#I have so many thoughts and feelings about this drawing

[flw3rrr]

I love the idea of sevika with a retired brothel worker. Like they fell in love and sevika got her a job at the last drop or smth.

I also love the idea of mama sevika. I would love to give her a child 😭 so maybe domestic fluff around sevika her wife and their child. Lil' Families are my favorite thing

The bright side of things

Parings: Sevika x Retiredbrothelworker!reader

Warnings: Nothing major, Fluff, just full on FLUFF, No mentions of Y/n, and no description of reader. Sevika trying to seem tough around the kid, but fails. (100% let me know if anything is missed!)

Word count: 1.4k

Not proofread! sorry for any typos. I wrote this at like 2 am....oops

A/n: Thank you so much for this request. I loved this idea so much when I first read it, so I had to do this one immediately! 

(I have so many more amazing requests in my inbox, and I'll get to them soon! Thanks so much again for sending this, and I hope you enjoy it)

Dividers by: @cafekitsune

Ever since you retired from working at the brothel, life seemed more simple and comfortable. Sevika, who you met a few months ago before your retirement, had grown onto you. The way she carried herself whenever she would stride around the building made you burn inside a little.

It all got better when you were told you were booked for an hour. Dreading what kind of person you'd have to entertain or boost their ego to make them feel something, but with a big surprise when your face met with Sevika's, she was leaning back, legs spread open as a cigar sat on her lips. That's how everything started for the both of you.

Sevika offered you a job at the last drop when you first told her of your retirement; it got tiring and exhausting physically and mentally. Your heart melted at her offer and took it immediately. It's something you never in your life thought you would work at, but what can you expect? It's a way better job than working at a brothel, body sore and no break.

You always remember to thank her whenever possible; Sevika isn't the type to show affection in public, so you'd always kiss her on the cheek and lips as a way of thanking her. Sharing each sweet moment with one another in your new shared apartment. The undercity wasn't some fairytale place to grow up, but with her presence, it made you forget everything.

Sevika likes that you took her offer on working at the last drop. She now gets to keep an eye on you, especially when she plays poker, and in the quick moment whenever you'd hand her a drink, your eye's lock on hers every time you hand her the glass, a soft and sweet look. Of course her gaze locks in yours in return, but never softens; she can't let half of the undercity that she's practically on her knees for you.

And this is where the both of you are now, still together and head over heels for one another. The two of you sat on the couch that sat in the small living room; you held a sketchbook, drawing random doodles, never being the professional type, though. Sevika just watches you making a game of her own on trying to guess what you're making or stares very confusingly at it. Everything was quiet and calm until a thump was heard from one of the bedroom doors.

The sound of feet padding against the wooden floor became louder until a small girl appeared with a huge smile on her face. Immediately she decided to join the both of you on the couch, but rather than sit, she began to jump and speak very fast.

"Can I please, please, pleaseee come to work with you, Momma? I want to make drinks with you." Speaking so fast, neither you nor Sevika could comprehend a single word. Glancing at Sevika for a quick moment and back to the child before stopping her from jumping on the couch to avoid any possible injuries.

"Selani, remember what we both said about jumping on the couch? You could get hurt easily." Her smile dropped as she looked at Sevika, who spoke about 'the couch wasn't cheap.' Selani gave a nod in return before sitting herself down onto the couch. Both you and Sevika took Selani in after you both found her alone with nobody near; it broke your heart badly, and with not much nagging, you both quickly became her adoptive parents.

You could tell Sevika cared for her just as much as you did, catching moments between the both of them, Selani play fighting with Sevika, who obviously would go easy on the kid knowing her strength would accidentally crush or break a bone. Or whenever Sevika's arm needed to be repaired or a quick fix, Selani was standing right by her, being the best helper.

Slowly shaking your head, sitting down by Sevika once more, both of you would take Selani with you to the last drop, as you had nobody to watch over her. Thank goodness for Jinx sometimes, but you never wanted to pressure her watching over some kid, but she always proves you wrong when Selani is gone, in seconds walking away with Jinx to do whatever.

Sevika did whatever Silco wanted her to do, whether it be cleaning up one of his messes with people or looking scary behind him. But she is graced with time to herself, which is usually at the table playing poker. You'd always say her playing poker was a show just for you because you got to watch her from afar enjoying the smirk her face always held as the other players held a look of defeat.

"You lucked out, kid; none of us are going today." Sevika spoke up, breaking you out of your train of thought. Selani frowned at the news of not going out. She always wanted to be out exploring or at the last drop, whether it be with Jinx or sneaking away and somehow finding Silco and bothering him; he seemed to not mind, you hoped.

"What? Why not?!" Crossing her little arms in frustration, both of her eyebrows slanted. That is the start of a tantrum you've grown to learn from the years you took her in--not fun at all, you remembered. It took both of you time to learn how to be parents to a child, having no prior experience, though Sevika had a tiny bit from when Jinx was younger.

Sevika let out a huge sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose before looking back up at Selani. "Because we both got the day off, and you usually take those for granted, trust me, kid." Selani's gaze just stared at the both of you; confusion covered her face. The both of you never had a day off, so why now all of a sudden? Adjusting your body to sit more straight, you faced her directly, a soft smile placed on your face knowing it's good to talk to her straightforwardly with a few restrictions but to help her feel more validated and that she had your attention.

"It's a good thing not to worry, Selani; it just means me and Sevika have the whole day with you to play or cook, even just relax if you wanted." As soon as those words left your mouth, her face lit up as if she saw a whole pile of candy with a sign that said free. "Really!" A toothy grin appeared with one missing front tooth. Giving her a nod, she immediately shot up, running over to the both of you.

Once she was in front of you both, you could tell many ideas of games were filling her little mind. Taking both of your hands, making you stand. "Do you guys have any game ideas?" Selani asked, pride filled within you, teaching her to always ask her friends if they had any ideas before doing all of hers to ensure a fair game. Within a second, Sevika tapped her shoulder before dragging you away, running. "Your it!" is what you had managed to comprehend.

"That's cheating!" Selani yelled, her laugh heard behind you as you both ran. Now ending up in your shared room with Sevika, you purposely slowed down, letting Selani catch up and tap you. Quietly, you both teamed up to get Sevika and corner her. She went in the other room first, then you followed behind.

Immediately, Selani ran at Sevika, jumping on her; following Selani's actions, avoiding hitting them both, the three of you land onto the bed. Laughter could be heard throughout the whole apartment. And if it was heard by anyone, they would only think how happy you all are. This was your safe spot, where happiness is the love of your life and beloved child. 

Sevika carefully flipped Selani over the bed, and a game of play fighting began. You watched to make sure they both didn't get hurt, and to your surprise, Selani pulled the kick method. "You called what I did cheating. What you're doing is cheating!" She joked, a smile plastered on her face as she managed to get ahold of Selani.

In a moment, Selani whispered something to Sevika, and a grin grew as they both slowly turned to look at you. "Uh oh, what's going on?" With a blink of an eye, they both grabbed you, landing back onto the bed, Selani tickled you on your stomach.

Even if your laughs filled the room, your thoughts only held on how much you adored this moment and would cherish it forever.

Life for you got automatically better and brighter once they both entered your life, and you'd never trade it away.

[thephantomtheory]

"arcane s2 was rushed" "pacing all over the place" "so many loose ends" oh my god can we stop

i will admit that maybe each episode could have used a bit more breathing room to allow certain plotlines and characters to develop, but it's being nitpicky.

remember house of the dragon? everyone thought s2 was oh so boring, "they're taking too much time, too much character development" "there's not enough fight scenes" i mean shows genuinely can never win no matter what they do. if arcane added 3 more episodes i guarantee you people would still be whining about pacing.

the great thing about arcane is how it doesn't insult its audience. the writers expect us to have some form of media literacy to draw our own conclusions, and to trust the writers to tell us when there is something that we need to know. the writers allow us to fill in some gaps ourselves with the information they've handed to us. "what about the oppression of zaun, did they just forget to address that after the war?" did we watch the same ending? no, obviously not. we saw sevika walk into the council room at the end, clearly as a voice for zaun. it shows a step in the right direction. plus, there's no reason to believe that cait doesn't still hold a position of power. especially being in a relationship with vi, do we really think that piltover will not be held accountable for the damage done to zaun over the years? that they will not try to bring forth change? these are things that we are supposed to infer for ourselves, and the fact that people feel they need to be spoon-fed every detail is frightening.

it has been stated over and over again that although these characters will not be the center of their next projects, there WILL be more series within this world. loose ends are not tied up for a reason. let's allow the mystery to pique our intrigue, and guide us into watching the next shows to search for the answers. although arcane is over, i doubt it's the last we'll hear about piltover & zaun.

i really don't mean to come off angry or sow discord among the fanbase. these are just my personal thoughts and opinions that come from a growing frustration with some of the criticism i've seen about arcane s2. and hey, i can appreciate criticism, but in this case i don't quite think it's deserved. the labor of love in every aspect of this show is the most insane thing to witness and im so grateful to have seen it, and just enjoyed ride.

[tarithenurse]

Don't hide it

Fandom: MCU Pairing/starring: Loki Odinson x/& fem!reader Word count: 1071 Content: Pining, shyness, too much empathy, fluff. A/N: Waiting for a better idea so here’s this in the meantime. Feel free to reblog if you liked it – it’s always nice with new readers. Comments are fuel for more!

Don’t hide it

Following in your friend’s footsteps, you’re grateful that Loki knows you well enough to draw you away from the feast and all the people there. Few will miss him even though he’s a prince and you...well, you’re no one important save for a rich man’s daughter who is too timid to mingle with the upper echelon of Asgard.

After a quick detour past a storage room and the kitchens, Loki and you have gathered ample supplies to last you the night and have gone where no one will look for you: the hayloft above the stables.

Sitting on the soft blankets and furs, you can look down at the stalls with horses who are half asleep or chewing lazily on their fodder.

“Here,” Loki grins as he hands you a bottle of honeyed mead, “there’s lots.”

You’ve managed to snag fruits and cheeses and meats aside from quite a few bottles of the sweet drink.

Allowing the contents of the bottle to soothe your throat, you sneak a glance at your friend who’s doing the same. You notice how his throat bobs with each pull, how his jaw bone could cut glass...and then you have to look away before your thoughts get carried to unwanted territory.

You’ve known Loki since you were five and you’ve been close friends since then. You’ve also, regrettably, developed a deeper attraction to the prince over the last few years – one that you know will never be a possibility. That’s what makes it so painful to be with him: he is the only one who knows you truly...and still you can’t tell him this one thing for fear of ruining a friendship.

“Mother is starting to host more of these balls, it seems,” Loki muses.

I’ve noticed it too. And you know why.

“Of course...both you and your brother are still not betrothed or even in relations with anyone,” you shrug before you can stop yourself.

