#aeon canvas

[earthykinous]

Due to lack of art for a while, I'll have to drop this thing made because I was feeling sad.

Now if you excuse me, I'll go to scrawl into a hole 🫣 (I'll be out for a bit)

[earthkinous]

I think they would get along pretty well in a crossover.

[earthykinous]

He doesn't have a sheet reference yet :'D

Let Me Draw Your Kirby OC But The Catch Is That I Will Hide Rope MF Somewhere In The Drawing As If They Were Some Sort Of Omnipresent Being.

Just reblog your OC

[saphirdevil]

idk whats goign guys

isaid i wasnt going to draw them seriouslt again..

[naedsart]

leon and ada!

both oil on canvas, 40cm x 50cm

prints and adas original piece are available here

[spotaus]

Besties. Every single day I think about a Honkai:Star Rail and utmv crossover. Do I do it? Absolutely not. Theoretically could it work? Yeag.

[earthykinous]

NEW BLOG YIPPEEEE

Day 1

[meado-vv]

this is what i thought of as soon as he said "thats not how you draw a bird" and then BOOM my canvas was open

blink and runt refs tomorrow i got ideas while relistening during a car ride (also aeon ideas omg!!)

[hana-no-seiiki]

ALL YOURS.

tw/cw: yandere (more on the soft side tbh, barely appears), mentions of slavery. Power dynamics are whack. AFAB! Reader but GN! Pronouns. Some Aventio sprinkled in there.

HAPPY AVENTURINE DAY!!! ( thank you @rninies / @teabutmakeitazure / @harmonysanreads for informing me cause I wouldn’t have known otherwise)

“Who is this?” His eyes ran through the sight of your body, a nice and controlled pace yet swift nonetheless. You looked like a dead leaf if he was to be completely honest. Covered in soot, malnourished, fragile. Like you’d disappear with the slightest breeze. Then, his eyes paused, a mark — a branding on the right side of your neck.

But still, he was confused. What was the point of showing yet another slave to him? Was it a thinly concealed, sadistic way of reminding him that he was still shackled? That his freedom was nothing more than a mirage? An illusion?

His benefactor — owner — slowly lifted the veil that covered your face. Beautiful. He’d seen many faces by now, his own among others. But strangely yours reminded him of his past. A wave of euphoric nostalgia almost overwhelmed him.

“Open your eyes, little one.” Jade said with a wicked smile on her face. “I told you I had quite the gift. I was actually hoping to keep them as a . . . collectible. But then I found quite an interesting fact.”

You looked at him with eyes far too similar to his own. Cold, dead, empty. He could think of many other terms to use for yours. One of them including home.

“It seems that the Avgin’s blood will not be running dry all too soon. They’re all yours.”

“Quit staring at them like that.” Veritas tapped on his book. His face morphing from disturbed to mild annoyance every few seconds.

“Like what?”

“Like they’re an oasis deep within the desert. And you, a man starved for eons, waiting to drink them up until they’ve ran dry. Stop it. It’s disgusting.” Dr. Ratio gestured at you. You were practically a walking ‘owned by Aventurine’ signal at this point. From head to toe, covered in expensive objects. It was a statement to say the least, a warning to those that looked closer.

“You exaggerate. I am simply . . . deliberating.”

“Is it really this one?”

“Hm?”

“This reality.” Dr. Ratio placed the corner of his book on the blond’s forehead, “The reality where someone like you actually had the mental capacity to deliberate.”

“Oh don’t be too mean at this hour, Doctor.”

“Or what? You’d force me to find and get you from whatever hole you got yourself drunk in? Unfortunately that is something you’ve already burdened me with far too long ago.”

“I can take care of Mr. Aventurine, Doctor.” You appeared from behind the two. Your signature monotonous voice in tow.

Plaster immediately covered the man in question’s head. “Did anyone teach you manners? You don’t just silently approach someone—“

“I’m sorry.” You replied. Your face empty as a canvas an artist was yet to touch. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

For once, Kakavasha took his time, let his eyes wander and behold your form. One feature at a time.

