#and back when i was on a streak of drawing only in shades of red and was too lazy to change the color out lol

[17angelsprings]

rice in red (and sleepy)

[weirdgenetic-fuckup]

can u write james getting caught masturbating in a pool float because he couldn't stop staring at fem!reader in her bikini end it ends up freaky 😭😭

A/n: love this idea so much hope you like my ✨rendition✨ of it <3

Warnings: smut, oral sex (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), if you think I missed anything let me know otherwise enjoy!

Just realize his nose is red

Your older brother was friends with James’ older half-brother since they’d worked together. You and James were around the same age but weren’t all too close, nonetheless you were dragged over to his place more than once and it only got worse when his band started taking off.

He got a nice house with a pool in the back and wanted to show it off, once again you were dragged along. You stayed in the shade and enjoyed the warm weather while you read at the poolside, that was until yours and James’ brothers had to leave for work or something, you weren’t listening when they were leaving.

James came over, staying in the pool as he spoke. “You coming in or you plan on keeping your streak of being boring?” He teased.

You set your book down. “What?”

James scoffed. “Oh, come on, you’re always boring, you never do anything fun.” You chewed your cheek a moment the stood and walked away. “What, you’re just leaving?”

“I’m not changing in front of you?” You called as you went inside.

You returned a moment later with a towel wrapped around you. James was on a pool float and watching you curiously. You dropped your towel and set it with the rest of your stuff, not missing the loud splash behind you.

You spun around and saw James coughing up water, his hair completely drenched.

You smirked as you came over and sat on the edge of the pool and dipped your feet into the water. “Fall in?”

James coughed a few more times before he regained his composure. “I slipped.” He mumbled. He reached for an inflatable ball and tossed it at you, you swatted it out of the way and slid into the pool.

It was deep enough you couldn’t quite stand but James could, he came over and let you hold onto him so you didn’t have to work so hard to have a conversation.

Once you got talking to him he was nice. He’d float around on his back and let you use him as a float. He was invested in your life, asking questions and follow up questions, laughing and teasing.

You never guessed it, he was always so loud and obnoxious around you.

Even so, you did have a crush on him when you first met. He was tall, had strong arms and his hair looked so soft. His jawline, lips, his eyes all captivated you. Watching him play guitar had you going weak in the knees.

You were talking when your stomach growled. You paused and James laughed. “Hungry?” You scoffed and made your way to the edge of the pool.

You tried to pull yourself out of the pool but couldn’t quite do it yourself so James helped you, holding your hips in a tight grip, waiting an extra second before letting go once you were out of the pool. You thanked him and hurried inside.

James stared at you blankly, his jaw slack as he watched your ass shake when you moved. He could feel his swim trunks getting tight but he ignored it and just tried to keep floating around, eventually getting onto an actual pool float.

He laid there in the sun, letting his mind wander. He thought about you in your bathing suit, the way you moved, then he couldn’t stop himself.

He thought about you naked and between his legs, looking up at him with teary eyes as you took his cock down your throat. He thought about you on top of him and using him to get off. He thought about you beneath him, moaning and begging for more as he fucked you, how you’d call out his name, the face you’d make when he made you cum.

“James..?” You asked hesitantly as you sat on the edge of the pool, effectively drawing James from his thoughts.

His mind was foggy and his breathing was heavy. He followed your gaze and his eyes widened when he saw his hard cock in his hand. He panicked to cover himself, rocking the float and falling off again.

He managed to get himself back in his trunks by the time you'd gotten over to him. Your hands were on his shoulders to keep yourself afloat, James hands went to your waist, holding you close to him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I was just-" You kissed him, he didn't hesitate to return it.

Your legs wrapped around him, your arms around his neck as his hands ventured over your body, teasing and groping whatever he could reach. He pushed you against the side of the pool as he started kissing down your neck, groaning softly as you rubbed against his hard on.

He kept kissing down your body, lifting you up so you were sitting on the edge. He tugged at your bottoms, you tried to help him get them off before he ripped the stringed sides off. You gasped softly, enamored by his strength once more.

Fuck, the look of pure and utter awe in his eyes as he stared at your cunt. He pulled you right to the edge, your knees over his shoulders as he licked between your glistening folds, sucking on your clit and swirling his tongue around the sensitive nub while his skilled fingers went to work on your needy hole.

He groaned as he pushed a finger into you, your gummy walls sucking him in deeper. You hands went to his hair, tugging on it and pulled him closer to you.

Between his tongue and his fingers fucking you and stretching your hole for him you were already close. Your moans got louder and James chuckled, sending vibrations through you.

James pulled away and you whined the sudden loss of friction. You stared down at James who looked off over the hedges behind you. You glanced over your shoulder, breathing heavy and mind running wild, you heard the sound of kids screaming and playing around.

You looked back to James, eyes wide. “Don’t worry.” He said and pulled himself out of the water. You took a moment to admire his taut body, muscular arms, broad shoulders, the prominent tent in his trunks. “They can’t hear us inside.” He grinned, reaching his hand out to pull you up.

You got up with him and excitedly followed him inside, forgetting for a moment how exposed you were.

You barely made it through the door before his lips were on yours again and he was lifting you onto the kitchen island.

He dropped his trunks and let out a groan as he pushed into you. “Fuck, if I’d known you’d feel this good I wouldn’t’ve waited so long.” He started kissing your neck, biting when he heard moans he was particularly fond of. “Sound so pretty when I do that.” He gleamed, sounding so proud of himself for making you feel this way.

“Jamie-Jamie, please move.” You mumbled, rolling your hips. James chuckled and pulled his hips back before snapping them into yours.

“Like that?” You nodded, moaning softly. James continued to kiss your neck, trailing down to your collarbone as he fucked you.

Your legs wrapped around him, keeping him close as you leaned back on the cool stone counter top. Your moans echoed off the pristine walls along with James’ low grunts and skin slapping.

James’ wet hair framed his face, a few strands sticking to him. His jaw was slacked, his eyes locked onto where your bodies connected, how your hole kept pulling him back in, the bulge in your stomach with every thrust.

“Hah-! Fuck, James, feels s’good.” You moaned, head falling back. That familiar warmth bundled in your gut, ready to burst at any second. James brought his hand to your clit, rubbing circles on it with his thumb.

You gasped, eyes shooting open as you came undone. James wrapped his arms around you, his movement speeding up as he chased his own high. He pulled you off the counter and you cling to him, still relishing in the feeling of him moving inside you, how he pushed against your insides, hitting every spot.