Loki falls onto his back with a groan. “I shall let Thor have this without competition.” Another groan. “Betrothed. Relations. No thank you.” Then he props himself up by the elbow. “What about you? Are your parents not inviting suitors over for you?”

You grimace at the thought. “I’m sure it will come soon enough.”

“I can imagine it...you being the hostess and the centre of attention.”

Looking about for strands of hay to braid, you don’t notice the darkness in his eyes and he schools his facial expression before you look up at him again.

“I’d rather die,” you sigh.

It’d be torture having to greet one suitor after the other. You don’t feel comfortable around stranger or in the company of many people. That’s why you’d agreed to sneak out of this night’s feast when Loki suggested it.

Keen to change the subject too, Loki studies your features for a moment. He quite likes how you always keep your hands occupied and he’s said so in the past. He’s the only one who seems to like your odd habits.

“Not that I do not cherish our little escapades away from the crowds...but we must see to cure you of your shyness,” he suddenly announces.

“And how do you suppose we do that?” you shoot back.

He shrugs. “Depends what you fear by being near them.”

“It is not fear it is...” You have to search for the right term but come up with nothing. “It’s as though I sense all they feel, all their sentiments. Anger, joy, sadness.”

“Love?”

“Sometimes, yes...but not always.”

Loki takes a swig from the bottle, clearly considering your words. “Then you must learn to shift your attention to their physical presence instead.”

You can’t hold back the hopeless laugh. “How?”

“Imagine them naked.”

You almost choke on the mead, having all too clearly imagined him naked before you – not for the first time but more clearly now.

“Then I think I would be equally shy albeit for different reasons,” you argue once you can speak again, avoiding to meet his gaze.

Falling back on the furs and blankets, none of you say anything for a while. The only sounds are from the large creatures below and a mouse tip-tapping along a secret path on the other side of the hay.

You know Loki is thinking. He always thinks.

“Perhaps...you must simply trust that you are better than them,” he offers softly.

A scoff escapes your lips. There’s no reason to state the obvious and Loki should know as much.

Hearing the rustle of the hay beneath the furs, you sense more than see Loki scoot closer until you are lying next to each other. Then he reaches to cup your cheek, turning your face to meet his.

“I mean it. Why can’t you see it?” he admonishes softly. There’s something you can’t figure out in his voice and his gaze. Something almost painful. “You read people better than anyone I know...and you know me better than anyone...why won’t you trust me?”

His hand is cool on your skin. For a brief second your eyes stray to his lips and a sudden urge to kiss him fill you...yet you do nothing. You just close your eyes and relish the nearness.

“It’s not that I do not trust you, Loki,” you begin to explain, “but you’re my friend a-”

“Don’t take my word for it as a friend. Hear me as...as a man,” he growls, causing shivers to run down your spine and something to bloom in the pit of your stomach. “I see all the other ladies at the feasts yet none of them are as wonderful as you.”

Opening your eyes, you’re met with blazing sincerity. “What do you mean?”

“For someone as emotionally gifted, you truly are dense right now.”

You would have recoiled at his harsh words. Would have served a rebuttal or asked for a clarification once more, maybe. But all of that is lost to you the moment his dips his head down and kisses you.

Fierce. Lips pressing hard together and noses squishing together slightly. You’re too surprised to do anything but grasp of the collar of his tunic, holding you steady in a world that suddenly seems to dip and rotate around the two of you.

You’re both out of breath by the time he pulls back, watching you intently.

“Do you understand now?” he asks quietly.

You nod. Then pull him down for a kiss more.

[lumitoiile]

zhongli : [fleeting.]

☆ — tw! + content: by the time the lord of geo even comes to terms with his feelings, it's already far too late... angst, themes of d3.th. gn! reader (no pronouns.)

throughout the extended course of his life, zhongli has long since learned to appreciate the beauty in all things—even the temporary ones. 

the way the leaves fall from trees, the glow of lanterns at night, the way the wind breezes through the streets of liyue harbor... all things that would eventually come to pass, eroding away with time. mortals were very much the same. he has walked alongside them, observed them, and let them go, as is the way of the world.

then you came along.

you weren't the first human to intrigue him, but there was something bewildering about your presence in his life. perhaps it was how you treated him so unguardedly, never hesitating to share your thoughts, your laughter, your kindness.

you worked at a small tea shop he frequented, and though he'd initially visit for the quality of the tea, he found himself returning for another reason entirely. he told himself it was simple admiration, an appreciation for your warmth and the light you brought into the lives of others. but deep down, he knew he couldn't be fooled.

there was something different about you. something he could never fully place. it gnawed at the edges of his mind, bothering him in ways that defied his understanding. you would smile at him with an openness that felt disarmingly sincere, and speak to him with an ease he'd only ever known among those closest to him in his long, distant past.

it was troubling. dangerous. even in his mortal guise, he should have known better than to allow such feelings to grow.

so he kept his distance. you were temporary, after all; a fleeting thing. even when you would reach out with a friendly invitation or make a small effort to draw him closer, he would find an excuse to step back. to draw a line, to remind himself who he was... and what you were.

he decided he would simply admire you from afar, steadfast in his resolve and having convinced himself he was doing the right thing. what would come of permitting himself to indulge? only heartache and loss, things he had seen unfold countless times before.

there was one day when you had lingered by his table a bit longer than usual, a hopeful look in your eyes. "mister zhongli, would you care to join me on a walk? my shift ends soon, and the sunset is just lovely at this hour."

he hesitated, a flash of warmth stirring in his chest at the thought alone. he could almost picture it, walking with you, sharing a quiet moment alone together as the sun dipped below the horizon.

but he would not let himself yield. he cleared his throat, offering an apologetic smile. "i appreciate the offer, but i have business to attend to."

you nodded once and tried to hide the disappointment in your eyes. but he saw through you, and the sight lingered with him long after he left the tea shop.

still, no matter how many times he had refused you, your kindness never wavered. as the years passed by, you continued to reach out in small ways—a shared story, a cup of tea specially brewed just the way he liked, an invitation to join you on an evening stroll. sometimes he accepted, allowing himself brief moments of joy and companionship.

but he always maintained a wall between the two of you, an invisible barrier he felt he could not cross. he constantly reminded himself that it was for the best; you were human, he had told himself, incredibly fragile. it would be cruel to impose on your life, no matter how brief it might be. the least he could do was ensure that your world remained free of his interference.

but time moved on, as it always does.

your laughter grew quieter, your once sure steps slower. zhongli saw the signs and felt the familiar pang of inevitability. he watched as you grew older, the years etching lines of wisdom into your face and leaving your loud, bright voice soft with age, until one day... you simply weren't there.

he visited the tea shop for the first time in ages, only to receive confused looks and strange stares upon asking for you. who was he referring to? there was no one here by that name, they had said. no one they knew of.

you were gone.

loss was not a new experience for zhongli. though it wasn't until he reached the place where your ashes had been scattered—a spot up in the mountains overlooking the harbor—that he truly understood the finality of it all. there would be no more lingering glances, soft smiles, or warm invitations to walk with you and admire the sunset. he would never again see the way your eyes lit up when you'd greet him hello, or hear your laughter.

the regret sank in like a stone, unyielding and overwhelming. he had anticipated this. he thought he had prepared himself for this. but the painful ache in his chest grew into something sharp, something that twisted with every breath he took.

he knelt there, reflecting on every opportunity he had missed, the words he never expressed, the warmth he had turned away from. he told himself it was for the best, that he was doing what was right... that a god had no business falling for a mortal. yet here he was, mourning you with a grief so profound it left him hollow.

"i thought this was the answer," he said, his words disappearing into the gentle breeze. "i believed i could spare myself this pain by keeping you at arm's length. but perhaps... i was a fool."

the wind rustled gently around him, offering a small sense of comfort. he closed his eyes and allowed the ache to settle within him. he stayed there for what must have been hours, grieving quietly as cherished memories of you played in his mind. in that moment, he realized that there had been no safety in the distance he kept, no way to avoid the torture of your absence.

and as the sun faded below the mountains, casting the harbor in hues of gold and amber, he had finally declared the words he had never spoken aloud.

"i cared for you," he whispered. "more than i should have. more than you knew..."

the wind carried his words away, fading into the stillness of the world. morax, the god of contracts, had lost something he could never retrieve—not with all the wealth and wisdom in the world.

perhaps in another life, he could have loved you properly.

© lumitoiile. please do not copy, steal, translate, or edit my work.

[thepascalparadox]

Chapter One: Beyond the Window

Word Count | 1.7k

Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x OC F!Reader

Chapter Warnings | None, just introducing the two of them! You always loved the gentle song of birds beyond your window. It offers a fleeting escape from the grim realities that haunt the Roman people outside the gates.

If only I could save them. Yet, one can only do so much. Your father does not bear the name "Justus" by chance. He strives with all his might, doing what he can for the empire. Since your mother’s passing, he has grown quieter, more withdrawn, even distant at times. And yet, the love he holds for you remains steadfast and undeniable, as does the love you bear for him. He has done everything for you, even in matters of matrimony.

At times, you wonder if you should care whether the man you marry will be young, old, or at least pleasing to the eye. But the truth is, you do not. You’ve heard tales of other women in your position who dared to hope for love, only to be met with anguish and betrayal. You will not be one of them.

Marry. Bear an heir. Go somewhere distant. That is the plan.

No love in sight, no heartbreak. Only you, poetry, music, and the birds that sing just beyond your window.

· · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

"I do not to see the purpose of wearing such elegance, when all eyes must rest upon the oh-so-great general of Rome," you say, your annoyance evident as you prepare for yet another festivity you must attend. Or better, endure.

"It is a moment of great significance for your father and for the imperium, Melita," Vera replies, her voice carrying the weight of a serious tone. "And besides, you should not speak of the general in such a manner. He is a man of honor, having done much for Rome."

You miss the days when you and Vera would run freely through the palace gardens, carefree as children, with no burdens to bear. Now, she assists you in preparing for events you cannot avoid, and you wonder if she still sees you as a friend, or only as the filia Caesaris—the daughter of the emperor.

"I apologize," you say softly. "The people hold him in great esteem, and I should indeed be grateful for all he has done for my father. I just wish we could remain here, listening to the ladies gossip about the handsome soldiers returning from war."

"It will be worth it," Vera says with a glint of excitement. "We shall see those soldiers with our own eyes. At last, we shall be the ones doing the gossiping."

"May the gods have mercy on us," you mutter, already dreading the upcoming event. · · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

The sound of metal striking metal still echoes in the general’s ears. The scent of blood, the desperate cries for mercy—it all lingers, vivid and fresh in his mind.

It was you or them. Your home for their home.