“All mine.”

a/n: this was rushed and written in one sitting, but i wanted to release something at least for our boi ! will be back to hsr fics once penacony’s entire story/lore is out. i miss aeon of dreams! reader so much…

[milksnake-tea]

━━ interlocks

❀ ˎˊ- prompt: braiding their hair ❀ ˎˊ- characters: nanook, yaoshi, lan, xipe ❀ ˎˊ- warnings: maybe ooc charas, but otherwise, none! just a bunch of fluff :) ❀ ˎˊ- a/n: this is my cooldown fic from the dan feng one HDFSIJK after this (and maybe a jing yuan fic if i feel like it) it's event time baby !! xipes is kinda short tho bc idk how to work w them so far so BHFDS not exactly happy w it but ehhh

Nanook closes their eyes at the feeling of your fingers sifting through their hair. It's rare to see the usually violent Aeon so at ease, especially in a domestic situation like this.

Their hair is soft, but incredibly messy. Even still, it isn't so bad so that you couldn't work with it. Nanook watches you languidly as you braid, not minding if you mess up one or two times.

When one of the Ravagers enters, all Nanook needs is to stare at them from the corner of their eye to drive them off. This is their special time, after all.

You comment on how much they seem to enjoy this. They merely nod before closing their eyes, allowing themself to immerse themself in your ministrations.

Yaoshi only allows you on the basis that they get to decorate you as well. It's only fair, after all. And with their multitude of arms, it won't be an issue.

You end up sitting on their lap, braiding the locks that drape over Yaoshi's shoulders as they hold you with two arms, and style you with the rest.

Yaoshi's hair is incredibly easy to braid - it's almost as though you're working with silk rather than hair. The Aeon hums a little tune from a world unknown to you as they decorate you with ribbons, jewelry, flowers, whatever they could get their hands on.

By the time you're finished, Yaoshi was already cooing at how adorable you look, all dolled up. They praise you for your work, petting your head, but they prefer to pay attention to you rather themself.

Let me just say. Lan's hair is the absolute best to play with. It's just so beautiful, with the way it glows in different colors when you move it. It reminds you of one of the many moons in the universe.

Lan rarely stands still, so you're likely either sitting on their back (horse part ???) while they run throughout the galaxies, or they're sharpening one of their arrows while you work. They love the feeling of you messing with their hair, especially since they have so much of it.

However, your hairstyles usually don't last long, unless you braid them extremely tight. They typically become undone in the next few minutes due to Lan's constant movement. Lan apologizes the best they can, but they're always willing to let you try another hairstyle, now that you have a blank canvas again.

Xipe is... Difficult to work with. They have three (possibly four if they have one in the back) heads, each with their own head of hair. So if you're braiding only one's hair, be prepared for the others to begin complaining. What goes to one head goes to all, remember that.

It's hard work, but don't worry, Xipe rewards you later on. They grant you a kiss from each head, singing you gentle praises for your labor.

They're also quick to show off to their followers, with Family all rejoicing and cooing at the "blessing" given to Xipe by their lover. Braiding and styling becomes part of their customs as a show of affection for one another.

Meanwhile, you're just standing there in confusion, because all you wanted to do was to have a little quality time with your lover.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[earthykinous]

Never leave her unsupervised.

I really wanna see ppl draw their Kirby OCs in a (half) car chase. No context needed, just this KRBAY screenshot and then their OC in the little McDonald's car thing like

Please I need this 😭

[earthykinous]

[earthkinous]

[everparanoid]

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

Modern Teyvat Au! Wriothesley x f! reader

cw: fluff, minor hint at soulmates.

word count: 3.5k

𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠...

╭────────────────────────╮

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The painting.”

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

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

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

“It’s new,” you said.

“Ah, I see.”

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

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

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

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

“And how are the numbers?”

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

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

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

Wriothesley hummed in acknowledgement.

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

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

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

Buzz Buzz.

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

Your shoulders dropped but your smile remained.

“It’s okay.”

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have I been standing here for a while?”

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

He blinked.

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

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

“It does that.”

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

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

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

“Why is it alone?” he asked.

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

“It’s not alone.”

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

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

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

His brows furrowed.

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

“No.”

“Why?”

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

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

You lowered your hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And yours is not?”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s Wriothesley, and maybe.”

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

“There is no artist,” he said.

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

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

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

“Next time,” he said.

A sadness flashed across your eyes before you smiled.

“Sure,” you said.

#

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

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

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

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

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

“No artist?” Timmie asked.

“Yes, no artist.”

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

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I am.”

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

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

Wriothesley frowned.

“Oh? But it was here last month?”

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

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

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

“Inazuma?”

Timmie nodded.