A string of curses left him as he came, his thrusts finally coming to a halt.

He pulled out of you but kept holding you, knowing your legs would be weak. He watched his cum deep out of you and drop on the tiled floor and down your legs.

“Fuck,” he breathed, “you’re really making a mess.” He said with a laugh. You swatted are his chest.

He kissed the top of your head and rubbed your back. “You got anywhere to be tonight?” He asked, looking down at you with soft eyes.

[randombush3]

(extremely talented, creative) stalker

alexia putellas x reader

based on this and a poem from when i was little. i chose alexia because she fit the character more and i rushed this immensely because i was being pestered for attention by multiple creatures. oh and i went for something decently light-hearted bc these hozier fics have been affecting my soul and ruining my spotify daylists.

happy monday people x

p.s. not proof-read because it's lunchtime and i'm hungry (edit: i just did my proof-read now and i've realised that it was in fact not lunchtime??? it was past lunchtime and i was just zoned out!)

Alexia doesn’t care much for art. Sure, she admires the effort, the time such talent sits behind a canvas and marks something that was once blank until others begin to value it. She agrees with the masses about the beauty of quaint watercolour paintings of the coast, and she lets Mapi rave about charcoal and graphite and oils as if she understands what is so special about the varying media. 

She knows she is only here today because the art is about sports. The gallery seems almost reluctant to allow the athletes in, worried they have brought with them their football boots and cones to dribble around, but it would be bad practice to prohibit the muses from the collection. She isn’t an idiot, though, and she knows that no amount of forced reading about the artist and other sophisticated matters will slip her seamlessly into the crowd. 

There are lots of people; people she has never heard of, but make it clear they are far superior to her by the way in which their eyes politely drop to the tattoos inked onto her calloused hands. Their skin is soft, accustomed to the stems of crystal champagne flutes, and the drawings that hold so much personal meaning to the footballer are scrutinised to the point of silent… offence.  

So much for appreciators of art, she thinks to herself, counting down the minutes until it is acceptable for her to leave. 

With a huff and a vow to never – no matter how much she earns – forget where she has come from, Alexia staggers, uncomfortable in these particular heels, towards the painting she deems easiest to understand. 

It is the largest in the room: deep, crimson reds on top of familiar greens, streaks of gold falling out of a ponytail. 

Call Alexia egotistical, but anyone would be drawn to a painting of themselves. 

The artist has done a good job, she guesses, not entirely sure if there is a deeper meaning behind the grass stains on her socks or the crumpled shading of her Spain jersey. It is a little creepy that someone she does not know has captured her likeness so expertly, so practised. 

“The nose isn’t quite right,” a voice says beside her. 

Alexia turns in surprise, amused enough by the stranger’s observation to examine her painted face, eyes not drawn from how majestic her image is beginning to seem. She sees no obvious issue, and so she replies, “I think it’s fine.” 

“Just fine?” 

She is still staring at herself, now impressed by the grandeur of the painting; its size, its quality. “Well, I am unsure how someone painted me so accurately when I was never called in for a… I don’t know, a consultation? And it seems a little weird to me that my hair is loose, because I tend to slick it back so it doesn’t fall out of my ponytail, and, you know, I always have something written on my boots, but otherwise, it’s fine. I doubt anyone here has ever watched a football match, so none of this will matter to them.” 

“It doesn’t bother you that someone might pay millions for a painting that you have deemed not-quite-right?” 

The voice is somewhat too interested, and suddenly Alexia swivels around to face its owner properly, worried she has spoken her mind to a journalist. 

“Those millions go to a charity that will improve women’s sports every–” 

You are definitely not a journalist, although once, when art really wasn’t paying, you had off-handedly typed out a few articles for one of the bigger galleries. 

Alexia knows you are not a journalist because you are dressed to be in front of the cameras, not behind them. 

Your hands hang by your sides, but in a rather unnatural manner as though you are itching to do something else, and she is briefly overcome by the horror that you seem elegant enough to be a potential buyer. Has she put you off? 

“Oh,” you interrupt, “don’t be so profound. Sometimes you footballers sound like change-making machines.” 

“There is change to be made,” she responds indignantly. 

“Hence the exhibition,” you allow with a little smirk, nodding towards the rest of the room. Although the biggest of the collection, you had asked for your painting to be displayed in the corner; a filter, in a sense, to ensure no one throws money at the largest thing in the room just because they can. “It creeps you out to be painted?” 

The question is curious, but Alexia no longer feels like she has been caged in an interrogation room. 

She thinks about her answer for a moment, torn between returning to gaze at the expanse of the scene in front of her or staring at you, wondering if you count as one of the works of art on display. 

“I have never met the artist,” she explains neutrally. You laugh, and it sounds infused with champagne and nervousness. “What? It’s like having a stalker. An extremely talented, creative stalker, but someone who studies me in secret nonetheless.” 

“No, I understand. She must have researched you until the ends of the Earth.” 

“The artist is a woman?” She isn’t sure she is surprised, but she asks you anyway, wanting to anchor you to the spot. 

“Alexia, this is an exhibition for women’s sports.” Your point is valid, but you have said her name and she is far more intrigued by the way that had sounded to praise you for your intelligence. You let out an airy breath and click your tongue. “I’d even say, given by the way she has painted you from the back, that the artist fancies you.”

“It’s the squats,” she easily replies with a giggle. “Who is the artist?” 

You take a step towards her, the sharp points of your heels clacking against the concrete floor. She follows your index finger to the white plaque beside the canvas, reading the name written in small, black letters. 

“I haven’t heard of her.” 

Alexia sounds so thoughtful that you have to hide your smile behind your palm, coughing to provide an excuse for the action. 

“Because you’ve heard of quite a few artists, haven’t you?” 

“I know the main four.” 

“The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?” 

“No.” 

Again, you laugh, and it is melodious and rich and Alexia wants to hear it for the rest of her life. Which is not normal, she tells herself, because you are some loaded stranger and she is only here for another hour before she can escape back to the pitch and her teammates who like her tattoos and admire her and respect her hard work without seeing her as some tacky social-climber who scrounged an invite to an area of society where she is institutionally unwanted. 

“Picasso,” she then offers, rather petulantly, looking at you with a childish frown. In her head, she estimates the distance between your bodies, noticing how you have not returned to your original position. 