He wishes he could be like the other soldiers, who seek fleeting solace in the arms of strangers, lovers whose names they scarcely remember. But those were the days of his youth. He is now the general of the mighty Roman Empire. His focus must remain on strategy, on returning as many men as possible to their homes.

He hears his name called for the second time.

“Forgive me, what was it you said?” The presence of the lady at the entrance of the tent only then registered. His mind was still trapped in the aftershocks of battle, not yet fully adjusted to the safety of the moment. It always took a few days to refocus, to remind himself he was no longer in danger.

“Excuse me, dominus,” she replies softly “I asked if the armor suits you, if it is comfortable. The emperor insists it is to your liking.”

He finds himself momentarily lost in the tenderness of her voice, the sound of a woman’s presence - he had missed the feeling.

“Ah, yes,” he says, shaking himself from his thoughts. “It fits very well, indeed. Thank you for your service. I shall be in the chariot in a moment.” · · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

The triumphal chariot draws near, as the man within waves to the crowd, who scream his name and hurl flowers in his direction. He is indeed very loved. You actually missed hearing and seeing the roman people so happy. After all, some of their sons are returning home. If the general returns, it means the war is over, and peace—albeit brief—shall once again grace the empire.

"The people adore Acacius," your father remarks, ensuring that you and the senators hear him. His tone carries pride, almost as if he himself had returned victorious from the battlefield.

"Does this mean you no longer wish to conquer, Father? Is the war truly over, or shall we find peace but only for a moment?" You whisper, careful that only he hears. A lady should not meddle in matters of politics, but your father had always encouraged you to think freely, to care for the well-being of the Roman people and do what you can to help them.

He leans closer, his whisper low, careful. "This is not for me alone to decide, Vita mea. The Senate desires more land and more wealth. My enemies long for the fall of Rome. The rich seek to fill the Colosseum, to profit from the slaughter and tragedies within. If I do not appease them, they will come for our heads. Do you understand?"

You nod, seeing the weariness in the emperor's eyes. He is just, but at what cost? Trying to please everyone, sometimes, can deny you from your own beliefs. 

The general ascends the stairs, and now you may better observe him. He is a towering figure, muscles honed from battle—as soldiers ought to be—his face the very likeness that artists would strive to capture in paintings and sculptures. His gaze is unyielding, as one who has borne witness to horrors, yet bears them silently.

"Emperor Antoninus Justus, I have taken Namidia in your name, so your dominion may eclipse that of all emperors before you," the general declares with stoic solemnity.

"Ah, Acacius, you need not be so formal," the emperor replies, a rare smile curving his lips, a smile you've seen only on joyous occasions.

"We shall celebrate your victory with grandeur in the Colosseum," one of the senators exclaims, raising his cup of wine in eager celebration, seeking the approval of the other senators.

The general, however, would prefer to retire for much-needed rest, would he not? You notice the fleeting glance exchanged between your father and the general—an unspoken understanding shared between them.

"There is no need for such, the glory must be all yours," Acacius replies, his voice still heavy with that same unyielding seriousness.

"The games will proceed, whether you desire them or not, General," the most influential senator among the merchants, Macrelius, declares, his tone laced with authority, intending to compel the general into submission. But Acacius does not flinch. In fact, you notice a fleeting look of irrelevance from the general toward the senator, as though he were but a fleeting shadow, insignificant in comparison to the horrors the general has witnessed. You smile, a quiet thought passing through your mind—perhaps the general shares the same defiant spirit that you carry within you.

"The people of Rome, and my family, are forever grateful for your devotion, General Marcus Acacius," you finally speak, your voice cutting through the tension in the room, a small attempt to make your presence known amidst the sea of men.

It is only then that you realize your eyes have not yet met those of the soldier. But when they do, it is as though the rhythm of your heart falters for a brief moment, missing its beat. Acacius, too, seems surprised, his face relaxing slightly, as though a weight has lifted for the briefest instant, dispelling the tension that hangs in the air. But that impression, it seems, lasts only a heartbeat—or perhaps less.

The general takes your hand, now appearing so delicate in his grasp, and with the utmost care, almost imperceptibly, he presses a kiss to your fingers. Not in a manner of flirtation, but with the solemn respect of a soldier honoring his superior. "It is an honor, to me, Caesaris filia," he says, his voice steady but laced with reverence. "To serve Rome as your father has called me to do."

He looks into your eyes, and you are not quite certain, but it seems as though the dark center of his gaze has deepened, growing larger with intensity. He holds your gaze, almost as if testing whether you will flinch, afraid of his stature, his rank, or the ghosts of battles he has fought.

But just as he did with the senator, you do not waver—not even slightly. You keep your eyes locked with his, and maybe—just maybe—you take the opportunity to truly observe his face.

He has what you would call "a funny nose", though far from ugly—certainly not. His hair, touched with strands of gray, weaves through the dark curls in a wild, unruly way. Faint lines trace the space between his brows, the mark of one who has carried more burdens than most could bear. He has lived enough to wear wisdom in his features, but you cannot find a single thing that would make him anything less than captivating—not one flaw to diminish the sight of him.

And just like that, the moment slips away, and the general withdraws his hand. You nod as gracefully as you can and begin to make your way toward the door, your presence no longer required in the room.

As you leave, you see men from all corners of the hall approaching him—offering congratulations, smiles that seem to lack warmth or sincerity. Yet, before you can step out, you steal one last glance at the general, realizing that your earlier mockery of him was unfounded. He seems like a man of worth.

Unexpectedly, your eyes meet his once again. You cannot shake the feeling that he sought you out—that he waited for you to look, after all, the door to leave lies just behind him. This time, however, you avert your gaze. Not out of fear or submission.

But because you know that if you linger on him for just one second longer, you may lose yourself to the way your heart stirs in his presence.

[screamofdespair]

池田理代子 Riyoko Ikeda Interview About Oniisama E... (2016)

池田理代子 Riyoko Ikeda

Mangaka and Vocal artist, she began drawing mangas during her university studies, and her work The Rose of Versailles, serialized in 1972, became a huge success, even turning into a social phenomenon. She became highly appreciated internationally. She received the Excellence Award from the Japanese Cartoonists Association for Orpheus no Mado in 1980. The French government decorated her with the Légion d’Honneur for her contributions to spreading French history and culture in Japan.

What led to the creation of Oniisama E... ?

When the serialization of The Rose of Versailles ended, I had already decided that my next work would be a historical epic : Orpheus no Mado. But since it would take time to prepare for the historical research and start drawing it, I thought I could write something in the meantime (laughs). I feel a bit apologetic calling it just a filler, though, but actually, "Oniisama E..." was born from my own personal experiences. It’s a very important and cherished memory for me, and it just came rushing out all at once.

So, was your correspondence with the "Oniisama" also based on your own experience ?

When I was in my third year of middle school, just like Nanako, there was a preparatory course offered by university students from the University of Tokyo. I asked the graduate student who was in charge of social studies (the model for Takehiko Henmi) the same thing Nanako did: "Could you be my 'Oniisama'?" (laughs). I was deeply fascinated by the concept of an 'Oniisama" It's different from the idea of love, though. Through our letters, I learned a lot about history, religion, and various things. When I mentioned my interest in Christianity, he wrote me, "Christianity as it is called, not only « participated » in the WW2 but was also one of its central protagonists : This is a historical truth.." I learned so much from those letters and grew a lot. I even went to the University of Tokyo’s May Festival. Actually, the "Oniisama" always had someone with him, like the omiki sake bottle. That person was the model for Takashi Ichinomiya. He was a person with a thin and delicate appearance, giving the impression of a young master from a wealthy family.

What were you like back then (during your school years) ?

I was really bad at sports, but for some reason, I was quite popular with the girls during my middle and high school years. In middle school, which was co-ed, I had good grades, had a very tanned skin, was tall, and completely lacked femininity, maybe that’s why (laughs). Even in high school, younger students would write me letters. After graduating, I found out that knowing someone like 'Ikeda-san' was really a source of pride for them.

Did you have the storyline planned out from the beginning of the serialization to the ending ?

It was more like ideas came to me as I was drawing. I don’t clearly remember if I had planned everything out until the end, but let’s say I had set certain elements in advance. For example, the idea that Kaoru and Henmi would be a couple came to me along the way (laughs). Even for The Rose of Versailles, I hadn’t decided from the start that Oscar and André would end up together. Of course, there are aspects I plan carefully, but in the end, the characters started acting on their own. And when that happens, I feel like the story is "successful."

Nanako is a very emotional girl, but also extremely determined. As for Mariko, she seems to embody the 'tsundere' archetype to some extent.

Nanako is very similar to Rosalie, isn’t she? Devoted, but in the end, she’s the strongest (laughs). For Mariko, there was a real-life model: a friend whose father wrote erotic novels. I gradually incorporated various elements from the people around me. I think many aspects are direct projections. Even the way Kaoru speaks, that’s really how we used to talk back then. We would say things like “Omae-san” (laughs). Oniisama E... reflects a lot of memories and episodes from my student life.

Oniisama E... is a short story, so its general recognition is low, but it has quite a passionate fanbase.

There are many men who tell me, "I'm a fan!". Recently, it's no longer embarrassing for men to enjoy shoujo manga. During autograph sessions, quite a few people enthusiastically tell me, "I love this work!" Some even say, "Oniisama E... is really my favorite!" When I hear that, I can't help but think, "Well, here's a true connoisseur!" (laughs). Of course, there are also many women among the fans. In that regard, I think Oniisama E... has nothing to envy from The Rose of Versailles.

And then, in 1991, it was adapted into an anime.

Actually, I was very busy at the time, so I wasn’t able to watch it properly… What left a strong impression on me, though, was how they carefully portrayed Fukiko’s feelings for Takehiko, which I hadn’t depicted in the original. I thought, "Oh, that’s so wonderful." It really fit perfectly, and there was no sense of discomfort at all.

It's a remarkable aspect of the anime adaptation. I wish I could have read it in your manga as well.

If I had a little more time, I would have liked to draw it myself. Originally, due to the planning period for Orpheus no Mado, I was rushed. Even though I still had many ideas in mind, it felt like I was forced to wrap it up (laughs).

Given what you’ve just mentioned, have you ever thought about remaking or creating a sequel to your own works?

Right now, I’m drawing a chapter for The Rose of Versailles, but... the art from that time was really bad, and I even hate re-reading it. I realize there were things I could only draw back then. When the serialization of The Rose of Versailles ended, I realized that in order to depict Europe, I would have needed much more knowledge of Christianity. That’s why, before starting Orpheus no Mado, I spent a lot of time studying Christianity. I don’t think I could have drawn the story without that knowledge. A work is the product of its time, of its era, the sensitivities, and the knowledge of the author, so remaking something seems difficult to me.

In 2017, you'll be celebrating your 50th anniversary as a writer.

