughout Europe thanks to the success of his society portraits.

[thehistoriangirl]

hi!! i love your fics, they make my day 🩷

may i request a mel x reader where reader is an insecure artist?

thank you!

Hello Anon, thank you so much! I'm sorry this one took so long 😭😭 I struggled a little with how to write it, but I hope you enjoy it 🥺

In Seek of Perfection

Mel x gn!Artist! Reader---1.3K----SFW

The floor was covered in half-finished sketches whose edges peeked shadows of charcoal; a lonely lamp filling the studio with a dimmed golden hue.

One of them caught her attention among the dozen paper balls thrown everywhere.

Still, Mel was careful not to disturb the quiet space with the echo of her heels.

“Not hungry yet?” she said, leaning over your shoulder to see a blank page in front of you, your fingers stained with black juggling with a pencil. The bowl of fruits at the other side of the working table the same since the morning. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

“No, not hung—” Yet your stomach betrayed you, a growling sound interrupting your sentence.

You sighed. “I just… I haven’t done any work today either. And the exhibit is going to be in six months. I need to submit something.”

Mel let go of your shoulders, and you felt how the weight started pressing down on them again. She walked in front of your desk to grab the stool where a wooden box sat atop, filled with unused pastels.

"You know you'd still have my support even if you don't submit anything to this year's Salon," Mel told you, settling the box aside as she took a seat with her hands crossed over her lap. The Medarda ring shone with a reminder. Your duty. Your role.

The artist, and her, the muse.

“Progress’ restless, just like this city,” you muttered. “You know what happens to those who get left behind.”

You’d seen more than your fair share of colleagues erased from the galleries and classrooms when their patrons moved on to the next shiny thing. Once their mastery had slipped just like the rest of their bright ideas.

Sure, the bonds tangled between you two ran deeper than simple portraits of Councilor Medarda she could hang up in the foyer of her house to show her influence and status in this city that had become her home. Just like it was yours, now.

“Art isn’t business. It shouldn’t be rushed.”

You fidgeted with the edge of your blank canvas, taking the newspaper you had hidden once the headline creating a ball of anxiety and envy to get caught in the middle of your throat.

Yazmine LaGarc opened a solo exhibit in one of Councilor Shoola’s galleries, becoming the hottest artist in Piltover, with her ceramics adorning only the wealthiest of houses. The worst part is that she was your classmate, and now, the one who once was at the top of the class has sunk to the bottom.

From your first masterpiece, you fell into a pool of mediocrity and unfinished jobs that ended up recycled or burned in the hearth, thinking that your attempt was just beginner’s luck, and an artist couldn’t be called so if they only created something fantastic by luck.

Every day you woke up without becoming the new sensation in the art world you felt like failing, with the reminder of your parents telling you to reconsider—that you were still welcomed to their merchant enterprise.

What if you were Mel’s protegee? It was a spot so desired that one day you’d be pushed aside. You weren’t worthy enough of being her favorite painter anymore. Perhaps you never were.

"You gave me an opportunity when purchase my painting at the Academic Salon. It was because of you that my name appeared in the side columns of arts during that weekend." You chuckled, such a bitter sound. "And look what I’ve become.”

Mel hummed, the sound redirecting your gaze toward hers.

“By that standard: Would you say that I’m not an artist just because I can’t paint every day that I’m not an artist?”

You blinked, feeling flustered. “No, of course not! But, well, you have a job… and… well, I don’t.”

"You work part-time at your parents' business," Mel called your name, one of her elbows propelled over the table, elegant fingers resting atop her jawline. “I decided to sponsor you because I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me. And you haven’t, but why do I feel like you’ve disappointed yourself?”

Her finger fiddled with the edge of the canvas. “You loved to do this, sitting for hours with that bad posture of yours—what happened, then? Does making not bring you joy anymore?”

Of course, she had noticed about your low productivity for the past weeks, and the lame work you'd produced the months before, results that only started raising questions in sensationalist newspapers about the so-called new art prospect. That your charm had burned out, that for the first time, Mel had committed a mistake by taking you under her patronage.

Day by day, the anger you felt toward the printed words started to drain your creative fuels, the creations bore by spite becoming absent once the disappointment settled in—so deep not even your sadness could evoke inspiration.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” you said, voice trembling. “Maybe my parents were right, and I should’ve taken the reins of the family business.”

Your vision became blurry, hot tears running down your cheeks even as you tried to furiously wipe them away. She didn’t have to see you this way, this small and pathetic.

"Have you ever wanted that?" Mel said, her voice stern. "You can always go back home, and tell them that you've made a mistake. They will take you in, and we both know it. This could end right here, back to all those days you sat on this hard wooden stool trying to create something grandiose. And yet, here you are. You are still trying." She gave you the smallest, most intimate smile. "And that's why you haven't disappointed me, why you shouldn't be disappointed with yourself."

She extended one of her hands, brushing away the tears with her thumbs before offering you one of her handkerchiefs, smelling like orange and lilies and just the faintest essence of the pigments she used to paint with, permeating in the fabric as a ghost.

“Not every painting and drawing you do will sell for millions, nor it will be praised. You can't live constantly gazing upward," Mel said, her eyes dropping to her lap to fidget with the Medarda’s family ring. "Or you'll forget about everything you have now. Everything you can take in to make art as you are right now." She called your name, the name of the self-artist burning the candle every other night to finish assignments, the one who drew and painted until your hands shook with cramps.

"I know I am pushing my hypocrisy here, but you ought to be lenient with yourself, just as you are with everyone else. With me when I must cancel my modeling sessions for my portraits." Slowly, Mel patted your cheek, the tip of your fingers playing with the tip of your ear as she sometimes did when you lay with her on the couch by the fire. “Can you try?”

From your shaking lips unable to pronounce words, you nodded.

She smiled, relieved and proud, as she had always been regarding you. From under her sleeve, Mel took out one of the sketches you discarded earlier, her hands ironing the wrinkles while pressing it atop the blank canvas.

“I like this one,” she said, pointing at a self-portrait reflected on a mirror, showing two images: one the artist, filled with rich details of decorative lines against the simple, weary face of the person reflecting in the mirror. “Art shouldn’t be all about beauty and grandiosity, my dear. Piltover’s too used to perfection, they don’t know what it takes to achieve it. Perhaps you shall show them.”

A small smile tugged the corner of your lips, feeling ashamed Mel had taken the time to observe your discarded ideas.

Mel chuckled, standing up from the seat and offering you a hand. “Well, I’d say dinner must be served already—would you like to accompany me tonight?”

[outsideratheart]

The Bet (Alexia Putellas x reader)

A/N: Based off this request

“Chicas!” You shout just before the team return to the pitch for the second half “here’s a little incentive for you in case lifting that trophy isn’t enough. If we win this then I will get a tattoo to celebrate” 

The look of disbelief on every player’s face would have been funny under any other circumstance but you wanted them to know that you were very serious. Your body was a blank canvas and getting a tattoo never interested you even when some of your closest friends begged you to get one. Ink wasn’t really your thing, hair dye on the other hand well that was how you expressed yourself. You had tried every colour under the sun and then repeated it. 

Alexia on the other hand loved to use her body as art and every single tattoo on her skin told a story. Her hair up until her injury had been brunette. When you told her that her tearing her ACL is like a bad break up, she has to learn to move on so he decided to do the typical thing after any break up, she died her hair and you loved the blonde more than the previous colour. 