“Ah, well done. He’s quite niche.” She doesn’t appreciate the teasing, and so she steps sideways to… put a stop to it somehow. Obviously, the plan had never truly been formulated, and it comes across as a half-lunge to push you away, but then you are swinging your arms as though the conversation is boring you and she desperately wishes you’d stay put. 

“What do you think about the painting?” she fires into the shortened space between you, the question wrapping around you like a rope that ties you to the spot. 

“It’s boring.” She scoffs, because after all, it is a painting of her. “The poor artist must have been tortured by the task, having to force her eyes to stay open while watching football matches.” 

And if Alexia were not so distracted by the way your swinging hand has begun to brush against her own, she would probably catch you out there and then. 

(But your touch is electric and she is otherwise engaged.) 

“Like, come on, can’t the sports photographers just get their pictures blown up? No one needs such an outrageously huge portrait of Alexia Putellas in their home, or stadium, or whatever. I reckon the artist is now regretting the angle she painted from, anyway, in case some pervert with more money than sense bids for it and hangs it up in his bedroom.” 

“Bedroom?”

The tips of Alexia’s ears go red, a stark contrast to the expensive silver hoops she sports, and you stop your fidgeting, hand resting on top of hers – perhaps unintentionally – as her misunderstanding wedges an awkward pause into the middle of your rant. 

“Sorry,” you apologise, “that was probably not the best thing to say, considering it’s a painting of you.” 

Alexia runs through what you have said, hoping her subconscious has caught it while her mind was preoccupied with what your sexual orientation might be. “Why have you come here if you are so against the principle of it?” 

“I was required to,” you explain, through half-gritted teeth and a jaw that tenses with leftover annoyance from a conversation you had with the coordinator. 

Seizing the opportunity to get a humorous punch back, Alexia quickly fumbles out a, “someone’s important.” 

She’d celebrate her victory over you, the way you blush in embarrassment, if you hadn’t started anxiously playing with her fingers. Suddenly, the air that bridges the gap between you is set alight and Alexia stares at where you are connected. 

You hastily pull away. “Sorry,” you say for a second time. “I have to sell this, and I’m nervous.” 

“Sell wh– The painting?” 

“No, Alexia, I’ve been sent by Real Madrid to hold you hostage so I have to sell this act.” Briefly, fear washes over the footballer’s face, tanned skin paling at the idea that you have a weapon concealed in the satin folds of your dress. Then, your hand makes a decisive movement and your fingers are intertwining with hers before she can run to safety. “I thought it was best to lure you in by flirting with you.” 

“You’ve been… flirting with me?” 

“God, imagine if I actually were here to kidnap you.” You hold up your joined hands so that she can see for herself. “Is your weakness women who bully you?” 

She blushes again, unsure how to handle what you have insinuated. 

Alexia grasps onto what little dignity remains and straightens herself, shoulders rolling back as she emulates the confidence she has been painted with. “Only pretty women,” she drawls. 

She is about to use whichever line appears in her mind first, completely unashamed by it because she has guessed you would tease her no matter what leaves her mouth, but some evil, cruel person clinks a small fork against their glass, clearing their throat, and your hands quickly return to your body, your attention drawn away from the conversation. 

“Thank you all for coming,” announces the event coordinator, clearly gearing up for a speech. “There will be time for more chatting later, but I cannot resist showing off our most talented artist any longer.” 

You roll your eyes. The expression is directed at Alexia, who chuckles privately, sunshine blooming in her chest that you have spared a silent comment just for her. 

“Y/n, darling, where are you?” 

An authoritative gaze searches through the crowd and lands on you.

The dots connect, Alexia begins to feel like an idiot, and you are sashaying away before she can ask you to stay.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Before the Dawn Has Come, I'd Block the Sun

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as blood and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You discover more than you could have ever expected when researching your thesis.

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: This is my fave so far.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me❤️

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The dry heat sops the moisture from your body, drawing it to the surface as sweat beads and shines on your skin. It’s so hot, the air ripples visibly, the old stone streets appearing more crooked than their ancient foundations. Your sandals hit the ground in a ragged rhythm as your bag weighs you down, your thumb leaving a smear across the screen of your phone. 

You slow as you read the hanging wooden sign and compare to the text on your phone. This is the one. If you weren’t looking for it, you might miss the marquee; hand-painted by your judgment. 

You black your phone and slide it into the loose pocket of your linen pants. Shorts might have been a better choice but you are on an academic mission, not vacation. You uncap your insulated bottle but in the heat of Grecian sun, it does little to keep the water cold. You don’t mind the lukewarm gulp as you tip it into your mouth. 

You slip the bottle into the side pocket of your knapsack and approach the tapered door. It looks as if it might have been placed in the medieval years. The white paint is split by the splintering wood and a curious red outline is streaked around the door frame. That might be something to look into; perhaps another superstition. 

You knock and wait. You wipe another sheen of sweat from your brow and fan yourself with your fingers. You stare at the door anxiously. You check your smart watch. You’re not late. 

Below the time, your heart beat pulses. Even at an easy pace, the heat has you in excess. You blow out a breath and look at the door once more. 

You raise your hand but before you can knock again, you hear a creak from above. You back up as the doors of the second-storey window push outward and hit the siding. The opening is shadowed by a wooden canopy built into the frame and a head of silver head peers out. 

“You may let yourself in. I will be down in a moment.” 

You’re surprised that the man speaks English. Most of the locals don’t know a word of it and your Duolingo crash course has carried you this far, though not without some miscommunication. You set your head straight and reach for the old hoop handle of the door. You push inward, cautiously, letting yourself in with a sense of reverence. 

Within, the entryway is narrow and a set of stairs winds down into it. There’s a mat beneath your soles, woven of wicker, and table to your write. A set of Grecian urns stand on it, symbols painted around their bellies and necks, some polished, others chipped; all in varying states of decay and resplendence. 

You stay by the door and fold your hand, your eyes exploring where your feet won’t. The stairs groan beneath a weight as you peer into the next room, shelves of spines looking back at you. You snap back as a large body descends to the bottom step before you. 

You’re surprised to find a face that does not match the head of silver hair. The man is not young but he isn’t old either. His square jaw is chiseled like one of the country’s famous statues and his form is even more verile and burly than any god of Olympus. But his eyes, they are a shade of amber so pale they almost look golden.  

You’re stunned by his appearance. You shake of that coy thought in your mind. Surely, you’re too deep in your research. After all, what you read about isn’t real, they are wives’ tales. 

“Geralt?” You greet as you extend a hand. 