I can't believe it's already been so long, and at the same time, I realize that some parts of my body are starting to hurt, which reminds me of my age (laughs). I've also been very active in music, but lately, progress has been slower. However, I truly want to cherish each passing year. For me, true happiness is living in a way that I would never regret anything, even if I were to die tomorrow. There's no reason to look back on the past. After all, it’s impossible to rewrite it. I don’t reread my works much either (laughs). I’ve lived my way, sometimes causing trouble to others, but doing what I wanted (laughs).

For this Blu-ray release, new illustrations were specially drawn.

I wasn’t satisfied with the drawings of The Rose of Versailles because I think they were awkwardly executed. Personally, I think Oniisama E... is the work where I drew the best. At that time, I was able to draw very precisely, even the lines were very clean. Over time, some works become hard to rediscover, but Oniisama E... is the one I drew almost effortlessly, simply letting the ideas flow. That’s why, even today, I can dive back into it without effort (laughs).

To those who have brought this product.

Oniisama E... is a work that originates from my own experiences, and it’s the work that I’ve let mature the longest, so I have a strong emotional connection to it. The idea for The Rose of Versailles came to me when I was in my second year of high school, which is quite early, but Oniisama E... came even before that. I would like as many people as possible to see and read it.

About Osamu Tezuka :

He wasn’t my lover, nor a relative, and calling him a friend would be too presumptuous. When I heard the news of his death, I really hit the desk and cried uncontrollably. That feeling was something I’d never experienced before, and it was the first time I felt that way about Tezuka-sensei. I truly respected him. Recently, it’s been the same with Muhammad Ali. Tezuka-sensei's Wellspring of the Crane was the first work that deeply moved me when I read it. It really squeezed my heart. I read it at a friend's house, and after returning home, I couldn’t eat, and my mother wondered if I had picked up some food off the ground. Ah, no one could understand! I remember thinking, as a child, that my sensitivity was different from others! (laughs).

Source: Oniisama E... Blu-Ray BOX SET Booklet.

Note : The translation might not be the most accurate word-for-word, but i did my best to make it coherent.

[sassenach77yle]

7x09 “Unfinished Business”

JENNY & YOUNG IAN

AS THE TIME GREW SHORTER, Ian found it impossible to sleep. The need to go, to find Rachel, burned in him so that he felt hot coals in the pit of his stomach all of the time. Auntie Claire called it heartburn, and it was. She said it was from bolting his food, though, and it wasn’t that—he could barely eat.He spent his days with his father, as much as he could. Sitting in the corner of the speak-a-word room, watching his father and his elder brother go about the business of Lallybroch, he couldn’t understand how it would be possible to stand up and walk away, to leave them behind. To leave his father forever behind.During the days, there were things to be done, folk to be visited, to talk to, and the land to be walked over, the stark beauty of it soothing when his feelings grew too heated to bear. At night, though, the house lay quiet, the creaking silence punctuated by his father’s distant cough and his two young nephews’ heavy breathing in the room beside him. He began to feel the house itself breathe around him, drawing one ragged, heavy-chested gasp after another, and to feel the weight of it on his own chest, so he sat up in bed, gulping air only to be sure he could. And finally he would slide out of bed, steal downstairs with his boots in his hands, and let himself out of the kitchen door to walk the night under clouds or stars, the clean wind fanning the coals of his heart to open flame, until he should find his tears and peace in which to shed them.One night he found the door unbolted already. He went out cautiously, looking round, but saw no one. Likely Young Jamie gone to the barn; one of the two cows was due to calf any day. He should go and help, maybe … but the burning under his ribs was painful, he needed to walk a bit first. Jamie would have fetched him in any case, had he thought he needed help.He turned away from the house and its outbuildings and headed up the hill, past the sheep pen, where the sheep lay in somnolent mounds, pale under the moon, now and then emitting a soft, sudden bah!, as though startled by some sheep dream.Such a dream took shape before him suddenly, a dark form moving against the fence, and he uttered a brief cry that made the nearer sheep start and rustle in a chorus of low-pitched bahs.“Hush, a bhailach,” his mother said softly. “Get this lot started, and ye’ll wake the dead.”He could make her out now, a small, slender form, with her unbound hair a soft mass against the paleness of her shift.

Speak o’ the dead,” he said rather crossly, forcing his heart down out of his throat. “I thought ye were a ghost. What are ye doing out here, Mam?”“Counting sheep,” she said, a thread of humor in her voice. “That’s what ye’re meant to do when ye canna sleep, aye?”“Aye.” He came and stood beside her, leaning on the fence. “Does it work?”“Sometimes.”They stood still for a bit, watching the sheep stir and settle. They smelled sweetly filthy, of chewed grass and sheep shit and greasy wool, and Ian found that it was oddly comforting just to be with them.“Does it work to count them, when ye ken already how many there are?” he asked, after a short silence. His mother shook her head.“No, I say their names over. It’s like saying the rosary, only ye dinna feel the need to be asking. It wears ye down, asking.”Especially when ye ken the answer’s going to be no, Ian thought, and moved by sudden impulse, put his arm around her shoulders. She made a small sound of amused surprise, but then relaxed, laying her head against him. He could feel the small bones of her, light as a bird’s, and thought his heart might break.They stood for a while that way, and then she freed herself, gently, moving away a little and turning to him.“Sleepy yet?”“No.”“Aye, well. Come on, then.” Not waiting for an answer, she turned and made her way through the dark, away from the house.There was a moon, half full, and he’d been out more than long enough for his eyes to adjust; it was simple to follow, even through the jumbled grass and stones and heather that grew on the hill behind the house.Where was she taking him? Or rather, why? For they were heading uphill, toward the old broch—and the burying ground that lay nearby. He felt a chill round his heart—did she mean to show him the site of his father’s grave?But she stopped abruptly and stooped, so he nearly tripped over her. Straightening up, she turned and put a pebble into his hand.“Over here,” she said softly, and led him to a small square stone set in the earth. He thought it was Caitlin’s grave—the child who’d come before Young Jenny, the sister who’d lived but one day—but then saw that Caitlin’s stone lay a few feet away.

This one was the same size and shape, but—he squatted by it, and running his fingers over the shadows of its carving, made out the name.

Yeksa’a.

“Mam,” he said, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears.

.“Is that right, Ian?” she said, a little anxious. “Your da said he wasna quite certain of the spelling of the Indian name. I had the stone carver put both, though. I thought that was right.”

“Both?” But his hand had already moved down and found the other name.

Iseabaíl.

He swallowed hard.“That was right,” he said very softly. His hand rested flat on the stone, cool under his palm.She squatted down beside him, and reaching, put her own pebble on the stone. It was what you did, he thought, stunned, when you came to visit the dead. You left a pebble to say you’d been there; that you hadn’t forgotten.His own pebble was still in his other hand; he couldn’t quite bring himself to lay it down. Tears were running down his face, and his mother’s hand was on his arm.

“It’s all right, mo duine,” she said softly. “Go to your young woman. Ye’ll always be here wi’ us.”

The steam of his tears rose like the smoke of incense from his heart, and he laid the pebble gently on his daughter’s grave. Safe among his family.It wasn’t until many days later, in the middle of the ocean, that he realized his mother had called him a man.

83 COUNTING SHEEP ~ An Echo in the Bone

[lovesickforprice]

"Bi-Han and Y/N, former lovers, struggle with forbidden feelings while serving the Lin Kuei."

---

Frosted Shadows (Part 1)

The moon hung high above the Lin Kuei temple, casting its pale glow over the frost-covered grounds. The team had returned from the southern outpost hours ago, the threat neutralized for now. But Bi-Han’s mind wasn’t on the mission’s success—it was on you.

He sat alone in the training grounds, the cold wind biting at his skin through his sleeveless uniform. His arms rested on his knees, the frost around him spreading like a reflection of his restless thoughts. He knew you would come. You always did.

“You’re freezing the training mats again,” your voice came softly from behind him, a teasing lilt that carried the warmth he craved.

Bi-Han didn’t turn immediately, letting your steps draw closer. When he finally looked up, you were standing over him, arms crossed and a faint smirk on your lips. You had discarded your mask, something you only did when it was just the two of you. The sight of your face, unguarded, was a reminder of everything he’d lost—and everything he still wanted.

“I’ll replace them,” he said gruffly, his lips twitching into a shadow of a smile.

You raised an eyebrow. “Or you could stop ruining them in the first place.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, but the banter faded quickly. Your gaze lingered on him longer than usual, and he saw it—the same longing he felt every time he looked at you.

“You’ve gotten taller again,” he said suddenly, his voice low, almost reverent. His eyes swept over you, taking in the subtle changes. “And your hair…it’s longer now.”

Your expression softened, and you crouched down in front of him, your face now level with his. “And you’ve gotten rougher,” you replied, your tone gentle but firm. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the coarse stubble on his jaw. “You didn’t have this back then.”

He caught your wrist gently, holding it for a moment longer than necessary. His thumb brushed over your pulse, steady and strong beneath his touch. “It’s been a long time since ‘back then,’” he said quietly, his eyes meeting yours.

You didn’t look away, and neither did he. There was no shyness between you, no hesitation. You’d already been past that point long ago. The two of you had shared too many late-night conversations, too many stolen kisses in shadowed corners, too many whispered promises of forever before it had all been ripped away.

“You never wanted this, did you?” you asked, your voice softer now.

Bi-Han’s grip on your wrist tightened ever so slightly, though not enough to hurt. “I wanted you,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “But it was never about what I wanted.”

Your parents had disapproved of him from the start, despite your history. To them, he was destined to be Grandmaster—a role too sacred, too demanding for something as fleeting as love. And to the Lin Kuei elders, your relationship had been seen as a distraction, a weakness he couldn’t afford.

But to him, you were never a weakness. You were the one thing that made him feel alive in a world of duty and ice.

“You still want me,” you said, no question in your tone, only certainty.

He let out a low chuckle, one without humor. “You don’t make it easy to forget.”

Your hand slipped free of his grip, only for you to place it on his cheek, your touch soft but grounding. “Then stop trying.”

The words hung between you, fragile yet unyielding. His resolve cracked, the frost around him dissipating as his other hand reached up to cover yours. His calloused fingers were rough against your smoother skin, but you didn’t pull away. You never had.

“I can’t,” he said, though the words felt hollow. “You know why.”

“I know what they’ve told you,” you countered, leaning closer. “But what about what you want, Bi-Han? What about what we want?”

Your faces were close now, close enough for him to see the faint lines of frost still clinging to your lashes, the way your lips parted slightly as you waited for him to answer. He hated how easily you unraveled him, how your presence alone made him question everything he’d been taught to believe.

“I’ve always wanted you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But wanting doesn’t change the rules.”

Your lips twitched into a faint, sad smile. “Then break them. For once, stop being the Grandmaster and just…be you.”