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

Wriothesley perked up at the information.

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

“I mean if you want,” Timmie said.

#

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

“Only mildly?”

He laughed, “Okay, maybe a bit more—”

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

“I missed your commentary,” he admitted.

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

“Oh? Not enough for you?”

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

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

“My sunny presence?” you echoed.

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

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

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

“And? Did you catch it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“To you in every universe—” you began.

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

Your lips parted as you took in a breath.

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

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

“Neither have I,” you said.

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

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

“It sounds perfect,” you said.

╰────────────────────────╯

KO-FI MASTERLIST

[ravenssilver]

Maybe something with Phantom getting left out of dinner in the beginning? Started with someone intentionally or accidentally leaving his plate off, and he's too nervous to ask why he doesn't get one when Aurora does. He eventually stops coming to dinner, and someone starts to notice just how sickly, and dizzy the smaller ghoul looks because he's too afraid to ask for any food or take any yet

unfortunately this is is part one of two :( i got super caught up in writing a whole mini story, and i felt bad for taking so long, so here this is!

1.4k words of phantom being neglected because i can’t get enough of the heartbreak

cw: mention of body issues, phantom is nervous about being around the pack, small scene of phantom vomiting, i guess some of this could be seen as an ed? the ask is a good wrap of cws!

also, ‘quint’ is used in this instead phantom or aeon, and will likely be that way in the next part :)

under the cut, if you please<3

He didn’t have a name. At least, he hadn’t come up with one.

The others referred to him as Quint, just to get names straight among him and his summon buddy, Aurora.

He stared at the ceiling as he laid in bed, his eyebrows furrowed.

Aurora had a name. Did she pick it out? Or was it Cirrus and Cumulus? Why didn’t the others pick out a name for him?

He sat up with a sigh, feeling hungry.

He glamoured himself as best he could, only having enough of a grasp on the ability to hide the different color splotches in his skin.

As he walked out of his room and to the common area, he stared down at his arm which was buzzing with his quintessence induced glamor.

Aurora’s markings were beautiful. The subtle yet bright flows of pinks and purples and blues blended perfectly with her skin. The small swipes of green made her look like a perfect painting that had hours of detailed brush strokes put into it.

His markings just looked like splotches. Random globs of paint flicked at a canvas in a half-assed attempt to make art.

He wondered if Aurora ever tried to glamor away the markings of her skin. Surely not, as she was gorgeous. The colors of her skin showed her personality and her connection with confidence and self love. Her mental state flowed healthily through her skin, the beauty of security blending in with her vessel.

He sighed and dropped his arm back down to his side, trying to focus on his pack’s laughter just around the corner and the scraping of forks against plates.

His steps slowed for a moment.

Dinner had started?

Confused, the newly summoned ghoul sped up only to slow down again. He peaked around a corner, seeing his pack at the dining room table. All the chairs were full, all plates had someone behind them and were stacked with the delicious cooking of Swiss and Mountain.

Every chair was full. Every plate was stacked.

There was no space for him.

A little ball of anxiety formed in his stomach, making his quintessence spark. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion and he stepped around the corner and shuffled to the kitchen to fix himself a plate.

Though, he was quick to realize all the food prepared was on the table.

Mountain and Swiss had prepared a feast in celebration for the pack’s first dinner together. Dew and Rain had just returned from a small trip away with Copia for business, of course everyone would want to celebrate.

He looked at Dewdrop and Rain. He took in their appearances, memorizing his first in person encounter with them as he was simply used to seeing them over FaceTime.

His eyes traveled to Swiss and Mountain as he set his plate back in the cupboard.

Maybe they were just swept up in the joy of being reunited with their partners and that’s why they forgot to prepare a plate for him.

He nodded to himself and snuck out of the dining room.

That’s okay. He can eat leftovers tonight and he’ll have a plate tomorrow.

He sighed as he brought his fifth night of leftovers to his room. It was long after dinner, and it was long since the others had retreated to their rooms.

Tomorrow, he told himself, I’ll have a plate tomorrow.

He knew, deep down, that he had been forgotten. Of course he knew. Twice was an accident, a coincidence, maybe. Three times, if you had self respect, was a pattern.

But for the young quint, it was an accident.

It was an accident just like the fourth time, and now, this time.

He slowly ate his potatoes, his churning stomach fighting against every bite he took. He was lost in his thoughts, off in his own world of anxiety and the pain of knowing he was being left out of his own pack.