“You are correct,” he shakes your hand firmly. 

It is just as warm in the house as without. The air curls around you with heat and weaves into your hair, speckling on your scalp. Despite this, he appears unhampered. He wears a linen shirt with an undone collar, exposing the top of his hairy chest, and the short sleeves show his rounded biceps. It is untucked from his grey pants that despite their wide cut, fail to billow around his tree trunk legs. 

“Thank you very much for having me,” you say as he lets you go. “Sorry, did you like English or Greek? I know around here...” 

“English is fine,” he assures. His accent would suggest it’s his first language but you’ve learned from the locals to be mindful. “As it were, I’ve set aside some translations for you.” 

“Oh, thank you,” you look down at your sandals. 

“Leave them on,” he affirms and waves you towards the door you’d only just been peeking through. “No time to waste.” 

“No, not at all,” you agree. “I was hoping to take a few pictures to bring back as well. For reference. I have a translation app that I use--” 

“Mm, none of my records are digitized, for authenticity.” 

“I wouldn’t share them,” you assure. He grumbles. You sense reticence. “Of course, I can just take notes.” 

“We shall see,” he utters as he takes you through to the next room. 

The walls are lined in crowded shelves. Books fill every inch, with some stacked along the edges of the long desk cleared at the centre. You can tell he’s made a recent effort of making room. For you, likely. A strike of guilt flickers. 

“You may work here,” he goes to the desk. “Here is what I’ve put aside,” he taps a thick folder with two fingers, “and these books will do fine for your inquiry. If you have questions or require more of my collections, you might let me know. No pictures.” 

“Um, sure, thank you,” you approach the desk and slip free from your knapsack. 

You glance over at him as he looms, watching you with his eerie yellowish eyes. His pupils pinpoint as his gaze flicks down to your neck as you wipe away the trickle of sweat that tickles you. He quickly reverts his attention to the books. 

“Interesting subject,” he intones. “You mentioned you’ve come from Romania?” 

“I’ve made a trek, for sure,” you open your bag and pull out your laptop and notebook. 

“Mm, I hope your battery is charged. I haven’t any outlets.” 

You look around and only then realise that the sconces on the walls are lit with real flame and that oil lamps illuminate the rest of the space. Hm. It seems a hazard with all this paper, then again, even the hotel you’re staying at is more a rented room in an outdated house. The curly-haired keeper and his wife told you not to plug in more than one thing at time. 

“Oh, right,” you leave it shut and open your notebook instead. 

“Well, I suppose you don’t need me lurking. If you require assistance, call for me. I won’t be far,” he says. 

In his accent, he sounds as if he’s reciting some Victorian script, and his cadence is like the strum of a cello. It sends a chill through despite the stolid air seeping in from beneath the drawn curtains. You nod and step in front of the chair, bracing the armrests but not sitting. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

He stares a moment longer then turns away. His movement is both smooth and stiff. It’s as if you can see a smear of colour with each motion. You shrug it off as another effect of the Grecian heat. 

He goes and you lower yourself onto the seat. The thin embroidered cushion stretched over wood offers little support. You’ve sat on worse in your pursuit of your thesis. You ward off the unease and focus on the wall before you to scale; the books arranged like a fortress to conquer. This will surely take more than a day to get through. 

📜

A day, turns into a week, turns into two.

Despite his standoffish demeanour, Geralt allows you to return to the slanted building on the corner. Each day you pass through the red door frame and sit at the desk. And just as often he adds more to the pile as if you keep you chained there. Yet, you can only blame yourself. You built this prison of academia. 

He doesn’t say much more than that first day. He doesn’t ask questions. He lets you through the door and you part ways. You only see him when he comes to tell you the time. He sends you off before the sun sets on the long Grecian days. You suppose for your own good. It isn’t any good to be walking alone in the dark. 

That day is different. As the moon cycle from a sliver to nothing at all, the night casts upon the Greek roof like ebony silk and the candlelight seems dimmer as you work in its haze. Diligent and distracted from the sifting of seconds through the sieve. Your eyes bore into the parchment as your fingers hover at the corners. 

Vrykolakas devour the flesh, with a taste for liver, though blood does nourish their unearthly being. With fangs like wolves and hunger to match, they are born of sacrilege. They are excommunicated of heaven and hells and all the wiles of humanity. They sleep in unconsecrated earth and feast on sheep when they cannot feast upon that of what they once were. 

In solace, the Vrykolakas find strength. As their hunger deepens, their power heightens, and with the fading of the moon, they float as wraiths upon their hunt to sup upon the flesh of the innocent. 

A shadow, darker than dusk, darker than ink, passes over you. You lift your head, groggy with the stain of scrawled writing in your eyes. You raise your head and blink at the pale figure that emerges into the flickering light. 

“It is after dark,” Geralt declares evenly. 

You flinch and sit up. You glance at the curtains. They look heavier before the deep silt of night. You turn back to him and give a sheepish expression. 

“Sorry, I must’ve lost track of the time.” You go to mark the page with the ribbon and he crosses his arms. 

“Much too late to be venturing out alone.” He girds. 

You pause, your hand in the crease of the pages. “My hotel isn’t very far.” 

“It would be... irresponsible to let you go. A village as small as this would suffer greatly if its only tourist were to perish,” he drones. 

You watch him, put off by his flat tone. His yellow eyes are red around the edges, as if he has not slept. You worry that it might be of your own accord. 

“I have a light,” you assure him. 

“You should stay,” he insists. “You haven’t eaten.” 

You hesitate. You often eat your packed lunch outside between hunching over the desk. He does not permit food around the books. No good archivist would. 

As generous as your other Greek hosts have been, he’s never offered you a meal. You didn’t expect it. After all, you’re there to look at old books. It isn’t a restaurant. 

“I’m fine,” you stand. “Really, I hate to impose any longer.” 

“It isn’t... an imposition,” his voice almost crackles. “I’ve made dinner.” 

“Dinner?” You echo. “Oh, well, if you’ve gone to the trouble.” 

“No trouble,” he assures.  

His teeth glint between his lips, shining and long. You only get a glimpes before he hides them again. You’ve been reading this lore for far too long. 

“Please, finish your reading and I will let you know when it is served,” he drawls. 

“Oh, uh, right,” you sit again. “Thanks. That's... kind.” 

He hums and says nothing else. He retreats just as he appeared, receding like a shadow into the hallway. You peer into the dark block of the doorway for a moment before you put your attention back to the ink. 