Knowing that you and Alexia have a competitive relationship they all looked at their captain to see if she would rise to your bet.

“You know what! If we go out there and pull off one of the greatest comebacks in Champions League history I will die my hair” 

The team couldn’t believe what they are hearing. 

Your word was your bond and you never went back on your word. Alexia was a woman who when made a promise, always kept it. It made you both incredibly trustworthy but as the final whistle is blown you cannot help but think your good word had gotten you in trouble.

“We won” Alexia pulled you close as you walked over to where your families were.

“Baby, we’re fucked! We can’t go back on this” Inside you were panicking. Alexia’s promise could be temporary but yours was permanent.

“Don’t be such a wuss. How about this? You can pick my hair colour if I get it pick your tattoo”

You loved half of this plan. You already had a colour in mind but whilst you did trust Alexia with your life, you couldn’t guarantee that her choosing what is going to be on your body for the rest of your life is a good idea.

“Trust me, you’ll like what I have planned”

“Fine but you’re dying your hair pink”

Alexia’s eyes widen at your choice of colour but having been the person to suggest the idea, she couldn’t exactly go back on it now.

After playing Panama, the national team was given three days off before having to report back to camp. Alexia had told you that she had designed your tattoo with the help of Mapi and she had booked an appointment for you at the studio where her and the rest of the girls go for their tattoos. You had also made a call to your hair stylist and asked them if they could squeeze Alexia in the morning before you would get your tattoo in the afternoon.

“And this woman knows what she’s doing” on the outside Alexia was cool as a cucumber but as you walk down the streets of Barcelona she is holding onto your hand for dear life.

“She has been doing my hair for years Alexia. You are in safe hands”

You walked into the salon and greeted everyone as if they were family. Alexia stayed close behind you as you guide her to the chair in the fair back corner. 

“So what are we doing doing?” Your hair stylist ran her fingers through Alexia’s hair as your girlfriend looked at you through the mirror.

“Pink but a light pink”

“What! No! If I’m doing this then I’m doing it. I want it like Y/N’s after her first appointment post COVID”

“Ale, that was really pink” 

“I know, I loved it” 

The hair stylist did as she was told and a couple of hours later Alexia was walking out the salon almost unrecognisable.

Now it was your turn and you felt sick as you walked in the studio which was tucked down one of the side street in Sants.

“Does it hurt? It’s got to hurt, there is a needle piercing your skin at 100 miles an hour and it’s injecting ink. Oh God! Why did I even agree to do this, I can’t do this”

“Y/N take a breath” Alexia’s hands rested on your shoulders. She took a deep breath in, one which you copied almost immediately “I think you will really like my design and if you don’t then we will tell the team that I made you get it on your bum which they will believe because—“

“You are obsessed with my bum” you finished your girlfriend’s sentence.

“I am so they will believe me but please take a look at the design”

“Ok”

The artist, who you had learnt was also the owner, sat you down on the sofa as she showed you the design and at different sizes. You had no control over the smile on your face as you saw what Alexia had come up with.

“It’s like yours” 

“It is. I thought why not kill two birds with one stone. The tattoo would commemorate the final and it would be a matching one to mine”

The tattoo was perfect. It was an outline of a basic flower within a square. The pattern was seen all around Barcelona as it was a tile that covered the pavement. Alexia has the same one on her back with ‘made in’ above it. Yours wouldn’t have the text and instead of the ink being black it would be blue and red, Blaugrana the colours of FC Barcelona.

Once laid on the bench Alexia offered to hold your hand in case the pain is too much.

“Is it really going to hurt that much?” You ask the tattoo artist who reassured you that the pain would be nothing compared to some of the tackles you have been on the receiving end of over the years.

“Ale!” You smack her with your free hand.

“Sorry. It’s just that i’m used to seeing you as this tough cookie”

“I’m never a tough cookie around you, you make me soft” 

Alexia kisses you softly, the two of you forgetting your surroundings until the artist clears her throat.

“Soft cookie or tough cookie, I do need to to sit still or this won’t end well”

“Don’t say that” Don’t tell her that” you and Alexia say at the same time.

When the two of your arrived back to Los Rojas two days later the entire team was in shock and fascinated to see Alexia’s pink hair but only the barcelona players knew about your side of the bet. You removed your hoodie to show them the tattoo which you had decided to get on your arm, just about your elbow. 

[theoutcastrogue]

Venice in the art of Alexandra Exter (1882-1949)

Carnival in Venice (oil on canvas) 1930s

Carnival Procession (oil on canvas)

Masked Figures by the Banks of a Venetian Canal (oil on canvas)

Venetian Masks (oil on panel)

Pulcinella (gouache on paper) late 1920s-30s

Venice (oil and sand on canvas) 1925

Venice, 1915

"Aleksandra Aleksandrovna Ekster, also known as Alexandra Exter, was a Russian and French painter and designer. As a young woman, her studio in Kiev attracted all the city's creative luminaries, and she became a figure of the Paris salons, mixing with Picasso, Braque and others. She is identified with the Russian/Ukrainian avant-garde, as a Cubo-futurist, Constructivist, and influencer of the Art Deco movement. She was the teacher of several School of Paris artists such as Abraham Mintchine, Isaac Frenkel Frenel and the film directors Grigori Kozintsev, Sergei Yutkevich among others." [x]

"Exter painted views of Florence, Genoa and Rome, but ‘most insistent and frequent were images of Venice. The city emerged in various forms: via the outlines of its buildings, in the ‘witchcraft of water’. In glimmering echoes of Renaissance painting, in costumes and masks and its carnivals’.

"Exter’s characteristic use of the bridge as a stage platform, seen most clearly in Carnival in Venice, is a legacy of her time as Tairov’s chief designer [Alexander Tairrov, director of Moscow's Kamerny Theatre]; the director believed in breaking up the flatness of the stage floor which the artist achieved for him by introducing arches, steps and mirrors. Even in her easel work, the emphasis is at all times on theatricality. Bridges are used as proscenium arches, the architecture creates a stage-like space in which to arrange her cast."

"For all her modernity, references to Venetian art of the past abound in these paintings. The masked figures are influenced by the Venetian artist Pietro Longhi, to whom Exter dedicated a series of works around this time. The incredible blues used in both Carnival Procession and Masked Figures by the Banks of a Venetian Canal are a direct reference to Titian, who was famed for his use of ultramarine, the pigment most associated with Venice’s history as the principal trading port with the East." [x]

"Exter had long since abandoned the Cubist syntax by 1925 but her sense of colour remained together with a strong conviction, shared with Léger, that a work of art should elicit a feeling of mathematical order. In its graceful interaction of fragmented planes and oscillation between emerging and receding elements, Venice (1925) echoes the more precise qualities that also appear in Léger's work at this time, both artists occupied with the continuous modulation of surfaces and the 'melody of construction' that Le Corbusier was still advocating in the 1930s. But while Exter subscribed to Léger's theory that 'a painting in its beauty must be equal to a beautiful industrial production', she never fully embraced the aesthetics of the machine and rejecting the common opposition between ancient and modern, her work often retains a classical edge - for example in these trefoil windows, arches and vaults. Human figures, which had been nearly absent from her Cubo-futurist paintings, also return in other works from this period."