He didn’t answer, but his silence spoke volumes. You knew him too well, knew the war raging inside him. And despite everything, you leaned closer, your forehead pressing gently against his.

The cold air around you seemed to still, as if the entire world was holding its breath. His eyes closed, and he allowed himself this moment—this stolen fragment of time where it was just you and him, no titles, no expectations.

“I miss this,” you whispered, your breath warm against his lips. “I miss us.”

He exhaled shakily, his hand moving to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. “So do I,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly.

For a heartbeat, it felt like everything else had fallen away. The rules, the clan, the burdens of leadership—they were distant echoes in the face of the one thing he truly cared about.

But then, the faint sound of footsteps echoed from the corridor. The moment shattered, and Bi-Han pulled back abruptly, his expression hardening once more.

You blinked, your hand slipping from his face as you stood. The mask was back—not just the one you wore as his second-in-command, but the one you both wore to protect yourselves.

“Goodnight, Grandmaster,” you said, your voice carefully neutral as you turned and walked away.

He watched you go, his chest heavy with everything he couldn’t say.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, though you were already gone.

As the frost crept back across the training mats, Bi-Han clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. He would lead the Lin Kuei. He would fulfill his duty.

But deep down, he knew the frost in his veins could never erase the fire you’d left behind.

----------

This is my first ever fanfict guys so I'm sorry if it's bad but I just really like bi han so I wanted to write this for a long time 🤷🏽‍♀️

[choshasan]

Why do we find it okay as artists to redo "the greats" arts, to make 1:1 of them, to use them as practice, to refference them in our own works,

But then if you did the same with a small artist's work, you're suddenly an art theif, a cheater, a liar, a terrible person??

Why is it acceptable for me to make fanart of any anime character I so please, but if I come across someone's OCs online I'm expected to ask their concent if I wanna make fanart?

Small artists and "the greats" are the same, we're all just artists.

I genuinly don't understand it. If I want to paint a 1:1 of The desperate Man (Gustave Courbet), or if I wanna make a thousand fanarts of Deadpool that's fully okay, but if I even think of doing that with a small artist, it's suddenly one of the worst treasons I could have ever commited on art and I get stripped of my title of artist??

That's the thing I hate the most of the art community too, you're expected to know from the beginning all these sets of "rules" and are never given an explanation to them

Like, I remember getting fucking torn to shreads on instagram once, when I was fucking 11-12 years old, because I found a drawing I liked on google, decided to redraw it in the exact style with different colors for the characters, like?? Sorry, I am a *child* who doesn't know shit about the internet and tried to do something I thought was nice and neat???

And the worst part is, deppending where your art lands? Some artists will tell you it's okay, there's no rules to art, do as you want!

And others will send you death threats for so much as existing bruh.

To me personally, I fall in the category of art has one rule; don't claim another person's work as your own. Don't just screenshot someone's art, post it and say you made it.

(Obv with the new age, don't use A.I., but that'll never be art so.. 💀)

For everything else, there are no rules. Trace, copy, make a 1:1, build upon pre-existing works, draw someone's OCs, share your own OCs, inspire yourself of different works and mediums, do as you wish, share what you want, art is not something to be gatekept, it's the most human thing there is. Music, drawing, painting, writing, feeling inspired, Creating. it all comes to us naturally as humans. We all love beauty and creating it. Let's not stop eachother from experiencing the beauty of creation. ♡

Also, never try to ruin someone else's work or tear them down, but that mostly applies to everything in life, not art specifically..

Lets build a beautiful community together and nurture eachother's talents with love and appreciation ♡

Feel free to reblog & add any tags to this! I tried to tag as many art forms / communities as I could think right now ♡

[felagund-the-valiant]

Hobbies they like to share with you (Maedhros, Caranthir, Fingon, Turgon)

A/N: haven’t been on tumblr in a hot minute, damn. I come semi-back presenting you some hcs!

Maedhros: strategy games

Maedhros is an excellent strategist, and he greatly enjoys games that challenge this skill. Board games or card games, either is fine with him.

Unconquered chess grandmaster of Arda.

He’s a gracious winner and would never dream of making you feel bad for losing. Instead, he’ll try to encourage you, so you keep up your motivation.

He has patience for days (perks of being the oldest of a dozen grandchildren) and nothing can make him lose focus. Good luck trying to distract him.

Has zero tolerance for cheating and is quite perceptive, so he’ll call you out at the slightest suspicion.

Since he’s good at reading others’ expressions and body language, he’ll quickly notice if you’re becoming stressed or impatient and will offer to take a break, if necessary.

His unending patience makes him a great teacher and he’s more than happy to share his strategic knowledge with you. Maybe afterwards you’ll have a chance of actually winning. If he lets you.

Caranthir: cross stitching

Caranthir seems to have inherited his grandmother’s talent when it comes to all things sewing.

It’s a good meditative method to clear his head and it’s his go-to activity after a lot of stress.

Often incorporates elements of Míriel’s designs into his work, as a way of honouring her memory.

Since cross stitching is quite easy to learn, he won’t hesitate to invite you to join him. He’ll draw you in with motives like your favourite flowers or animals and once you’ve gotten the hang of it, the two of you have a lot of fun coming up with designs together.

He enjoys the companionable silence cross stitching together can bring. Sometimes the two of you sit together for hours not speaking a single word and it’s never awkward.

Fingon: cooking

Fingon is a damn good cook and proud of it.

He was prone to starting food fights during cooking when he was young, but his parents scolded that habit out of him very quickly, teaching him instead to not be wasteful.

As a result, he can somehow still make five-star meals out of leftovers.

Even if you’re not a good cook yourself, he’s somehow able to enlist your help in a way that makes you feel productive and helpful. Leave the fine measurements to him, you just worry about the basics like chopping ingredients.

Loves trying out different cuisines. One of his early methods of befriending the Sindar was exchanging recipes. Sometimes it’s that simple.

Very enthusiastic about taste testing. If you have kids, he’ll definitely make them participate to hone their palate early on. You best believe his children are going to be the best cooks in the west.

Turgon: miniature city building

If there’s one thing that fascinates Turgon, it’s tasks that require a lot of meticulous planning and fine details.

He’s fascinated by architecture and incorporates many different styles into his projects.

Is Gondolin really based on Tirion or is it one of the cities he designed back in Valinor? Only he knows the answer.

Once the cities are done, you better don’t touch them! Little Aredhel once thought they were toys and played out a “historically accurate reenactment” of an early Elven settlement getting raided by orcs … she hasn’t been allowed in Turgon’s workshop ever since.

Like Caranthir, he’s a big fan of companionable silence, though in his case it might not necessarily be intentional. He’ll invite you over to work on a project together, thinking it’s a great way to talk to you more and get to know you better, only to end up so deep in the zone you’ll have to do most of the talking.

His workshop is his little hideaway from the outside world and letting you in shows how much he trusts you. Doesn’t matter if you’re not gifted at fine motor tasks and can’t really help him, your presence is more than enough for him.

[quitesins]

Prince!Shouto x Writer/Artist!Reader

Masterlist

Sfw, Female!Reader, Fantasy Au, random thought that I just wanted out of my head, mind the typos! Dialogue under the cut!

You’re a writer/artist, gaining quick popularity across the kingdom due to the satirical works you put out, particularly the ones where you satirise The King.

Your pieces are doing numbers. Sung in pubs, tacked to every board in town, even shoved into the arms of royal guards who can’t do anything but stand at their post and take it.

And you’re beaming, practically swimming in money and praise. You let a bit of it get to your head, suddenly dismissive of any consequences that come with mocking the royal family. Especially with your foreign pen name, feeling safe signing the end of each work while cozied up in your little house hidden away in the forest… that is until you get a knock on the door and… it’s The Prince.

[Or Shouto, crown prince, can barely hold in his laugh every time his father calls a meeting to discuss the crudely drawn pictures of him being pasted around the city. And god the first time he heard one of your poems? Being read aloud in the formal voice of one of the guards? It wasn’t just Shouto who had to excuse himself from the table, but his mother too, trailing behind him with a soft smile on her face.

He makes sure the guards keep any of the flyers that make their way into the castle, citing it as “evidence,” crucial to the investigations. Really he just takes them to his room, gleefully pinning them up. Even taking comfort in them on particularly cruel training nights.

He’s never been malicious, but when it comes to his father, he can be quite testy. Petulant for good reason. Your drawings of his father, the harsh scribbles accompanied by wretched songs, somehow he feels seen. Like the awful hate in his heart is warm and somewhere appreciated.

Shouto also thinks the way you draw his father as just a massive rectangle with two deeply furrowed brows is really funny.]

“You know…” Shouto speaks, unintentionally solemn. You prepare to be scolded on instinct. “You’ve drawn my hair on the wrong side.”

In his hand he raises the crumpled remains of one of your works. Even with the paper having seen better days, it’s undeniably yours— with it’s infamous juts of ink, harsh lines and messy splashes of colour thrown across the page. In your handwriting, there’s a vulgar poem captioning the drawing. Implying the prince to be a bastard, with a women killing smile and a surprisingly impish attitude.

Your signature printed in bright red ink probably doesn’t help your case either.

“The scar is accurate howe—”

“Give me that.” You snatch the flyer from him, crumpling it into your hand and tightening around it.

Shouto doesn’t protest, seemingly entertained by your sudden shyness. The words of [Pen Name] have been always been so crass, he had never expected you to hold such embarrassment. He doesn’t want you to, but he finds it amusing all the same.

“Look.” You don’t like his smile, it’s too soft, earnest. “If you’re here to execute me just do it!” There’s a wobble in your voice when you speak. Not from genuine fear of death, instead you sound like a sulking child. “I can’t imagine the king would send his son for any other reason..”

“Shouto,” He prompts. “I’d like it if you called me Shouto.” In the blink of an eye, in front of you is another flyer. “See.” He points to the picture of him, his name written in massive letters underneath.

“How many do you have,” You groan, snatching the paper from him again. His little disappointed pout feels like a win, it must have been his last. “Then why are you here?”

Shouto stares as if he doesn’t quite know himself. His eyes glaze over you, your cluttered room and to where you fists have finally softened in their grip. Then, like a spark alights behind his eyes, he smiles, responding with blunt determination.

“To be your friend.”

I wishhh I had the brain power to write full fics coz this au is so fun to think about… maybe if the fantasising gets too big to stay in my head I’ll write drabbles of random nonchronological scenarios, or not!

[profoundlyfaded]

So another Emmrich post, mulling him over - I can’t help it, he’s written really well and there are a lot of layers to tug at.

Today it’s his magic, specifically, Death Whispering and why it links to his fear of death. This is an incredibly rare type of magic that can’t be taught, rather manifesting within an individual.