…derived of the ‘dlaka’, meaning strand of the wolf’s hair, the Vykolakas were once many. As the mortals upon which they feast, the crowned kings to lead them into their battle of malicion. One such, proclaimed the White Wolf, or White One, in whispered tongues as The Butcher, was the corrupt lord of Haute-Bellegarde. 

 The white liege met defeat by the hordes of the villagers in grief of their slain children, consumed by those which he claimed as his own offspring, better deemed heathens slathering at his cloak tails. In the sunlight he melted into the earth and upon his grave boils a pit of rotted soil. Though it is claimed by some that the Wolf remains, lurking and sniffing for blood, there is little evidence to feed such suspicion. 

“Dinner...” Geralt’s voice pierces like iron.  

Dizziness sweeps your vision as you draw back. That was quick. You think. Again, it seems in this dimly lit room that time is still yet never ending. 

“Come, I’ve set the table,” he slithers. 

You rise as if summoned by his invitation rather than your own will. You swallow dryly and cross the room. He waits and beckons down the hall with his arm. You notice his attire. A black silk jerkin without sleeves, trimmed with silver twine and buttons. His trousers are just as dark and his boots meet his knees. He is odd and out-of-time. 

You pass him and it’s like walking through a cloud of fog, dampy and chilly. You continue as he directs you with a point of his thick finger and a low tone, “to the left.” 

You follow another pulsing light. You’ve never been further than the reading room. Behind the spiraled stairs is nestled a dining room with a square table. The dark wood is framed with slender curlicues of red paint and at the center, the illustration of human heart beneath the foot of a candelabra set with nine long tapers. 

The flames only light the breadth of the table, leaving the walls to hang like ebon curtains. You hug yourself as the air kisses goosebumps to your skin. He escorts you to the table and pulls out the tall-backed chair. Your scalp tingles as the roots of your hair prickle. 

The urge to flee thumps in your chest and yet, you cannot make your feet turn back. You sit as if weighed down by invisible chains. Your heart races with inexplicable panic. The compulsion within overrides any thread of dread or doubt. 

You look down at the plate before you. He rounds the table and takes the seat across from yours. You look up as he rests his large hand around the base of a bronze goblet, the cup cradled by metal in the shape of talons. How strange. This room does not belong in the coastal Greek abode. 

“Please, eat.” 

There is no plate before him. Only the cup. The dish before you is neatly filled with rice pilaf and a strip of indeterminate meat glistening in sauce. It isn’t very appetizing, the smell both repulses and satisfies. 

“What about you?” You ask as you peer between the arms of the candelabra. 

“My hunger has not stirred as yet,” he says. “Please. It is only hospitable.” 

His words are unnatural, strung together with a purpose you can’t unravel. You pick up the fork and knife. You taste the rice first. It’s bland. You take a few more bites and he clears his throat. You know better than to insult him by leaving your plate full. 

You put the blade to the slab of meat. It sinks in easily, so easily it sickens you. As you slice into it, it seems to bleed as more sauce drips from within. It is dense but not tough. You pick up a morsel with the tines of the fork. 

You stare down the meat and push it through your lips as your stomach churns and your mouth fills with saliva. You taste it, the oily sauce coating your tongue as you nearly gag. What is it? 

You pull the fork free and it shines with your spit in the candelight. Your look at Geralt. His pupils are so large that his whole eyes seem to gleam black. You chew but can’t swallow. You reach to the goblet closest to you, that one plain and carved of what could be ivory. 

You drink but not deeply as the iron-laced contents add to your nausea. You wretch and choke on your mouthful. The meat seems to wiggle in your mouth and slides down your throat. Your body constricts as you force it to accept what’s been offered. 

“Is it tasty?” He asks. 

You can’t answer him. Your stomach is agonizingly full. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, and your hands are shaking. You squint at him as your head thrums. You can hear the air around you, as still as it is. You can hear it hissing around the lit tapers, you can hear the slivers of wood pressed together in the table, and you can hear that there is no breath coming from him. 

His chest does not rise or fall. He is perfectly still. Rapt by the maelstrom you find yourself sinking into. 

You look down as your smart watch flashes. The small heart flashes as it turns from orange to red. The number rises higher and higher. You whimper. 

Your breath sears down your throat and into your nostrils. He is calm as he witnesses your deconstruction. You are terrified.  

“Sheep’s liver,” he says. 

You contort in the chair, gripping the armrests as tendrils of pain weave through your muscles and coil around your heart. It’s throbbing inside of you. You look down and swear you can see it through your chest. Swelling bigger and bigger. 

Your eyes flick up at the recollection of the passage. 

‘...so the beast is borne of a man who eats the decrepit morsel of the sheep; that who dines upon the flesh corrupted by the teeth of the wolf...’ 

“No...” you waft, your voice like smoke, acrid and hot. 

He smiles, baring teeth like fangs, long and pointed like a wolf’s. Your neck bends to the side until you think it might snap and your legs twist out inhumanly. You twist and tie yourself, trying to fight the beast that consumes you from within. 

“It won’t hurt much longer and soon enough, nothing will hurt, precious,” he snarls as he sips from his goblet, pulling it back to reveal a trickle of crimson down his chin. 

“Wh-why...” you whine as you stare down at your forearms, tense as you cling to the chair. You can see your veins bulging through your skin. 

“You did not read that one. I did not translate it,” he says. “’With his curse, a prophecy, that his fate should be unleashed upon the day when he should mate. When the Butcher of Haute-Bellegade claims his bride, so shall he claim the day, and put upon the world and endless night. Dusk will consume as he does, and at his side, she will devour in turn.’” 

You moan and gurgle, your head hangs as you bawl and gag on your own tongue. Your bones grind together and your heart begins to miss its tempo. 

“’Upon a moonless night, their vow will be sealed, and all the fates of the world too.’” He recites it as if it is poetry. 

Your ears ring like a siren and your eyes blot with dark stains. Your blood boils over and your muscles knot and tangle. You fold in half and heave and expel a great deluge of guts into your lap. You turn inside out as the world mirrors your transformation. A flash of white then a bottomless black. 

All is still and silent. All is gone and born again. From nothing, there is a sliver. Red, dripping, leaking, pouring gushing. All is red. All is drenched and sodden. All is flooded in the taste of iron. 

A flicker between slitted eyelids. The scent of smoke yet you cannot inhale. You are weak but strong. Broken but unbreakable. 