He hadn’t been able to keep food down when he realized that he had been forgotten. Every night he would eat a meal long after dinner, only to be bent over a toilet not long after.

He celebrated every bite he took and could swallow, having not been able to get this far the night before.

Though, his food was quick to come right back up when he heard Rain’s laughter in the next room over. He tossed his plate down and rushed to his bathroom, which wasn’t helpful since it was right next to Swiss’ room, which Rain was in.

He hurled into the toilet as Rain’s laughter continued, now accompanied by Dew and Swiss’. And once his stomach had no more food to send back up, it sent its own acid instead.

He felt like he was dying. He was light headed, his body was trembling, and his throat burned and felt like it was closing up. He sobbed as he flushed the toilet, struggling to close the lid due to how shaky he was.

He knew Swiss, Dew, and Rain couldn’t hear him over the sounds of their laughter and Swiss’ record player. He knew that he hadn’t bonded enough with Aurora, Cirrus, Cumulus, or Mountain for them to feel his strife.

That just made him even more sick.

He gave up on even going to dinner a week ago.

He also gave up on leftovers after Swiss and Mountain started cooking smaller portions after having a conversation about how they always had “too much leftovers.”

He sighed as he pulled on a shirt that was too big for him. He thought it was the shirt Swiss had given him when he was summoned, but after staring down at it for a few moments he realized that it was his shirt.

A shirt he had bought with his own allowance money from Copia.

Why is it so big? Did the dryer stretch it? He asked himself, messing with fabric for a few more moments before he left it alone, opening his door and leaving his room for practice.

He sighed to himself as he walked into the practice room early, seeing Copia sitting in a chair as he waited for the ghouls.

“Ah, hello, Quint.” Copia smiled at him as he looked up. “Hello…” He choked out, not realizing his voice was so hoarse. Copia’s eyebrows furrowed and he stood, watching as the new ghoul struggled more than usual to pick up the Fantomen.

“Are you alright…? You look, how shall I say… pale? Worn out?” Copia asked, looking concerned for his ghoul.

The quintessence ghoul looked up, apparently a bit too fast for his body’s liking. His head spun and he stumbled back slightly, eliciting a slight exclamation of surprise from Copia. The ghoul stumbled back into a chair and sat ridged for a moment before sloppily acting like he had meant to fall.

“I’m fine.” He stated, his shaky fingers doing a run up the A string.

Copia stared at him for a moment, a bad feeling swirling around in his stomach.

“You will tell me if you are not, yes?” Copia asked, worried about his ghoul. “Yes, Papa,” the small quint nodded, shaking out his hands to try and make his trembling go away.

Copia’s frowned deepened as he went to say more, only to be cut off by the loud clamor of the rest of his ghouls crowding into the practice room.

Copia sighed, knowing the conversation would have to be put up on a shelf for the time being.

“Dewdrop.”

The fire ghoul turned around as Copia called his name. He watched his pack slow down for a moment, only to be reassured with a soft smile from their Papa that Dew hadn’t done anything wrong.

Dew watched as the pack nodded and walked out of the practice room, Quint following behind and slipping out of the room just before Copia called for him.

The fourth Papa sighed deeply, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Is everything alright, Papa?” Dew asked, sensing Copia’s worry. And though it wasn’t far off from the man’s usual demeanor, Dew could tell this was different.

“No.” Copia sighed, knowing he had to be blunt. “I am worried for our young Quintessence. Have you noticed anything off about him?” Copia asked.

Dew’s eyebrows furrowed and he shook his head, going to say something, only to realize just how much of a ghost the new quintessence had been.

“I… I haven’t seen much of him at all, actually. He’s never shown up for dinner and he stays in his room all the time.” Dew responded, now realizing where Copia’s worry was coming from.

“Keep an eye on him, yes?” Copia requested. Dew gave a curt nod and walked out of the practice room, quick to catch up with his pack.

[incorrect-hs-quotes]

Dave: saw someone say that they block “ageless 6l9gs” and for a moment i imagined, like, cthulhu having a pesterchum

Rose: DNI if you have lain for aeons, deathless and half-sleeping, watching the stars churn and roil overhead as their short lives flicker against the canvas of night, or if you watch st*ven un*verse

Feferi: T)(at is not dead which can eternal lie, and wit)( strange aeons —EV—EN DNI