How magic works in Thedas, and how it manifests, is an individual experience for mages. In Dragon Age: Origins, Wynne talks about her magic manifesting while in a fight with with a child who was bullying her. She manifested fire, and was subsequently taken to the Ferelden Circle. From the way she describes, and later with Anders, there is the suggestion that magic manifestation is sudden and can’t be predicted. That said, these two characters are from Ferelden and as a nation are afraid of magic. This is a very Southern Thedas Andrastian view of magic. But trauma, as in Wynne’s case, causes outward, violent manifestations of magic that can no longer be contained. I use the term violent due to it being uncontained as opposed to actual potential harm because I think Emmrich experiences a violent manifestation of power in the form of Death Whispering.

Navarra has a much more open attitude to magic, specifically where death is involved. It’s a celebrated art - how other forms of magic are viewed is unclear, but necromancy is celebrated. This incorporates all the skills we’ve historically seen in game around the use of spirits and communing beyond The Veil. Given what Emmrich tells us in the game, be it to Rook directly or in other conversations, he’s known he was magically inclined since a very young age; by comparison, Wynne and Anders both experienced their magical awakening at 9 and 12 respectively.

Given Navarra’s reverence of spirit magic, I suspect that Emmrich has been interacting with spirits since before he was orphaned. If the populace revere this type of magic, it’s entirely possible that his parents were delighted with this development - it would set him up for life away from difficulties of Working Class living. But they died, he is orphaned and he manifests Death Whispering as an ability.

It makes absolute sense - suddenly alone in the world, Emmrich is given the ability to call out into the wider beyond and draw back those last whispers of the dead. Probably as a result of stretching out to find his parents, to receive comfort and have all those unsaid moments.

I’m not crying, but you are.

His parents are probably the two people he’s never been able to Death Whisper - his remark that their graves are a shrine rather than actual graves suggests that his parent’s bodies were unrecoverable, both physically and spiritually. But he’s still reaching out for them, as indicated by his regular visiting to their graves decades later.

Emmrich has a lot of unresolved grief and trauma around the loss of his parents; and manifesting Death Whispering as an ability must be kick to the stomach when he can’t use it to comfort himself and fulfil his needs.

Emmrich treasures this gift, and he should. He puts it to noble uses - settling wills, questioning murder victims but also, providing comfort to those by recovering lost last words. He tells us in the Romance Scene that when he speaks with the dead, their echos abide with him; thoughts and passions, hopes and desires, but also surely, the deep echoing loss that the departed may feel comes with that.

While there is something beautiful and ethereal in that, he’s exposing himself to trauma but from both sides of the coin. This strange talent probably fuels his fear of death in many ways through unacknowledged vicarious trauma. Emmrich has the power to know that regret continues for the souls of the departed - there is no peace on the other side. Lichdom, however, would free him from that - another reason to walk that path.

And he is a man of regrets; he talks openly of having wished to have been married earlier; regrets regarding Hezenkoss; regrets for not having his parents growing up. I wonder if he fears that he would become a manifestation of despair in his death? All that compassion and quiet strength stripped away in the raw reality of the great fade and death.

But his fear of death comes from knowing the truth, that everything continues after, able to be draw back into the body and relived.

Again, I’m not crying, but you are.

[slay00ryu]

silly but... an MC who likes or wants to put makeup on the cast for fun?

Make Up Artiste.

Ronin - The Self Made Devil.

You are someone who loves to do creative make up looks, paintings all over your face, the exact copies of cartoon characters, make up inspired by a fictional character. You did all that.

Ronin knew about it, and he encouraged you in your creative ways.

"Damn baby, neat work. Looks perfect."

He'd say and kiss the top of your head or your knuckles to not mess your make up, well if he felt more annoying then he would.

Blowing air onto your face, kissing, poking, anything to get you riled up and irritated. He loved your threats.

"I will poke you eye out with my eyeliner I swear to God." You said after Ronin ruined yet another attempt to do your eyeliner.

"Awh, you know you love me." He barked out a laugh and pulled you into his lap so you would sit instead of standing while you're trying to win the war between your shaky hands and the make up tool.

One day you decided that you want to give Ronin a make up look, you even planned out one especially for him. A look that screams The Devil when you look at it and looks very masculine so Ronin's grotesqueness would be satisfied too.

But could you ask him for that? You sighed heavily as you looked at the drawing you made, that was the exact look you planned out. A whole white face, with lots of reds and blacks.

"What's up darlin'? Why feelin' so down?"

There was an elbow resting on your head, a man standing right next to you.

"Oh, Ronin! Um, I-"

You looked down at the sketch. The man lifted your head so you would look at him.

"C'mon. Spill it. I see how much you want to say something."

He snatched your sketchbook from you and inspected the drawing.

"Is that a new look?"

He looked at you, as if he was trying to imagine you with that make up on.

"Nah, it's not your regular style. Who's this for?"

And here it was. The question you wanted to avoid, but it was only natural for Ronin to see right through you.

"It was meant for... you."

Ronin's chuckle filled your ears, like a melody from a broken music box, beautiful yet oddly mysterious.

"Why are you so embarrassed darlin'? Come on, you can do this look on me."

He took off his beanie, lifting you up from your chair just to sit down himself and place you on his lap.

"So what will it be?"

His cocky grin drove you insane, but he also made you extremely happy. You kissed his cheek and gathered all your make up products.

You were sitting on his lap while you were doing that look, somehow he was very much obedient, keeping his eyes close when you told him to, not making any weird faces so your work won't be in shambles. Somehow giving Ronin this make up made you feel so overjoyed...

Angel - The Beautiful Soul.

A make up artist dating a model, who also happens to have a YouTube channel about make up and fashion? This felt like a dream every time you thought about it.

Angel gave you so many ideas for new looks, some related to her as Maria, some to her as The Heartsick Angel and some just to her. Your girlfriend who definitely overworks herself.

You were in the middle of creating another look filled with inspiration after Angel's new kill. The new idea looked pretty innocent when someone didn't look closely. Under all that innocence emphasized by a lot of pinks and hearts, a biblical angel was hidden, small eyes were all around the forehead and sides of the face. Some eyes were even supposed to be drawn on the neck.

"Now I just need to find someone to model for me."

You sighed after the sketch was done. You were proud of this, every detail was well thought, carefully placed to not destroy the composition.

While you were lost in your own inner world, two arms were wrapped around your shoulders and a sweet giggle met your ears.

"Did someone say a model?"

Angel!

Right, why didn't you think about it earlier? All of the looks were inspired by her anyway so she could as well be the model , right?

You turned around on your chair to look at her with dozens of lights in your eyes.

"You would like to model for me?"

You asked, your voice full of hope and barely contained excitement. You could swear that you saw two sparks dance in Angel's eyes after you have asked the question.

"Oh Gosh you're even asking?! You're so talented Y/N!"

Her words made you blush.

"And you know what? We could use it as an opportunity to boost your social media so more people would hire you."

Angel crossed her arms, she was thinking about something, something that had you in it.

"What do you mean?"

"You will record a video with me dummy! My followers will love you."

She chuckled and took your hand in hers to pull you up from the chair.

She looked so excited, and you were just so captivated by it. You didn't think twice before you had agreed to this and went to the recording den with her.

Misaki - The Great Fool.

You are a cosplayer, you post some videos online for fun, a variety of make up tutorials, acting videos or just silly videos in a cosplay.

You absolutely love doing this, it makes your inner child get what it always wanted, dress ups for fun. Fulfilling your childhood dreams felt sweet, it made your days happier.

Especially when your partner is your biggest fan. Misski, the worldwide known assassin, also known as your very best friend and partner, was very ecstatic when you shared your cosplaying passion with her. They were so excited to watch you prepare your cosplays on calls with them.

Your biggest dream was to do a duo cosplay with Misski, but them living on the other side of the globe wasn't really helping this dream come true. You were slowly giving up on this dream, just feeling so disappointed that you couldn't enjoy this hobby with your lovely partner.

But unexpectedly to you Misski found themselves in your apartment. She was supposed to assassinate an impotent politician and that's why she was sent to your town.

"Oh my! Misaki! I'm so happy to see you!"

You wrapped your arms around them, almost squealing from all the feelings that washed over you.

"I'm happy too, sweat pea."

They said and wrapped their arms around you too.

"You know what I'm also excited about?"

Their question caused you to back away a little.

"Hm? For what?"

You asked, brushing a strand of their hair back to where it was supposed to be.

"We'll be able to cosplay together!"

Their exclamation made you realise that they are right! Now that Misaki is here with you, you can do that duo cosplay you wanted with them!

"You're so right omg!"

You were smiling from ear to ear.

"After you're back from this assassination, you will not escape my make up kit."

You gave her the playful threat and a peck on the lips.

"I'll hold you onto that then. Oh yeah, watch my flower for me, don't want it to be all sad while I'm away."

They winked at you, obviously hinting at the fact that you will miss them.

And of course, they will miss you too.

At least until you're done with the cosplay look...

V - The warrior of Justice.

You are someone with a great passion for make up, maybe you're not an influencer or a real make up artist, but you love doing it.

It helps you get your creative spirit out, and it makes you feel and look great, what's there to not like?

V was a fan of your creative soul, the way you looked when you were focused, the fire in your eyes when you knew that you were doing something right, the proud and excited smile you were showing him.

These seemingly small things made his heart flutter.

And you were just so happy whenever you could show him a new project that you were working on for so long.

"V! V! V! V!"

You ran into the living room, hands full of make up products.

"My love? What is it?"

He caught you before you almost fell to the floor.

"Please be careful."

He sighed and helped you stand straight, then he crouched to collect your make up.

"Why have you decided to grace me with your presence?"

He asked. V was always such a charmer even when he didn't realise it, you were just so happy with this. Also his flustered face was even more adorable.

"V can I try to do make up on you?"

You asked in excitement, you gave him the best puppy eyes you could master.

"Oh, how could I ever not give in with you?"

He chuckled, the sound warm and deep, it made your heart flutter.

"Oh my! You're going to look so good, I promise!"

With a small hint of a smile, V followed you to the bathroom.

This moment of quality time that you two shared would stay in both your and his minds for a while, that's for sure.

[e-vay]

Hi! I have been following you for a while and I don't know if someone has already asked you this, but have you ever thought of redraw one of your comics? Like, just to see how much you improved or just for fun?

I hope I have explained myself, because English is not my first language 😅

P.S. all your drawings are so pretty, and seeing how you improve over time has inspired me a lot, and I'm sure it has inspired many people too 💖 keep it up! :D

Hello! Thank you so very much! You know, I really think I should do that some time. Whenever I see notifications for the art I did when I first joined tumblr, ugh it makes me cringe! LOL But hey art is about improvement so if people seeing my old ugly art compared to now gives them confidence in their own growth, then I'm happy.