Your lashes snap wide and you stare up at the peaked ceiling. It is dark yet you can see through it. The smoke wafts to you but does not creep into your nostrils. You turn your head and he is there. Waiting, watching. 

You lay upon the wooden table, naked to him and the night.  You look down your arm to the only vestige of your former self. The watch on your wrist. You tilt your hand so it lights up and the little heart is grey, next to it a dash. There is no heartbeat. You are dead. Undead. Reborn into death. 

“’And in consummation, they will birth the doom,’” he declares as he comes closer. 

He is naked too. Strong and resilient as his pale hair and eyes shine in the darkness. He climbs over you, holding himself above you as you remain unmoving. He lowers himself slowly until his nose touches yours. 

“’And upon their first kiss, the world wept,’” he grits out, lips brushing yours then all at once, covering them. He kisses you hungrily, desperately, eternally.  

As his mission is done, so is yours. You’ve uncovered the secrets of the undead. You know for sure that it is more than folklore; t he is more than just a myth. And you will have all the time in the world to regret that you ever dare to ask if he was real. 

The White Wolf. Gwynbleidd. White One. Butcher of Blaviken. Ravix of Fourhorn. The cursed Duke du Haute-Bellegarde. The bringer of the end.  

[sixosix]

5k event request :P

Kazuha, light stick, and fluff please

a/n hi anon! when i saw light stick, i instantly interpreted it as those kpop light sticks,, im not sure if u meant something else like those glow sticks, so i am hoping this was what u meant HAHA

wc 700, idol!kazuha/fan!reader, im sure u guys have heard of the 6REEZE group somewhere, meet-cute; disclaimer i only know how auction works from my classmates roleplaying them so ignore accuracies for fic’s sake. bless.

5K EVENT SPECIAL | EVENT MASTERLIST

Kazuha, to be frank, felt a little embarrassed.

His features stood out too much, his friends told him. To go out and enjoy the fresh air of the day, he had to not enjoy the fresh air with a face mask, conceal his red streak of hair by clipping it back and burying it under a cap, and wear green-tinted sunglasses (also to disguise the red of his eyes) that he was struggling to get used to.

In his defense, His friends weren’t any better. Aether’s braid could be recognized with only that, Venti’s glowing braids weren’t any better, Heizou’s shade of hair and green eyes would stand out—if not his unique voice, and everyone knew Xiao even if he were to shave all his hair off. Scaramouche could be salvageable, but one word from his mouth and his fans would fall to their knees—it could be his voice, but it would be the attitude.

Kazuha felt a little too hot with his disguise, but he wanted this, so he would go through with it. He tugged his mask under his nose, relaxing at the scent of the open air. The mall had an open area with trees all over; the leaves fell to the ground, and the wind brushed past. Kazuha couldn’t feel it, having been stuffed under layers, but he was satisfied.

Although it felt embarrassing to be clothed in this disguise, he couldn’t go outside this freely before. He was going to make the most of it.

And then he passed by a stall that had him doing a double take. Kazuha took a few steps back, lighting up with recognition. He couldn’t be mistaken, not with that familiar symbol of Anemo. The stall displayed a light stick of their group, released only a few days ago.

His friends would have a blast if he came back with it, most likely, Kazuha mused. Maybe he could bring it back as a gift.

A hand shot out from the side, blocking his view of the light stick. Kazuha blinked, a little surprised. He followed the arm's stretch and came face-to-face with an angry stranger.

“Hey, you!” you said. Kazuha felt like he needed to stand straighter at the tone. “I had my eye on this one first, ‘kay? Whatever number you have in mind—keep it. I finally get my hands on one of these; I’m not letting it go!”

“Oh, this was an auction?” he asked curiously. The stall didn’t seem to be being run by anyone at the moment, and no one else was there.

“Well, no,” you sniffed, “but I would win. I already told the seller I called dibs on this one—wait until she gets back.”

Charmed, Kazuha smiled. “Two thousand.”

“Three.”

“Three-thousand, five hundred?”

“Five-thousand, three hundred.”

Kazuha had to wonder: “How much do these usually cost?”

“Five thousand, if you’re lucky. I’ll make it ten thousand, easy. Are you still not backing down?”

Kazuha laughed under his breath. Were you serious? Were you actually willing to drop that much for this? “Alright, I cede. I apologize for attempting to defeat you.”

You grinned, eyes sparkling quite literally as your gaze slid back to the lightstick. You were very pretty. “Yeah, I thought so.” You eyed him curiously; Kazuha suddenly felt a little shy. “Are you a fan as well?”

Kazuha nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from your genuine smile for a few moments. His eyes drifted down to your shirt, which had the same Vision of the lightstick—but there was something else. “You could say that.”

Your shirt had maple leaves swirling around the logo, and Kazuha could recognize it all too well because he was asked to sit down and draw it for their merchandise—something personal for each member. Did Kazuha have the right to suspect what it meant that you were wearing his?

Emboldened, Kazuha gestured at the lightstick. “As a fellow enthusiast, may I extend my offer to cover this purchase?���

You blinked and stuttered. “W-What— You don’t have to! I literally stole it from you!”

“So you confess that you pried it off of me?” Kazuha teased.

“That’s not—Listen—” You stared at him, then got flustered. “Hold on, are you hitting on me?”

“Yes.” He took off his sunglasses and tugged down his mask, flashing a sweet smile that he knew was utterly unfair. Your face bluescreened out of pure shock. Without the mask muffling his voice, it was clear as day. “So, will you let me?”

[shares-a-vest]

"One piping hot cocoa," Wayne announces, setting an Indy 500 mug in front of Eddie, "Extra cocoa."

The boy is sitting at the kitchen island, drawing and taking up what little space is left on the countertop with his tools. He's been sitting there for a good hour now, working on some of his fantasy drawings.

Wayne wants to tell him the dragon he is working on is getting pretty good - quite realistic compared to the wibbly line work he'd started with when he first came to live with him two years back. But he doesn't say anything, just stirring his coffee a moment longer than necessary.

Eddie places his free hand around the mug handle and Wayne stills, hoping the boy will at least stop to take a sip and save himself from a spillage.

"Thanks, Dad," Eddie mumbles, moving the mug a little too close to the paper's edge.

They both pause.

Eddie mid-pencil stroke, Wayne mid-sip.

The boy sets the pencil down and grumbles at the purple streak now painted clean across the dragon, ruining its brilliant sunset-like shades of red, orange and yellow. Wayne tilts his head. He thinks his nephew might have intended to colour the eyes purple.