"She was undoubtedly aware of the concept of 'defamiliarisation', a term first coined by the influential literary critic Viktor Shklovsky in 1917:

'The purpose of art is to impart the sensation of things as they are perceived and not as they are known. The technique of art is to make objects 'unfamiliar,' to make forms difficult to increase the difficulty and length of perception because the process of perception is an aesthetic end in itself and must be prolonged.'

An instance of this device is discernable in the present tight formation of the oars, seen from above. Like Braque and Picasso, Exter incorporates sand into certain areas of pigment to enhance the differentiation of surfaces, a technique also used to 'increase the length of perception'. The occasional lack of overlap between the boundaries of the textured surfaces and colour planes strengthens the paradoxical combination of tangible presence and elusive abstraction that makes Venice such a powerful work."

"Venetian subjects occur in Exter's work as early as 1915. A gigantic panneau of the city was one of the final works she produced in the Soviet Union and exhibited in the 1924 Venice Biennale." [x]

"The specific theme of the Commedia dell’Arte first appeared in Exter’s work in 1926 when the Danish film director Urban Gad approached her to design the sets and marionettes for a film which was to tell the story of Pulcinella and Colombina, transposing them from the Venice of Carlo Goldoni to contemporary New York. Pulcinella most likely relates to the artist’s subsequent experimentations on the theme of the Commedia dell’Arte. Pulcinella, who came to be known as Punch in England, is one of the classical characters of the Neapolitan puppetry. Typically depicted wearing a pointed hat and a mask, Pulcinella is an opportunist who always sides with the winner in any situation and fears no consequences." [x]

[art-allegory]

Time Saving Truth from Falsehood and Envy

Artist: François Lemoyne (French, 1688–1737)

Title: Français: Le Temps sauvant la Vérité du Mensonge et de l'Envie.

Date: 1737

Medium: Oil on Canvas

Collection: The Wallace Collection, London, United Kingdom

Description

The painting is the last masterwork of François Lemoyne, the greatest French history painter of his generation. In 1733-1736, he painted the ceiling of the Salon d'Hercule in Versailles, one of the most ambitious ceiling paintings ever painted in France and the most important Royal commission of the early years of Louis XV. As a consequence, Lemoyne had become First Painter to the King in 1736.

The naked figure of Truth is held aloft by her father, Time, who with his scythe subdues Falsehood, in her fine apparel and dissembling mask, while the baleful figure of Envy recedes, protesting. Lemoyne has imbued the figures in the dramatic scene with a solid sculptural quality. Originally, this effect was even stronger before the canvas was extended on all four sides. Lemoyne's figures forcefully filled the original space of the painting. Lemoyne was obviously aiming to continue the grand tradition of seventeenth-century history painting in this work, as he had done in his ceiling painting for Versailles. The allegory refers back to paintings by Guido Reni and, possibly also to a garden sculpture by Thomas Regnaudin in Versailles, both masterworks from the seventeenth century. This attempt to continue the tradition of what was perceived as the Grand Siècle became one of the main ambitions of eighteenth-century history painting in France.

Lemoyne was suffering from severe depression when he was painting the work. The subject may have held a personal significance for the artist: tragically the day after he completed it, he committed suicide. His possible self-perception as a genius suffering from envy and falsehood is not supported by the facts. It is not clear, however, who devised the subject of the allegory. The painting was commissioned by the financier and great collector François Berger who is known to have picked up the work in Lemoyne's studio after the painter's suicide. Berger had been Lemoyne's patron from 1722 and also owned "Perseus and Andromeda", Lemoyne's other work in the Wallace Collection. He commissioned "Time Saving Truth from Falsehood and Envy" as a pendant to the much earlier "Bather", (private collection) painted by Lemoyne for Berger in 1723-1724 and would ultimate have determined the subject. Both works were probably enlarged for the next owner, Etienne Bouret, in c. 1757 to match their size with other works by Lemoyne in the same collection, such as "Perseus and Andromeda". Both Berger and Bouret owned impressive groups of paintings by Lemoyne, an homage to the leading history painter of the early eighteenth century and an early statement in support of contemporary French art among Parisian collectors.

[myfandomincolor]

I did it I wrote the whole fic.

In which Astarion gets his portrait painted.

Fevras, Oskar. Portrait of Astarion Ancunin. 1492 DR, Private Collection.

Rated teen bc there's suggestive dialogue

Nothing smutty though

Super-soft and fluffy Astarion/fem Tav

Act 3 minor spoilers

The first fic I've written in over 10 years.

Full text under the cut

AO3 link

The original post I made that wouldn't leave me alone

"This is great, I'm so happy for you both, but my companions and I did save you. Twice. And I'd love to be compensated for the work we've done." Tav stood before Oskar Fevras, painter of some renown, and his fiancée, Lady Jannath. The warlock was genuinely happy for the pair, of course, but she'd been looking forward to a more...material reward for all the literal blood and sweat that had gone into first liberating the artist from the Zhentarim, then rescuing him from a vengeful spirit. Nevermind the entire debacle of getting rid of a mummy lord.

"Of course!" the painter assured her, "Come upstairs to my atelier. I promise you'll leave with something priceless: immortality."

Tav very much doubted that Oskar's offer of "immortality" would be as satisfying as a nice pouch of gold, but she rolled her eyes and gestured for him to lead the way. "Yes, alright, we'll join you in a moment."

Oskar disappeared up the stairs, and Tav exchanged an exasperated look with Astarion, whose expression was equally unamused.

"We'll have a private word with Lady Jannath later," he murmured, and Tav nodded in agreement. The woman had a whole floor of valuables stored in safes and display cases, for gods' sakes! Surely she could bear to part with a few pieces of jewelry as payment for the safety of her dear Oskar.

Nevertheless, Tav climbed the flights of stairs to the artist's atelier, with Astarion, Shadowheart, and Wyll in tow. When they reached the top floor, Oskar greeted them with open arms and a wide smile.

"Here she is, the hero of the hour! Brushes are oiled, canvas is prepped, and you, my savior, will make a striking subject."

"You're going to...paint me?" Tav asked, realizing suddenly what Oskar had meant by "something priceless" as payment. She'd assumed he'd intended to let her pick a piece from the countless canvases stacked around his studio, but he meant to capture her likeness in a new painting altogether. The idea was honestly very appealing, considering she'd never in her life sat for more than a sketched portrait miniature. She smirked in self-satisfaction, and turned to gauge her friends' reactions, maybe crack a joke about how the whole of Feyrûn should be so lucky to see her face in salons and galleries, when a thought suddenly occurred to her:

He should paint Astarion.

The grin slowly faded from her face, settling into a thoughtful quirk of her lips as the idea took hold, and she looked steadily into the eyes of the man she loved.

Astarion shifted uncomfortably under her unbroken gaze. "What, why are you looking at me? Do you need someone to make sure your hair looks alright before your portrait? Because, darling, a few unkempt strands are the least of your worries, considering the impressive amount of blood and dust you've mopped up today."

"What if he paints you, instead?" she asked.

The vampire spawn scoffed, caught off-guard, "Why would he paint me? You're the hero being commemorated," he waved off her suggestion with one hand, the other reflexively propping itself on his hip.

Tav looked back at Oskar. "Would you paint him instead of me?"