Also -- this goes for you and everybody else who says this -- please don't feel self-conscious about talking to me and English not being your first language. I really appreciate you making the effort to speak to me, especially you going out of your way to message me in the language I speak. I'm very thankful that I've been able to reach audiences from all over the world so I will never judge you even if the translation doesn't come out right (Your English was great, btw!)

[vatelixx]

In the crooks of your body (I find religion),

mid-seasons Spencer Reid x afab!reader

SMUT!! (and fluff, lots of fluff. no angst this time, mostly for damage control) ─── soft love & early mornings. idk it’s just domestic bliss for a change.

Warnings: light d/s dynamic (sub spencer, im predictable), low-key praise for both parties, pre-established relationship, they’re soooo in love, they’re also domesticated, morning sex (but there’s no penetration, just oral), they’re both nerds, their pillow talk is science, autistic spencer always (it’s canon to me) greek mythology references, probably the nicest thing i’ll ever write.

w.c: 3k

a/n: post-prison (as requested by many) is still being worked on. it makes me sick. i wrote this to improve my mental health. i’d apologise for being inactive recently but it was necessary, ohmygodihavesomuchcoursework.

──────────────

Saturdays are for this. Waking up to no obligations, work tossed aside, Spencer’s state of impending doom reduces to something distant, untouchable. Barely dawn, there’s a level of domesticity to the art of sleeping together.

Sure, he could go on tangents, disbelieving that he’s allowed to attain this. But it’s futile, he’s long grown tired of exhausting the how to your dynamic, the statistic improbabilities, he always thought you would be reserved to his fantasies. Pandora’s box, a hypothetical kept under lock and key.

But no— he’s willing to accept that, on this one off occasion, he’s made an error in his calculations. An illogical anomaly.

Draped in the mantle of sleep, he feels the soft push of cotton sheets first, then the warm-blooded body curved around him. There isn’t traces of a case lingering at the forefront of his mind when he shifts, drawing himself closer, almost subconsciously, by guided instinct.

Touch. Touch, a natural, biological need. Something Spencer has always shied away from, finding nothing but hurt at the double-edged sword of intimacy. It’s not like he has much experience to base this on. And yet, right now, he’s not thinking factually, from a logical standpoint. Because, okay, there’s comfort in knowing the person that touches you is in fact supposed to touch you.

His hands find your body, his movements still slow and weary, thumb brushing the edge of your vertebrae, the divot just below your shoulder blade.

Spencer is many things. He’s obsessive, incessant, obstinate on occasion. Difficult, to put it bluntly. But despite all that, despite his complications, he’s here, touching, trusting, because for the first time in his life, it feels good.

“Moonless earth theory,” he says, moving to accommodate when you decide to lie on your side. Face to face, in hazy, dimmed light. He stares. “Okay, Abian, Alexander Abian, claimed that blowing up the moon would solve every problem in existence.”

Selfishly, unabashed, he slips his hand beneath your top to trace halos across your skin. “It’s so dumb. If that happened, tides would decrease. And, and, the moon's presence has a partial correcting effect on any instabilaties that arise in a non-homogenous, non-symmetrical—“ he sighs, presses his lips together for a moment, “Basically, the earth would wobble. Which… uh, isn’t very good?”

You’re still half-asleep, dreary to his random information. It takes a moment for your brain to settle, to comprehend what he’s saying, and then another, longer moment, to respond.

“Mhm. Days would be shorter,” you respond before laughing. “This is what you think about when you’ve just woken up? I’m basically a walking lobotomy until at least 10AM. And that’s providing I have a shower, feed my caffeine dependency, et cetera et cetera.”

You look at him, observe the sight: tousled hair, swollen lips half-parted, dilated, heavy-lidded eyes that stare back back back.

“I think about a lot of things in the morning,” he mutters, “A lot of things in general.”

When he leans in to kiss you, it’s languid, slow, he’s still in stasis, a state of suspended animation. Tenderly, as if the contact could break, he parts your lips with his own, his breath warm against your mouth, slow, like he wants your touch burnt into him.

Inevitably, your tongue slides against his, and he moans. Hot. It’s so slow, slow enough that time feels warped, nonexistent, like the universe has just stopped without warning.

He feels you shifting, the movement subtle, legs intertwining, hips flush. Good. So good. His lips break away, only to find their way across a cheek, along the column of your throat, further, over the curve of your collarbone.

He’s pressing kisses anywhere his body allows, touch lingering against your skin, tracing invisible imprints. “Sometimes, well.. um, most of the time, I think about you.”

He laughs, shifting to press his forehead against yours. “It’s a huge interference on my routine. And yeah, there’s also the facts, and the statistics. But then my mind will betray me, and i’ll just think about how you might respond, if I told you them.”

This information isn’t exactly new; you’ve woken up to random, impromptu messages regarding space, earth, philosophy, facts that you can never quite place at such an early hour. Then, there’s the phone calls, the dumb, domestic phone calls, ringing you just to over-explain some new hypothesis he’s studying.

Starry-eyed ambition. Sometimes it hurts to think that the job, the BAU, the nature of the cases, will inevitably warp his softness.

You cup his face, palm pressed against cheek, watching as he melts, molten gold, into the contact. “Yknow, I’d really like to study you in a lab.”

“Mm,” he hums, a sound that translates to please don’t put me in a lab.

His hand wraps around your wrist, preserving the contact, holding onto it like there’s a possibility, an actual chance, fact and figure, that he could lose it.

“I’d just be your lab rat? And they say romance is dead,” he scoffs, “You would commit so much medical malpractice.”

“Pft, medical malpractice. That’s made up,” you silence his protests before they can leave his lips. “I think it would be fun to preform experiments on you. Though, i’m not sure I should be trusted with a scalpel. A law probably needs to be put in place. Yknow, for the safety of the people.”

“Ah, ha.” he’s quick to respond, “It’s the scalpel you’re worried about? You’re forgetting the needle, the drugs, the restraints? You cannot be trusted, you’re a danger to society,”

Spencer pouts, features creased. “And your idea of a fun Saturday morning is committing violent acts against your oh so innocent boyfriend. I see, I see where your priorities lie.”

You grin, press a light kiss to his cheek. It’s soft, tentative contact, and yet he still shivers. No dignity. “Sorry, sorry. What was that last part of your sentence? I zoned out after you said restraints.”

“Right. That’s uh, well. That wasn’t the point I was… trying… to make?”

“Yeah, yeah. Medical malpractice. Evil girlfriend. I get it. You’ve made your point. I am very very ashamed of my hypothetical actions.” you say, hooking your leg around his waist, drawing him onto his back. Spine meeting mattress, your body on top now, straddling him.

You hike up his sweater, running your hand across his torso. There’s something obscene to the way he blushes, draping an arm over his face, as if your movements physically pain him.

“Stop acting coy. I’ve seen you in this position before. Worse ones, if we’re going to be honest here—“

“Hey, hey, hey— I’m not acting coy!" he protests, unconvincingly. He’s breathless, attempting to hide the way his body reacts. As if the slight friction warranted from the movement doesn’t grant him fleeting bliss.

The contact is intense, fervent, your body flush with his. “We really really don’t need to talk about the other occasions.” his eyes shut, head falling back against sheets, lips parted, hands gripping the skin of your hips.

“You’re uh, you’re really unfair,” he mumbles, “And beautiful. I should tell you that more often.”

“You tell me every day.”

Moving off his lap, he’s accommodating as you help to untangle clothes from his body, raising his hips when needed, lifting his arms when necessary. Your touch has him compliant, obedient, eager to fall pliant, beneath you. The sight, god: slender, pale skin, faint blemishes staining his thighs from previous nights, matching with the few that adorn his neck.

“I don’t say it enough, then.”

You laugh, “Oh, you’re such a sap.”

It’s a process: getting Spencer to sit up. Because he doesn’t seem to comprehend your intentions, to realise what you’re trying to imply here. Still, when he’s finally perched on the edge of the bed, you rise, shifting to stand between his legs, to look down at the picture of him, bare, undone, so pretty just for you.

He stares up, eyes wide like marbles. “Hi.”

You card your hand through his hair, strands falling between crevices in your fingers. It’s soft, the movement, the gesture, you’re not sinking down to the root yet. “Hi.”

Your name falls from his lips. And yeah, there’s something reverent to the way he says it, the pained whisper. Something that dissolves into a messy, unrefined whimper when you sink to your knees.

“Oh, god. I—,” he swallows, his voice rough. “I, I love you so much.”

There’s this repeated question on your mind, the same one that loops into existence every time you’re in a compromising position: how loud is Spencer going to be today? Because, objectively, he’s loud. It demeans, ruins the chances of abrupt, clandestine touches in semi-public places. In sneaking around. Even when you’ve got your palm against his mouth, he somehow manages to combat, to prevail the suffocation.

Your lips press soft kisses along his thigh, touching those marks now, the ones you must’ve left last night. No? Maybe yesterday afternoon? It’s hard to keep track. “I love you.”

He melts.

“Such a pretty cock. All for me, hm?” jesus christ. You’ve always been so blunt, outward, inherently shameless. Spencer thinks he might die, divine madness. Theia mania.

When you drag your tongue along the length of his cock, there’s a current, sharp, sending his hips bucking. They arch forward, into you, into the contact. Sight shuttered by swollen eyes, he thinks about regulating his breathing, inhale, exhale, the concept falls on deaf ears.

“All yours,” he whimpers, “Yes. Only,.. only you. Always.”

It feels like devotion. The way he confirms vocally, the way you sink down, take him deep into your mouth. His head spills backwards, baring his neck, indiscernible noises bleeding through the open air, sunlight touching his skin, highlighting his intemperate demeanour in diluted canary.

He’ll apologise to the neighbours later.

Shaky, fumbling hands reach out to brush loose strands of hair from your face, to grip, the pads of his fingers meeting your scalp. He would never push, he just needs something firm, solid, tangible to hold onto.

And when you hum around him, just to mess with him, just to hear those sounds, to draw those pleasure-soaked, beautiful noises out of his mouth—

“Oh, oh oh— that’s, yeah. Mhm, yeah. Just… ruin me.” he’d probably thankyou after. Because he’s polite.

You draw back from the contact to catch your breath. Lips stained, now bruising, emitting soft little gasps. There’s tears gathering in the corner of your eyes, reducing your vision to a distorted haze. Blurry traces of reality that all seem so inconsequential now, now that you’re here.

“I love the way you sound for me, Spence. So pretty.”

“Well,” he huffs out a breath, “I’m uh, being taken care of… very well.”

You lean forward to press a kiss against his tip, as if that’s the most innocent, innocuous gesture imaginable. “You deserve it.” your nails run across his thigh, leaving faint white lines in their path. “Exploding that genius brain of yours yet?”

“That shattered the moment you got down on your knees. Maybe, um… okay, possibly earlier.”