He also suspects his heart might have just skipped a beat – even if he isn't too sure how he feels about the cause of the awkward silence they have fallen right into.

And their silence is never awkward. Just calm. Peaceful.

Wayne had always been that way anyway, but he'd made an effort when Eddie showed up two years ago, with a duffle bag of clothes, an armful of his favourite books and a beat-up old acoustic.

He wanted to give Eddie time, too. Let him be himself. Guide him without being too militant. Though, considering Eddie's boisterous age (the boy is now twelve – where in the world does the time go?), sometimes that's easier said than done.

But a purple streak ruining a sunset-coloured dragon seems a heck of a lot different.

"I... didn't..." Eddie stutters, scrunching the corner of his drawing in a fist, "I didn't mean that."

The kid scratches his head, brows wobbling and lip quivering as he runs his fingers over the hair, likely remembering he has no curls to twist worried fingers around just now.

Wayne braces a hand on the countertop, willing himself not to curse to the heavens over his own stupidity. A couple of months back, he'd made the downright asinine decision to allow his brother Al to take Eddie on a fishing trip. He was perfectly within his rights as the kid's father to do so.

Well, at least at the time, he was.

But Al rolling back into town with a suspiciously shiny car and Eddie sporting a buzzcut with disappointment in his eyes was the final straw.

He picks at the chipped Cubs logo on his own mug, mulling over the best place to start with this one. But Eddie slips off his stool and books it down the hall, firmly making the decision for him.

He sighs and slides the drawing closer. Turns out Eddie was working on adding details to the dragon's scales with the purple pencil.

Wayne gives it a full few minutes before he heads down to Eddie's room.

He opens the door to find his nephew lying flat on his back with his hood over his face and the drawstring pulled so tight that it only leaves room for a small breathing hole.

He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to sit by the edge of the bed. Eddie pointedly folds his arms.

"What's going on in that noggin, kid?" he asks, leaning towards the hooded form, "If it hasn't been swallowed up into a fabric void, that is..."

Eddie stills for a moment before puffing out a laboured breath.

"I didn't mean it," he says after a long silence, "Freudian Slip."

"Eddie, you know I haven’t the foggiest what that one means."

Even though Eddie reads a lot of books, Wayne still doesn't know how his nephew comes up with half the stuff he says. Eddie groans and paws away at the tight drawstring. He starts to really struggle with it so Wayne reaches over to help.

"There you are," he says, smiling once he gets the thing untangled and open.

"It doesn't matter," Eddie gripes, waving a dismissive hand before letting it fall back against his chest.

Wayne looks around. Eddie must have tidied his room yesterday judging by the empty laundry basket – even if he didn't place the thing back in the hallway.

He's a good kid.

Wayne pinches his nose, hoping that the prickling sensation at the corners of his eyes will go. He looks down and instead focuses on his striped socks, a pair Eddie gifted him last Christmas that he saves for Sunday afternoons.

"You can call me 'dad' if you want," he finally offers.

"I don't," Eddie bites back.

The first feeling out in the kitchen might have been a hearty thud of his rusty old heartstrings, but this one stings. Wayne nods a little more curtly than he'd hoped.

Eddie huffs and scrubs a hand over his face.

"I don't mean... gah!" he babbles incoherently for a moment like he does when he is frustrated beyond words and trying to mind his manners, "All I mean is, the guy I call 'dad' – or I'm supposed to – sucks. So – to me – the word doesn't mean all that much. And you aren't like him at all. Which is why I didn't mean it."

"I understand," Wayne nods.

He looks up to find his nephew teary-eyed. Eddie used to wail away as a toddler, running around with all his big feelings. But over the last few years, with everything that happened with his parents and now living here, Eddie has struggled to express himself beyond frustration and acid-tongued anger.

Though, as he wipes his eyes, that might be changing. Just a little.

"Any plans for this afternoon?" he wonders aloud, patting Eddie's knee and catching on a dang tear in his jeans.

Eddie shrugs, "Might go practice with the band."

"Ah yes," he smiles, "The talent show."

"We are going into battle," Eddie clarifies, enunciating every syllable with the faintest smile.

"And I expect an invitation to come see your performance, regardless of what that flyer over there calls the thing."

He points to the school's Talent Show flyer Eddie has had pinned to his bedroom wall since the start of the school year.

"Sure thing, Old Man," Eddie says.

"Hey now," Wayne chuckles, "I'm going to draw the line with some other choice terms of endearment, y'know?"

Eddie scrambles to the edge of the bed, a cheeky grin stretching across his face.

"Maybe we should discuss this further over some cold cocoa."

[aroacesetitoff]

Infinight Interns Reference Sheet + Headcanons

Bartholomew Finn

-Vest of Slow Descent-i made it green based off his canon design and then gave it "feathered" hems to allude to its ability

-pre-Draconic Transformation Bart-gave him silver jewelry and the only draconic traits are gold freckles, fangs, and shorter horns

-post-Draconic Transformation Bart-gold jewelry to match with his dad (Simsun), and of course claws and scales and larger horns

-boatswain's call whistle-a reference to the Jebediah + Capt. Marge

-gave him the thigh dagger sheath-cause why not. I think Bart's that character in movies that has a shit ton of knives hidden in the most improbable places

-he's got a 17 string lute, but lets be honest i aint drawing 17 strings. painted a wave design on the body and the soundhole/rosette has a dagger design

-Breath Diagem/lute pick ftw

-scars on his hands (from doing hot boi sailor shit)

-not shown but i think he's got a bunch of tattoos (like "I <3 Mom" for Marge, flowers for Gum Gum, crossed anchors, etc.)