"If that is your wish, I'd be more than happy to accommodate. Any of you would be muse enough to inspire exhibition-worthy work," the painter answered, sweeping one hand in a gesture that encompassed their whole group.

"It's not a bad idea," Wyll offered from a short distance away, where he'd been studying a painting of a patriar. He turned his head and looked at the couple over his shoulder, one hand rubbing his stubble thoughtfully. "You'd cut a very fine figure on canvas, I'd wager. And there's the matter of, well - it might be nice to..." he trailed off, unsure of how sensitively he should phrase the end of his sentence.

"My love, you haven't seen your face in 200 years," Tav whispered, drawing close to Astarion, careful of hinting too loudly at anything that might betray his vampiric condition. She cupped his jaw in her hands, as much to keep him looking at her as to convey the tenderness of her feelings. "Would you like to?"

"Hah," was his response, more of a breathy sob than a laugh. His brows knitted together despite the smile he demanded remain in place. "Always full of surprises, aren't you?" He covered the back of one of her hands with his, turning his face to press a kiss to her palm. "Alright then," he mumbled against her skin.

"Might I suggest a change of wardrobe before you commit to the session?" Wyll chuckled.

"I don't know, the bloodstains feel right, somehow. More honest," Shadowheart added with a smirk.

"As long as you're, erm, comfortable," Oskar chimed in, "Though if you do want to freshen up first, I'm more than happy to wait. After all, it will be seen by generations to come."

"Then we'll be back first thing in the morning," Tav promised, turning to shake Oskar's hand.

"Excellent, I shall await your return," the painter beamed, and went back to his easel.

---

The upper rooms of the Elfsong were bustling the next morning. Astarion normally relished being the center of attention among his friends, but as they fussed over everything from clothes to makeup, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret at having ever agreed to sit for a portrait.

"Gale, would you please just settle on something? I'm freezing over here," he groaned through clenched teeth, narrowing his eyes at the wizard in question. Astarion was clad in nothing more than his dressing gown, the relatively thin fabric doing little in the way of insulation against the cool morning temperatures.

"Now now, my friend, a good color story is crucial to the success of an ensemble, and your complexion does pose a bit of an unfamiliar challenge for me," Gale explained, not looking away from the selection of shirts he'd laid out across Astarion's bed, but waving a finger in the air anyway as he made his point.

"Oh gods, just put me in red or something and call it done," Astarion griped, plopping down onto a stool.

Gale finally looked over, regarding him for a beat before replying. "Seems a bit on the nose, doesn't it? Red? For a vampire?"

"Why mess with the classics?" he replied wryly.

"Fair point, but I was thinking something more along the lines of - " he plucked a shirt from the pile, stepping over to Astarion so he could hold it next to the elf's pale skin. "Hmm, yes, I think jade complements you quite nicely."

Astarion fought back a blush. "I'd look good in anything, no need for you to have wracked your brain over it so hard. Now shoo, give me some privacy so I can dress." He flicked his hands at Gale, who threw his hands up with a chuckle and strode out of the room.

---

A gentle knock rapped on the door as Astarion shrugged a jacket on, rich charcoal-colored jacquard fabric accented with silver thread and blue-green gemstone buttons.

"Come in," he called, starting to fasten the front. Tav cracked the door and scooted in, dressed in clean attire suitable for a social call. "Oh good, I half expected you to accompany me dressed either in your leathers or practically nothing at all, but you look surprisingly presentable," he snarked, arching an eyebrow at her as he fumbled with his cuffs.

Tav feigned a look of annoyance. "I could always change, it's not too late to pick something inappropriate for polite society." She stepped across the room to stand toe-to-toe with him, taking over the task of fastening his jacket cuffs. Astarion relaxed at the feel of the warmth radiating off her body. She lifted his hand to her lips when she finished, kissing his knuckles. "You look absolutely dashing," she remarked, lifting their clasped hands overhead and coaxing him into doing a little turn.

"I do, don't I? Someone should paint a picture," he joked, making sure to take his time showing off every angle as he turned, noting Tav's very evident appreciation with satisfaction. "My dear, if you keep looking at me like that, we'll never make it out of this room, much less back to the Jannath Estate," he purred with a smirk, pulling her into a close embrace, free hand finding its way to the small of her back as if he was about to waltz her around the room.

Tav laughed, blushing, "Don't tempt me! We can be on our way whenever you're ready."

"Oh, you're no fun. We'll put a pin in that."

---

The couple arrived at the Estate, welcomed by the steadfast Dragonborn doorman, and then by Lady Jannath herself. After some routine pleasantries, Tav and Astarion ascended once again to the atelier, where Oskar was busy preparing the surface of a canvas. The room smelled of linseed and turpentine.

"Ah, you've returned! And looking splendid, if you don't mind me saying so. Are you ready?" he asked, setting aside a long-handled paintbrush.

"Quite ready, thank you," Astarion assured him, while Tav nodded her greeting.

"I'm just here for moral support," she explained, earning a soft smile from the vampire. "Do you mind if I just do some reading, and perhaps watch you work?"

"I would be honored to have you as an audience. Now, my good sir, if you please," Oskar gestured toward a large backdrop occupying one wall of the small room, its surface softly painted to look like a sunrise. A low platform extended in front of it, and Astarion stepped up, shuffling a bit until he felt like he was squarely in the center. "Yes, stand yourself just there - perfect," Oskar coached from behind his easel, "Now, keep still, this won't take long, but do let me know if you need a break."

Astarion threw a glance over to Tav, who was settling into a high-backed chair in the corner, positioned so she would be able to see him but not so close that she'd be a distraction. She noticed his attention, and gave him an "OK" gesture, accompanied by a small shrug and a tilt of her head. He caught her meaning and nodded, closing his eyes and exhaling a deep breath before settling into a pose, willing the butterflies in his stomach to settle down.

---

A few hours into the session, Astarion realized that he and Oskar Fevras had very different definitions of "this won't take long." His feet ached, his neck was sore, and he longed to stretch out his limbs to relieve the tension that had built in them as he concentrated on remaining still. The only sounds in the atelier were the soft strokes of brush bristles on canvas, accompanied intermittently by the swiff of Tav turning a page in her book. He could only see her from the corner of his eye, but it was enough for him to have noticed that she'd been looking up every so often, gazing silently at his profile for a few minutes before ducking back into whatever she was reading. Just as he was about to relent and call for a break, Oskar spoke up.

"Aaaand - voila!" the painter exclaimed, causing both Astarion and Tav to jump in surprise.

"Ah," Astarion croaked, voice cracking from the long silence, "Ahem, I take it you've finished?"

"Indeed I have, come around for a look."

Astarion hesitated for a moment before stepping off the platform. The time had finally arrived, he'd be able to see his portrait. His own face. He swept his gaze around the room at the other works, unable to deny how detailed and lifelike they all were. Would his picture convey the same sense of realism? Would it reflect how he truly looked? He was excited, anxious, and unsure as he approached the easel.

"I hope you captured my best side. You better have made me look good- " his breath caught in his throat as he came around the other side of the canvas.

Gods, there he was.

He'd almost forgotten, but there he was.

"Oh," he breathed, reaching a hand out to the painting at first, but catching himself before he could mar the wet surface. Instead, his hand found its way slowly to his face, fingertips lightly tracing his cheekbones and jawline as his eyes followed the same contours so beautifully captured in rich, expressive oils before him. The artist had truly outdone himself, soft brushstrokes composing every detail, from the angle of his eyebrows, to his coiffed hair, even the tinge of pink on the edges of his ears, all perfectly and faithfully rendered.