“Earlier?”

“Way earlier..”

He whimpers when you drag your tongue across his tip. There’s a plethora of please please please he shamelessly emits, only somewhat satiated when your lips are wrapped around his cock, when you’re demolishing his sanity, and everything else in the process.

He doesn’t even realise how lewd he is, most of the time. It’s not like he’s making a deliberate effort, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to attain that skill anyway. It’s just… him, raw and unbridled, so delirious from pleasure.

His eyes, dilated, gone, are half-lidded, watching you through thick curls of messy hair, damp with sweat and morning light.

“I’m trying, I’m trying so hard,” he moans, and then words are destroyed, obliterated, as you gag, taking him down to the hilt. “Oh,” he says, “Oh.”

It never lasts long. Not where he’s concerned. Features creased, pleading, you have to restrain him from bucking, nails burning crescent marks into his skin. “Please— please, ‘m gonna…”

He looks done. You hum, oh, silent confirmation, the vibrations stimulate his cock, and then he’s shapeshifting, morphing, transcending into something blissfully gone, releasing deep into your throat.

The orgasm has him ruined, undone. Barely conscious, just floating like something inviolable.

Afterward, he’s urging you to drink water, soft kisses pressed down the curve of your neck as you both readjust. When his phone, his outdated, underused phone lights up, artificial haze, he curses Prometheus for giving humans fire, for hiding it in a stalk of funnel and allowing them to inevitably create technology.

The phone gets locked away in his drawer. He’s half-scared of it anyway.

Spencer has never quite understood the appeal of mornings, but he’s starting to see the merit in them, with you. He’ll tell you that sometime, maybe. One day. Soon.

Right now, however, he descends down your body, lips dragging a path from collarbone to the space between your thighs, where he actively groans.

“Best Saturday morning ever,” you remark, helping him to remove your shorts, then the offending panties that prevent his mouth from working you to ruin.

It’s almost domestic, the way you mirror his actions, feeding your hands through his hair, supporting him as he slips a pillow beneath your hips. Sprawled out across tangled sheets, flushed and restless, you let out an appreciative sigh at the reciprocation.

“Definitely,” he agrees, blowing cold air against your core, just to watch the way you curve, contort. “Though, uh… every morning with you is the best morning ever.” It’s dumb, and god he’s blushing between your thighs.

But, Spencer likes to thank you. Because all in all, he considers himself a well-mannered person. So this, he parts your thighs further, applies slight pressure to your clit, is completely necessary. Mandatory, he’d argue. Something that needs to be embedded into daily routine.

Usually, it’s a slow, methodical process. He can be a perfectionist, a completionist, but he doesn’t mind. He trails his tongue across the inner sections of your thighs, to catch the wetness that stains your skin there.

“You are so perfect,” he regards, pressing a kiss to your clit, mirroring your actions. “So pretty. The prettiest— i’m going to, yeah..”

His tongue moves in languid circles, in soft, calculated motions, before finally delving inside of you, tasting you, drawing a moan, a plea, a muffled prayer from your lips. Okay, alright, maybe his lips too.

“I could do this all day, I want to, I—“ And he doesn’t really have to finish the sentence, because you know him too well, and it’s implied. Implied that he’d spend ceaseless hours here without complaint, oh far from complaint.

He likes to have something to focus on. A task to preform. It distracts his mind, and this one? Yeah, it reduces his thoughts to only you.

If he had it his way, his current mental state would be permanent.

“On your back, pretty boy..” you watch with soft eyes as he mindlessly obeys. Legs bent, pressed against the mattress, you sink down onto his face, getting off from a new angle. Your back instinctively curves, arches, a series of warped moans ripped straight from your throat.

“Just like that— mhm..” you mutter, gripping his hair tighter now, mostly for stability. It’s hard to look down, to see the obscene sight he’s been demeaned to.

His thoughts are always haywire, spitballing off one another. It’s a constant cycle of overthinking, over-analyzing, brain fried beyond reason. But you? You make him feel grounded, tethered, to the very world itself. You’re the one constant that he can predict, and yet, oxymoronically, still so unpredictable in the same breath.

So human..

When you begin to rock against his face, to take the initiative, using him, he simply reaches down, hands trailing across his overstimulated body to stroke himself because of course he’s hard again. How could he not be? He’s at the altar of your body, and god he knows how to serve.

Spencer’s pretty certain he’s forgotten how to breathe, and it’s a hard, harsh gasp when he has the chance to drag air into his lungs — before diving back down to you, because yeah he needs it, he needs you.

It’s messy, muffled whimpers, and desperate sounds emitted from both of your mouths. A constant onslaught of him, his tongue working halos against your clit. When he comes, he’s got his face buried into your heat, obstructing all of his senses. Delirious. Pussy-drunk.

There. There. There. He makes sure to prolong the pleasure, to work you through the bleeding mess of stars, and cosmos, and heavenly bliss, until you’re squirming away from overstimulation.

There’s a set routine when it comes to aftercare. One that both of you fail to adhere to, every. single. time. You’re both firm, assertive, in the belief that you should be the one to look after the other, so it ends up being a lazy, mutual act. Showering, the way he buries his face into your shoulder, naked body pressed against naked body. Hydration, soft touches, muttered words that help you return from the astral plane.

“I can’t believe we’re getting back into bed,” you say after you’ve changed the sheets, traded your ruined clothes for fresh pyjamas. You’re wearing Spencer’s shirt, fumbling buttons, half sealed, exposing your collarbone, draping over your shoulder when you preform any sort of physical movement that requires arms.

“No complaints though.” by nature, your body finds his beneath blankets. “I’d happily rot here. They could make a shitty reality show, it would be good entertainment.”

“I think I’d get fired from the BAU,” he protests, “You know, the first reality TV show aired in 1948. Candid Camera, on ABC, the premise was uh… hidden-cameras? So, yeah, the usual invasion of privacy, sounds entertaining.”

“Mhm. Sounds like something you’d hate.”

You’re lying face to face, arms draped over each other. The Lovers of Valadro position, he calls it. You’re not sure if that’s romantic, or slightly morbid.

“Here’s the plan,” you press your forehead to his, staring at those doe-wide eyes, “We’re going back to sleep. Then, I guess you can be a rule-abiding FBI agent, or whatever, and finish up your reports. As long as you’re done by 4. Because I want to see a movie,” he laughs, in that knowing way. “Yes, yes, i’m aware it’s your turn. Which means we’re gonna end up watching some documentary. Just uh? Make it space themed, yeah? Or, dinosaurs. I can settle for dinosaurs.”

His lips meet yours, abruptly, and he’s grinning into the contact. “I love you so much. I, we, still need to watch MoonWalk One. The Mars Underground, um.. The Valley of the T-Rex? There’s another that I read about yesterday. The Universe at the Edge of Knowledge. Oh, or Dark Universe. You’ll really like Dark Universe, and Edge of Knowledge has this, this cool segment on —“

“Okay, nerd.” you laugh, “Whatever one you want, we’ll watch. I’m still halfway through Paleoworld right now, 30 episodes in.” he knows that, because you’ll message him through the duration, make use out of that untouched (borderline) dusty phone he neglects.

He intertwines your fingers, presses a soft kiss to the back of your hand. “Yup. Yup. Whatever. Can we nap now?”

[emptymasks]

i've had constant aus and self-insert stories spinning around in my head for the past two months that i've been back into spn for, but i wasn't planning on doing anything more with them until i was browsing the fanart tags and discovered so many cool artists on here have been making spn ocs? it just never occurred to me that there would be any, let alone multiple, and to especially see ones being queer and trans made me really happy to see. so i took one of the too many different plots i'd been rotating in my head and made a little character out of it.

august north. he was killed by a demon when he was 26. his body was experimented on with the intent of creating an alternate long lasting vessel for lucifer. but a small amount of lucifer's grace bonded to august's body, reviving him as something not human, but not an angel. he meets the winchesters during season 4 of the show. he has some powers due to the archangel grace in him (healing factor, telekinesis) but it is not to the level of an archangel's power, possibly similar to regular angel's power or a bit less. he is a suitable alternate vessel for lucifer, if he were to say yes lucifer wouldn't burn through him like he does with nick. if lucifer's grace were to be removed from august's body then august would die, it is keeping him alive. the scar on his chest is from where lucifer's grace entered his body.

because of the whole 'boy with the devil's grace label' he ends up bonding a lot with sam, the two of them both being tied to lucifer through no choice of their own, and them both experiencing distrust and disgust from others because of this.

i really don't want any comments telling me that's not how angel grace works, i just liked the idea and it's my self-indulgent au. and august is entirely here for me to ship with lucifer so if that idea or lucifer in general makes you uncomfortable please just scroll on and don't judge me. i can't help falling back in love with this terrible archangel. i actually made a couple shrines on my website for sam and lucifer and boy i ended up writing way more about why i like them than i thought i would. the tldr is that i find things to relate to with lucifer in terms of the whole being cast out, family issues, being the black sheep of the family etc. and i find him fascinating, especially season 5 lucifer.

i'm not 100% sure on the storyline for august and lucifer, but lucifer does want to seek august out, partially because he's disgusted at a human having any of his grace, and partially because since sam is so hesitant to say yes it's nice for him to have this other option. i can imagine him visiting august in his dreams like he did with sam, trying to convince/manipulate him into saying yes, august not being bothered by his presence and instead feels drawn to him and ends up spending these dreams asking lucifer questions, and while lucifer is still trying to manipulate august into saying yes... he is lonely and this dead-alive human-angel boy is looking at him without disgust, isn't flinching when he touches him and he hasn't had anyone react like this to him in a long time and while he won't admit it a part of him is visiting august so often because out of all these hairless apes, this one isn't awful.

wow i wrote so much more than i meant too, oops. i guess that's good though, been a long while since i had an oc ramble this long.

[ID: a digital sketch page of my supernatural oc 'august north'. there's a half-body and full body drawing, with text around them. some of the text on the image i've already repeated in the text under the post but the rest reads: august north, supernatural oc, the boy with the devil's grace, pronouns: he/him, gender: trans man, height: 5'8", orientation: omnisexual, demisexual, demiromantic, nationality: english, occupation: hunter. august has pale brown curly hair that comes down to his collarbone in length, with a grey streak at the front right. he has two little braids going in front of each ear. in the half-body he's wearing a black coat, black long-sleeved shirt, a red bandana tied around his neck, white feather dangling earrings. in teh fullbody he's wearing black pants, black boots with spats over the top that look like little corsets, red with gold ribbon to lace them over the boots, a shirt button up that's unbuttoned and opened revealing the star shaped scar in between his pectorals from where lucifer's grace entered his body. he has two moles on his face, one under the outer corner of his right eye, one above the left side of his lip. his eyes are a blue-ish grey.]