By this point, Tav had crept over from her seat to join the two men, her eyes locked onto Astarion's face, watching him carefully as he took in the sight of the painting. She noticed his eyebrows draw together, his mouth slightly open as he regarded his portrait. She rounded the easel, eager to see the finished piece, and she understood why he'd fallen so silent. It looked exactly like him, down to the last freckle.

Priceless.

Her heart clenched for him, a person who had not seen his own face in two centuries, who didn't remember enough about his appearance to know who others saw when they looked at him. She'd tried many times to imagine how difficult it must be to lose something so taken for granted, and the look in Astarion's eyes spoke volumes. She moved closer to him, shoulders almost touching, and he unconsciously took her hand in his as if he needed to be grounded by the contact.

"My love?" she whispered, squeezing his hand gently.

"Tav, do I...is this me?"

"Of course it's you, my friend!" Oskar broke in, completely unaware of the solemnity of the moment. "And I never embellish, striving to capture the most lifelike visage of my subject. I can't imagine this is any different than what you see in the mirror."

"Oh, believe me," Astarion managed to choke out with a sardonic laugh, "I haven't seen myself like this in ages."

Oskar sighed, nodding sagely, "Yes, well, sometimes it does take an artist's eye to highlight a subject's true beauty, sometimes beauty they themselves cannot see!"

"It's wonderful, Oskar," Tav said, trying to cut his speech short. "Will we be able to take it home today?"

"Well, no - it will need to dry, and then there's varnishing. But what you can do today is give it a name. Something to capture the spirit in which it was created." He looked expectantly at the pair, who in turn looked at each other.

After a pause, Astarion turned to Oskar. "You know, I think a straightforward title is best: Portrait of Astarion Ancunin."

---

He was standing in the foyer again, studying the painting in the glow of candlelight. Tav had spotted him there several times over the past few days, as the others undoubtedly also had, but no one bothered him apart from a few initial comments.

"Truly masterful, it looks exactly like you," Gale had remarked in awe, inspecting the work closely.

"Aw, pal, now you can see how handsome you are, just like the rest of us see you!" Karlach had beamed through her tears of joy.

"Minsc does not know much of art, but Minsc does know a good picture when he sees it. And this, my friend, is a very good picture. It is like there are two Astarions. Hm, but Boo makes a good point that Baldur's Gate probably cannot handle two Astarions," came the glowing review from their Rashemaar friend.

But now he stood in front of it alone, gazing at it with a contented expression. Tav made her way over to stand with the elf, linking her arm in his.

"I think I prefer the real thing," she quipped.

"Oh, shut up, can't you see I'm having a moment?" he countered playfully, but quickly sobered again. "Tav, is this really what I look like? It's the person you see?"

She scanned carefully over the portrait, looking for any flaw or embellishment that didn't match the face she knew so well by now. "It's...you, I don't know that you could get a more realistic representation than this. Although, he always looks quite well-kempt, even when you don't," she teased.

"Rude, I always look this handsome, how dare you imply otherwise?" he pouted, nudging her shoulder.

Tav laughed, "Sorry, sorry, you know I can't help myself. Seriously though, it's you, down to the creases where you smile and the way your hair curls around your ears."

"Yes, you've mentioned those before."

"They're some of the features I find most attractive about you. Well, physically, at least," she mused, laying her head on his shoulder.

"All of this," he gestured to himself with one hand, "and that's what you choose to admire?" his tone was incredulous, but lighthearted.

"They're what make you you, Astarion. I'm so glad Oskar painted you so well."

"Why don't we head to bed, and you can tell me everything else you find attractive, darling. I'm dying to know." He turned them both around and began leading Tav toward their room at a leisurely pace.

"Oh, my love, it's a very long list, it will take all night."

[themuseumwithoutwalls]

MWW Artwork of the Day (8/2/24) Édouard Manet (French, 1832-1883) Young Woman Reclining, in Spanish Costume (1862) Oil on canvas, 94 x 123 cm. Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven CT (Stephen Carlton Clark Bequest)

Manet displayed "Young Woman Reclining" in March 1863 with thirteen other works at the Gallery Martinet in Paris on the boulevard des Italiens. It has been suggested that the sitter is the studio model Victorine Meurent, who posed for a number of Manet's works, including the Olympia, exhibited at the Salon of 1865. Here she wears a man's Spanish costume, an act of cross-dressing practiced in the nineteenth century by members of the flourishing demimonde in Paris out to challenge bourgeois conventions. Incorporating attributes of both genders, the model's provocative double identity mirrors the duality of her passive pose and direct, aggressive gaze.

[historiartmoi]

Source

Bazille's Studio

Frédéric Bazille, 1870

Hailing from a distinguished family in Montpellier, Frédéric Bazille initially relocated to Paris in 1862 to pursue medical studies before shifting his focus to painting. In Charles Gleyre's studio, he formed friendships with future Impressionists Monet, Renoir, and Sisley, all of whom shared his admiration for the famous realist painter, Édouard Manet.

Bazille's Studio offers an insight into the camaraderie and closeness among these pioneering artists. The backdrop is Bazille's studio on the rue de la Condamine, which he shared with Renoir from 1868 to 1870. At the heart of the composition stands Bazille, palette in hand. In a letter to his father, he mentioned that "Manet painted me into the scene," showcasing Manet's distinctively energetic style in portraying the young man. Manet, donning a hat, is seen observing the canvas on the easel. To the right, Edmond Maître, a close friend of Bazille's, is captured seated at a piano. Hanging above him is a still life by Monet, signifying Bazille's financial support for Monet through purchasing his artworks. The identities of the three figures on the left remain ambiguous, two of them could potentially represent Monet and Renoir. By integrating Manet and his followers amidst some of his works rejected by the Salon—like *The Toilette* above the sofa, and *Fisherman with a Net* on the left, as well as highlighting Renoir's landscape rejected in the 1866 Salon (the prominently framed painting to the right of the window)—Bazille critiques the Academy and boldly proclaims his artistic ideology.

Bazille died in the Franco-Prussian War a few months later. I always wonder how art history would look if he had not died so young.

[guinevereblom]

Jeanna Bauck (Swedish painter) 1840 - 1926

Den danska Konstnärinnan Bertha Wegmann målande ett Porträtt (The Danish Artist Bertha Wegmann Painting a Portrait), 1889

oil on canvas

Jeanna Bauck has depicted her close friend and colleague Bertha Wegmann while working on a portrait of Peter Dethlefsen, a Danish physician. It is an epoch-making painting capturing a woman artist in her professional role during concentrated work in her own studio. Bauck and Wegmann met in Munich in the 1870s. They lived for many years in an intimate private and professional partnership and painted several friendship images of each other.

* * *

Catalogue Note National Museum

This is an epoch-making image from 1889, when women artists and writers had a major influence on the cultural life of the period. They managed to change both the view, of the role of the artist and that of middle-class family life.

Here Jeanna Bauck has chosen to depict a female artist in the middle of the creative process. She portrays Bertha Wegmann fully absorbed in her work at the easel, in their shared studio and home in Munich. Wegmann, who was to become one of Denmark’s foremost portraitists, later painted Jeanna Bauck in their studio in Paris in 1881. In that painting, she managed to combine the free, independent woman of the time, “The New Woman”, with the refinement of middle-class femininity. Around this period, artists painted countless portraits of their friends and colleagues, but it was only the women who portrayed each other in their professional role. The will to create art is acknowledged as being paternal within a patriarchy, and as long as patriarchal societies’ are considered “natural”, it is “unnatural” and “unfeminine” for a woman to be an artist.

In the 19th century a hierarchical division between public and private space was established and which still exists today. In modernist art history, the home is therefore described as a timeless zone; the so-called women’s sphere is regarded as a static stage in relation to the narrative of modernity taking place in the public space of a dynamic city. At the time, since middle-class women were not able to move freely in the streets, women artists had to depict modernity from differing social spaces than their male colleagues. One can therefore in their images see which “spaces” were open for their portrayals. Paintings by Nordic female artists show that they literally did not move beyond the studio: it was both their home and place of work. A social space associated with professional life and thereby with the public realm. In their portraits’, the studio represents at once a space of endless possibilities, but also the absolute limit of their world. They chose not to paint the modern city outside, in contrast to the female artists of the avant-garde, who had to depict modernity from balconies and theatre boxes.

* * *

Jeanna Bauck was a Swedish portrait painter and landscape artist. She moved to Germany in 1863, studying in Dresden and Düsseldorf before settling in Munich. In the 1870s, Bauck made several study and sketching tours to the Tyrol, Switzerland and Venice. In 1880, she travelled to Paris, together with Danish artist Bertha Wegmann, with whom she shared a studio. Bauck succeeded in entering the Paris Salon that same year. In a series of groundbreaking portraits of one another, specifically in their professional role’s, Bauck and Wegmann managed to change the view of women artists in what was then seen as a traditionally male occupation. Bauck soon returned to Munich and founded a school for female artists. She exhibited in Sweden on several occasions, including at the Royal Academy exhibitions of 1866, 1868 and 1877, and the exhibition of Swedish female artists in 1911.

[amnakhansalon]

Canvas Salon & Studio Now In Lahore.

Wonderful news, Lahore! The luxurious and stylish Canvas Salon & Studio has officially opened its doors in Lahore. Under the direction of a group of gifted experts, this salon enhances each client’s experience with a dash of glitz and refinement.

[rh35211]

The Moorish Chief

The Moorish Chief

1878

Eduard Charlemont (Austrian, 1848–1906)

Eduard Charlemont used studio props and a paid model to evoke a world of luxury and power and an architectural setting that resembles the Islamic palace of the Alhambra in Granada, Spain. (The canvas was once called The Alhambra Guard.) This work demonstrates the romantic lens through which white Europeans regarded the traditions, peoples, and places of Muslim Spain and the French colonies in West Africa. Although Charlemont painted few African subjects and was best known for portraits and depictions of European historical subjects, his singular ability to convey a model’s personality and to suggest different textures and surfaces is evident here. The name of the model who posed for this commanding figure standing in a palace doorway may never be known. The artist had recently come to Paris from Vienna and was little known when he exhibited this work to great acclaim at the 1878 Paris Salon.

[moonlitmistyforest]

Édouard Manet- A Bar at the Folies-Bergère, 1882 oil on canvas, 96 x 103 cm The Courtauld Gallery

The Folies-Bergère was Paris’s first music hall. A magazine described its atmosphere of ‘unmixed joy’ where everyone spoke ‘the language of pleasure’. It was notorious for the access it gave to prostitutes. The barmaids, according to the poet Maupassant, were ‘vendors of drink and of love’. This picture was Manet’s last major work, exhibited at the Paris Salon in 1882. Manet knew the Folies-Bergère well. He made preparatory sketches on site, but the final painting was executed in his studio. He set up a bar and employed one of the barmaids, Suzon, to pose behind it. Manet’s picture is unsettling. An acrobat’s feet, clad in green boots, dangle in the air. The quickly sketched crowds convey the bustle of the Folies-Bergères. In contrast, the barmaid is detached and marooned behind her bar, with her reflection displaced to the right. She stares at the viewer, but the mirror shows her facing a customer. via

[abwwia]

Marie-Gabrielle Capet was a French Neoclassical painter (6 Sep 1761 - 1 Nov 1818)

Self-Portrait, ca. 1783

oil on canvas

77.5 x 59.5 cm. (30.51 x 23.43 in.)

#MarieGabrielleCapet was born in Lyon on 6 September 1761.

Marie-Gabrielle came from a modest background and her previous background and artistic training is unknown, but in 1781 she became the pupil of the French painter Adelaide Labille-Guiard in Paris.

She excelled as a portrait painter, and her works include oil paintings, watercolours and miniatures. Via Wikipedia

#French #Neoclassicism #SelfPortrait

From the "Female Artists in History" fb

www.facebook.com/female.artists.in.history

France in the 18th century can be considered an #ageofwomen, as women began to appear in new roles throughout society.

This was also the case in the art world, where two women painters Elisabeth-Louise Vigée, Le Brun and Adélaïde Labille-Guiard, began to make a living as painters at the end of the 18th century.

These women were the first to be elected members of the #RoyalAcademyofPainting and sculpture, and they were followed in both the Academy and general society by a gradually increasing number of #womenartists.

Capet, born in Lyon and trained in Paris in the studio of Labille-Guiard, was one of these women painters. Capet's name appeared as one of the 21 women who displayed works in the Salon of 1791, immediately after the #FrenchRevolution.

In this self-portrait, Capet is shown holding drawing chalk clasped in a holder as she faces the easel. The painting is a splendid rendition of her youthful face, showing her in the fresh beauty of her 22nd year. The blue satin dress, boldly open at the chest, was fashionable for her day and blue ribbons of the same material reveal the gay lightness of the 18th century.

However, in addition to its light #Rococo sensuality, the painting also reveals a direct, simple expression that prefigures the styles of the coming age.

By this point the storm of the French Revolution was forming on the horizon, and the #artworld also felt the gathering power of the #idealism engendered by the art of the great cultures of the past, Greece and Rome, along with the realism suitable to the citizenry classes that were just then beginning to appear in society.

(Source: Masterpieces of the National Museum of Western Art, Tokyo, 2009, cat. no.56)

[senorincognito69]

Skincrawlers (woman into insect TF tale)

(Woman into insect)*

Witchcraft stores are a rather common business venture amongst covens and practitioners of the arkane, a store is, after all, the simplest way to offer your services to those that may desire them. You may not believe it, but one of those stores may be very near you, they may appear anywhere, even in a spot you thought was a Starbucks.

And they can just as easily go away.

The norm in such establishments is to offer the usual mix of magicks, trinkets and other witchey gizmos. Witches tend to be picky about their craft and the variety of spells, incantations and potions a store might offer will be as varied as the members of the coven are. Some witches may choose to focus on offering services rather than goods or goods rather than services. Others, being more entrepreneurial, even try to franchise their kind of boutique, perhaps turning them into spas or salons in which the product being sold is the pleasure of magic itself. There’s also, of course, the ones that, being skillful or comfortable with a particular magical gimmick. become specialised.

Such was the case of that tattoo studio.

From the outside it looked, for the most part, just like any other skin-inker shopfront that you may have seen before, maybe slightly odd, with a wacky name, and you wouldn’t recall having seen that tattoo place before, so it would stand to reason that it only opened recently, making it even more interesting.

If you enter you will be warmly welcomed and, after a short wait, when your turn comes, they will lead you to the back room of the store down a corridor. From the walls of the corridor hang several frames showing the art being offered. Beautiful pieces… shown in squares that seem to be made of skin, living skin, as if a person had been flattened and stretched into a canvas over a flat surface, reduced into faceless pieces of art… their genitals exposed, pussies, dicks, boobs, nipples and some buttholes from those that got their tattoo on their rear…

Subtle muffled moans will then follow.

Then you will reach the place where the magic happens.

One of the most interesting offerings from the studio is a tattoo that grants luck, a tattoo that must be in the form of a bug. An insect, arachnid, mollusk… some sort of lowly crawling lifeform. As long as the tattoo is on your skin lucky things will happen to you, but as those things happen the residual energy of your improved chances will gradually, slowly, accumulate in that bug on your skin.

Until…

Dina had a mantis tattoo on the back of her left thigh.

It wasn’t the only tattoo on her white skin, but it was the one  that her existence was held upon. She was quite an alternative looking chick, with a short bob haircut dyed vivid red, multiple tattoos and piercings, in her lips, nose, ears, nipples… cunt… A very curvy woman about to enter her thirties, with an ample bust and ample hips, juicy ass and juicy boobs. She was walking out of a steamy shower, smirked and winking at her foggy reflection in the mirror, before leaving the bathroom barefoot and holding a towel across her tits.

Carlota, Dina’s roommate, was sitting on the couch in her pyjamas, doing mindless net surfing. She groaned when she saw Dina enter the living room.

“Yikes, bitch, could you put on some pants at least?” she growled after the redhead moved her big butt in front of her. “I don’t need to see your fat ass every day!”

They had been friends and living together for more than half a decade. On that day Dina had a date… with Carlota’s ex.

“Then go live somewhere else!” the redhead answered, chuckling. “I’m thirsty!”

Dina went towards the kitchen, unfortunately her towel was a bit too long and luckily her feet stepped over the fluffy cloth. She squeaked, losing her balance and fell forward, slamming against the floor boobs first. After the short initial shock Carlota burst into laughter watching her pal laying naked and spread on the floor.

“Maybe you should walk on all fours like a pig!” she gloated.

The redhead groaned, rubbing her sore tits as she got up onto her knees. She was about to bark something back at Carlota’s laughter, when she noticed something on the dusty floor under the couch. Squinting her eyes she leaned forward, stretching her arm between carlota’s legs.

Carlota frowned.

“What the heck are you doing now?” she asked, putting her legs on the couch.

Dina didn’t answer until she managed to reach the edge of her objective with the tip of her fingers. Her rear raised up, her boobs pressed against the floor, she stuck her tongue out, stretched out with the nails, slid the paper along the floor…

“Aha!” triumphantly she pulled a fifty dollar bill from beneath the couch, not caring about her nudity as she stood up, one hand on her waist and the other proudly showing off her find. “Am I a lucky whore or what?”

Carlota’s mouth dropped open.

“Hey…!” she babbled. “Hey! Those are the fifty bucks I lost last week!”

The redhead giggled, shaking the money in front of her roommate’s eyes.

“Na! Na! Nana! Finders keepers, bitch!” Dina stepped back, holding the bill with both hands, admiring it. “He, he, guess I’m gonna woo your ex with some extra sweets tonight!” 

Carlota was furious, but her anger was distracted by something else… something that made her frown… she raised her hand… and slapped Dina’s left thigh from behind.

“AY! HEY!” Dina cried in pain, jumping away. “You moron! I was gonna give you the money back, but now I’m keeping it!”

“No!” Carlota swore from the edge of her seat. “I saw something moving under your ass! A bug or something!”

“What?!” the redhead tried to bend to see her own butt. “Where?! If this is a joke I’m gonna be pissed!” a bit of panic crept into her voice.

Carlota didn’t say anything, she was lost for words.

Right below Dina’s ass, on the back of her left thigh, the mantis, the mantis drawn with ink on her skin, was moving, flapping its wings and stretching its insectile limbs.

“What the what…?” muttered Carlota.

The mantis moved as if it was alive… or as alive as a well animated cartoon. It crawled around the two dimensional space, tracing a couple of circles before climbing over her buttocks, Dina’s skin was a silver screen for its display.

“I feel something! Tickles!” Dina complained. “Is it still there?! Smack that fucking thing again! KILL IT!”

Carlota remained shocked.

“T-That can’t be,” she gulped.

“What can’t be?!” Dina shouted, grabbing her buttocks. She put a hand on top of the mantis and the mantis passed from skin to skin.

“Your hand, look at your hand!”

Dina looked where her roommate was pointing, her fingers lost their grip on the fifty dollar bill, her face was instantly disfigured by horror and confusion.

“What the what…?” she muttered.

The ink mantis cocked its head, staring upwards, seeing the woman’s head above and beyond the confines of its skin world. Dina began to yell, fully frenzied, she slapped her hand.

“Get it off! GET IT OFF!” 

Jumping around naked she slapped and slapped, but she couldn’t touch the mantis, but only felt its pointy legs crawling through her skin, under her skin, climbing her arm, sliding down her shoulder.

“NO! NO! NO!”

She tried to squeeze the pest between her boobs, like all the other strikes it accomplished nothing. The bug just walked away from the breasts. Dina’s lips trembling, she dropped to her knees.

“Stop!” the mantis was rushing down her belly, towards her crotch. “NOT THERE!”

In desperation the redhead scratched her skin with her nails, the mantis didn’t even bother to dodge, becoming lost inside the woman’s wide dark pubes.

“STOP IT! STOOOOOOOOOOOOOP! NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIH!”

Dina’s neck tensed up, her arms opened wide, she clenched her face, held her breath as her vaginal lips were spread open.

The mantis was in.

She began to gasp again, groaning and moaning, her skin buzzing and red everywhere where it had been slapped or scratched. Carlota, who was ducking scared in a corner of the couch, babbled, half-sobbing: “Dina… are you okay?”

“What do you think?!” screamed Dina, looking down at her defiled crotch with furious tears making her sight watery. “It’s inside me! That thing! It’s inside me!”

“C-Calm down, maybe we can…”

“FUCK YOU CALM DOWN! It’s inside me! INSIDE MEEEEEEEEH!”

The screaming wasn’t going to stop any time soon. Dina tried to stand up only to be put back down on her knees almost immediately. Her joints snapped, her limbs contracted in bizarre ways as she groaned breathlessly.

“FFFFFFFFFFFFFUCK! FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK! It’s inside! Itshhh nghhhhhhhh meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Carlota shook her head when Dina put her hands on her crotch and used both of them to start to masturbate.

“Dina stop!” she begged.

“Oooooooooh! AAAAAAAAAAH! Y-You think I wouldn’t iffffff I could?!”

Louder and louder moans.

The redhead put her head against the floor as she shoved as many fingers as she could inside her pussy, her legs spread and her ass was pushed high. Carlota covered her mouth, perfectly seeing her mate going full hog. It was an unreal level of pleasure, but it didn’t do anything to calm Dina’s anger… or fear. She bit her lips with frustration, reaching an orgasm that would bring her little joy.

“HMMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

She came and squirted, convulsing until the stiffness in her muscles loosened and she fell flat.

“D-Dina…?” mumbled Carlota.

With a great effort, trembling, dishevelled, sticky wet, Dina got up onto all fours.

“Carlota… C-Carlota…” her voice shivers.

“I’m here, I’m with you…”

“Cccccarlotaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

Her cry was followed by a loud cracking sound, her spine stiffened, her asscheeks began to swell.

“This isn’t real!” Carlota sobbed.

The flesh on Dina’s rear pushed forward at once with a slimy sounding explosion.

“YYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

A second pair of legs sprouted fully formed from the redhead’s buttocks. A grotesque vision out of their wildest dreams. Both women yelled uncontrollably, Dina stood up on her two pairs of legs, pulling her hair as looked down at them.

They were real.

They were hers.

She could use them to move, shake the ten extra toes, feel the wetness caused by orgasms on the floor with her new pair of barefoot soles.

“How is this happening?! How is this possible?!” logical questions for an illogical situation. “I HAVE FOUR LEGS!”

As Carlota saw her panicked mutated friend stepping around with double the feet she came to the gnarly realisation that she slowly spoke out loud as if she was in a trance.

“You… You don’t have four legs… You have… six limbs…”

Dina looked at her, she couldn’t take any more.

“What do you mean with thaaaaaAHHHHHHHHHHHHHT!”

Between the four thighs Dina’s crotch pulsed.

“Six limbs… Like an insect… a bug…” Carlota stopped a moment before finishing the sentence, staring at her friend’s swollen vulva as it opened and closed with needy fluctuations, a spark of amazement in her terrified tone. “A mantis.”

“Nnnnnnnnnnnno! No! Don’t say thaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

Dina’s pelvis was pushed backwards and she felt the pull in her stomach. Forced to open her legs by the reforming of her hips she put her hands on her front thighs, curling her toes, moaning as loudly as possible. The mass of her rear expanded, stretching beyond its limits. Her pierced pussy and anus grew to absurd proportions, squeezed together at the end of the forming appendage, at a slower pace than the abrupt sprouting of her extra legs, but still too quickly for someone that desired nothing but for the changes to end and reverse.

Comfort and discomfort, mammal and insect.

The reshaping flesh was filled with strange organs and unusual sensations.

An utterly inhuman sight.

“Your abdomen…” Carlota whispered.

“MY ASS!” cried Dina, twisting her neck as much as she could to look at the heavy protuberance that now hung from her rear. “This is not happening to me! WHYYYY! Fuuuuuck! FUUUUUUUUUUUCK! I was going on a date tonight!

The bug-to-be-woman put her hands on top of her abdomen, the skin was trembling, tense, very warm. She slammed a fist against her abdomen, the impact cracked the skin as if it was a dead leaf and from the cracks leaked a greenish substance.

“I’M NOT A BUG! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!”

Dina grabbed her head, yelling.

At the same time, on top of her rear and on top of her abdomen, a slimy sound was followed by a piercing pinch. The skin tore apart from the inside, failing as if it was nothing in a spectacular burst of metamorphosis. On her head, above her nose, a pair of antennae sprouted, on her abdomen, more remarkably, a pair of wings. Two sets of pinkish translucent insect wings attached one after the other to her abdomen and what was left of her waist. The human remains fell off from the flapping wings, dry, wrinkled, dust, beneath them was revealed the abdomen’s carapace, it was a lush lime-green shade and bore the brand new shine of an exoskeleton in the making.

The wings flapped, but their owner was too large to fly.

For now…

“NOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Absolute despair.

Her pupils shrank into dark points as the rest of her eyes turned yellow, her skin cracked, more of the green carapace surfacing while her waist shrank.

“NOOOOO!”

A sort of mantis drider.

“Not my arms! NOT MY HANDSHHHHHHHHH!”

The antennas were swinging in distress, on the bottom edges of each of her arms a line of pointy spikes sprouted, her hands lost their fingers when the curved hook like pincers of a mantis front legs emerged, curved like scythes. Legs snapped and gained one extra segment above the thighs, arms one at their end, shoulders compressed.

Dina focussed her attention on her horrified flatmate.

“Ca-Carlottta… Am a monster! Am a f-f-freakkkk!”

Her crackling voice made her seem even more nightmarish.

“Don’t get too close!” pleaded Carlota.

Dina didn’t listen to her demands, maybe because her ears were detaching. With insect-like moves, almost predatory, she moved over Carlota, putting her middle legs on top of the couch and her wet pincers over Carlota’s trembling shoulders. Carlota couldn’t look away from her transforming friend, Dina’s face was breaking, one of her yellowish eyes swelling quicker than the other. She was so close that Carlota noticed the mirriad of tiny hexagonal shapes covering the surface of the cornea.

When Dina spoke her mouth swung in strange ways.

“Help-p-p kkkkk! Tis your fault-t-t-t! Tat tat wash y-y-your ide-de-dea!”

Carlota’s hands had ended over Dina’s boobs.

“How could we know this would happen?!” she wept. 

“I d-d-dun kar-r-re! I kank breath-th-th! HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELPPPPP MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKIKIKIIIIIIIIIIKK!”

Fear made Carlota squeeze the tits. With that last long shout Dina’s face was torn in two by her mantis head. The large yellow eyes took most of the space, the mouth spread into four lateral pincers, red hair and her piercing dropping away. Dina jumped backwards, standing on her back legs, like a horse or a centaur, kicking the air with her front ones, losing every shred of human skin.

Her boobs had been left in Carlota’s hand, where they also crumbled into pinkish dust, leaving the nipple piercings in her flatmate’s hands. 

A woman sized mantis in the middle of the living room.

“KEKEKEKEEELP! HEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!”

Seeing Dina’s fractured voice coming out of the mantis’ head was bizarre, but it helped Carlota to snap out from her terrified trance. When the body of the insect began to compress and shrink she leapt away from the couch and ran towards the kitchen, knocking down one of the living room’s lamps.

Alone in the room Dina shrank, her voice diminishing with her size.

“Heeeeeeelp! Tis ka-kant happe to me! Am a WORM! A wommmmh! Pliiiii! Kikikiki! Helppp! Kant be buuuuu…!”

Diminishing, until all that was left was a mantis.

A mantis sized mantis.

Her exoskeleton was pristine lime green, six legs, an alien body. The magic that had robbed her of everything had decided, for some arbitrary reason, to reshape some of her piercings so they remained in her body, a couple in her face and the one in her sex organ at the end of her abdomen.

Carlota came back with a crystal glass in her hand.

The woman walked slowly until she saw the mantis jumping around on the floor, she got to her knees and put the glass over the insect, trapping it. Inside the glass the mantis kept jumping, insectoid moves with human intent. The flickering light of the overturned lamps cast their light over the pierced mantis and the mantis' shadow was projected across the wall.

A large shadow for such a small thing.

With her hands on her beating chest Carlota realised the shadow was odd and big… it was Dina’s naked human silhouette, still terrified of her fate, that’s all that was left of the woman she had been.

Carlota gulped… 

She pulled up the sleeve of her pyjamas, on her right arm, above the wrist, in bright red ink… a ladybug tattooed on her skin…

Now that Dina was a mere bug… how long could it be until she ran out of luck and the tickling of crawling ran through her skin?

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