-pupils are slitted like dragons and a very dark shade of blue

Kyborg the Mighty/Kydelius of Everwinter

-Fun Fact: i used to do archery! so some of his gear is based off of stuff I had. But you know cooler

-Canonically his hair pretty loose, and its pretty but my god its gonna get caught up in his bowstring man. braided/tied it back for practicality

-thigh highs. no notes

-gave him an armored version w/ fur because his current design didn't feel like Everwinter-y enough

-its not terribly visible but he has the Belt of Sick Trick so i put a bird on it (vaguely Tony Hawk reference)

-the Longer Bow Krystallina-gave it a snow fall design + red accents

-scars from archery, since this guy shoots barebow

-the left (flesh arm) side is the most armored and unscarred, and the right (metal arm) side is scarred + unprotected (bc u know its metal)

-pupils are really dark shade of red as a reference to the Source Diagem

-metal arm-i took an anatomy class not a robotics one, so the structure is based off human musculature (kinda) and i put the Source Diagem in his shoulder instead of his hand

Gum Gum Galindor

-star boi 🌟

-constellations on the inside of the brim of his hat that Bart sewed for him-(Bart's a sailor, he knows his constellations)

-the flowers (orange @ blue) on his hat represent him & Bart. The orange ones bigger bc u know thats his big bro right there

-the hoodie+pauldron+cross body strap combo is a direct copy of Bart's design bc thats what younger siblings do u know

-made the patches to repair his coat stars bc why not

-Random Axe of Kindness-the cute lil heart does not detract from the fact that its an axe

-timeskip design i went for a gardener vibe bc he works in the Orchidnage now-i think despite having the worst dad of the group, Gum Gum would be a pretty good father figure

-Staff of Flowers-i wanted to reference Dia w/ this one so I tried to have this be the most colorful part

-Bart pierced his ears at one point

-i gave him constellation freckles that showed up post Dia reveal

-he has his manacles yeah but i wanted to design friendship bracelets for the rest of the team

-Mudd's-green thread with pink & white flower beads-the charm is Gumbo

-Bart's-leather cord with blue & gold beads and an anchor charm

-Kyborg's-brown leather cord, green beads, and a red arrow charm

-made his pupils a lighter shade of blue that glows when he uses Wild Magic

-edit: lots of scars, some from fighting, a lit from just tripping and shit. Also a dog bite from that one time

Mudd Bramblecrack

-i love him but it was so hard to come up with a design

-the pink streak keeps moving bc im inconsistent and also bc he has to redye/cut his hair constantly

-the "fur" cloak is the Cloak of the Secluded Garden, and its actually pine leaves & grass

-gave him a very simple tunic w/ a bramble design bc we would try to disguise his noble bg

-i put Mudd in a kilt bc i have free will and also he's Scottish. I dont think he would ever wear one unless for formal occasions tho bc i think they take a while to put on

-Gumbo :) + badger armor -this ones very specifically inspired by Lonna Bowstripe from the Redwall series

-originally had the purple gems on his tunic, made em earrings instead bc thats cooler

-Bramblecrack signet (?) ring-also the Virtues Diagem. Both this and his earring are purple bc its an ace reference (for me). The ring is definitely an ace reference bc i made it a black metal and put it on his right middle finger (ifykyk)

-pink paw pads + talons-less of a firbolg thing, more of a Moon Druid thing

-eyes are a rlly dark shade of green but glow a brighter shade when Wildshaping

-pupils are a rlly dark shade of purple (Diagem ref) and also horizontal like cows

Okay I think that's everything. If not ill just come back and edit it 🤷. working on the OG Infinights next so stay tuned or whatever

[starlost-mochi-x]

landscape - hwang hyunjin

pairing: hwang hyunjin x reader

summary: while hyunjin is gone on a trip, you decide to surprise him

genre: fluff, non-idol! au, reader described as the artsy type

a/n: thank you all sm for the support so far!! i woke up to 99+ notifications this morning, i'm so glad people enjoy my work 🥹

Your white shirt is streaked with another smear of peachy paint, right down the middle. Several other miscellaneous shades haphazardly decorate your front and back. Your jeans, to say the least, are permanently ruined. Your overall appearance right now gives off the vibes of an abstract painting that was left to dry, but then was accidentally dropped on the floor and forgotten about.

You couldn't care less.

Giggling to yourself, you reach up and swipe another streak of yellow across the wall. The room is a mess right now. A large white sheet is spread across the floor to protect the floorboards, and a load of different paint tins and cans are scattered throughout the room, crowding at your feet. Paintbrushes clutter the desk, and Lana del Rey echoes in the background, reverberating off the walls and swelling to fill the messy space. Almost every surface of the room is covered in paint and markers and pencils and a miscellany of other items that makes it look more like a art-dumping ground than Hyunjin's little art studio.

He's been gone on a work trip for the past few days, and without his presence to entertain you, you endeavored to start a project, something that would keep you busy until you returned. Safe to say, it certainly has.

You're currently painting a massive landscape across the back wall of the art studio, where it will best catch the light from the window opposite. The wet paint glows with the dappled sunlight that filters in through the window, making the rolling hills and fields of the painting look like they're under the summer sun. You asked Hyunjin beforehand about what he might do to decorate the studio, since the walls were bare and blank. He had simply laughed and kissed your nose, saying 'you decide, love.'

You're not really sure what he would think about the current mess on the wall. It's distinguishable, but you know it would have looked much better if he had been here to help. But you've tried your best, and it looks a lot better than you thought it would, so you continue, streaking sage and sky blue across the surface of the wall.

You've never felt so free. You understand why Hyunjin loves his craft so much, spending almost every free minute in this studio, with his paintbrush flicking expertly across the canvas and his slender, pretty hands tinted in reds and blues.

A sudden gasp from the studio door makes you drop the paintbrush. It clatters to the floor and you freeze, turning your head to the doorway.

Hyunjin stands, tall and elegant as always, both hands clasped to his mouth and eyes wide open. He's dressed in a smart, black suit, but his socks are mismatched and his hair is falling out of his hairstyle. One silver earrings clings to the lobe of his ear. He must have lost the other one, or been in the process of taking it off when he found you here in the studio, making an absolute mess on the walls.

But he doesn't look horrified at all. You thought at first he looked the way a parent might, when they walk into a room and find out their toddler has been drawing on the walls with coloured sharpies.

He looks delighted.

Rushing towards you, he sweeps you up in a hug, spinning around and laughing. You wriggle, not because you aren't pleased to see him, but because he's wearing a Versace suit and you're a mess of mismatched paints barely resembling a human being. He only holds you tighter, burying his face in your neck and streaking his cheek and hair with scarlet in the process. The scent of his spicy, woodsy perfume mixes with the smell of paint and turpentine, and you inhale deeply. He's bouncing on the spot, hands gesturing wildly and feet shuffling in a way that reminds you more of an excitable golden retriever puppy than your boyfriend. You're not sure if he's happier to see you or the half-painted wall. You open your mouth to express your surprise and delight at his sudden arrival, but are interrupted.

He squeals, hands flapping. "The WALL! Did you do it all by yourself? Oh, and you raided all my art supplies too- is that a landscape of Jeju Island, where we went last year? Oh, it is! I remember you stood there and i took photos of you- love, you really should have painted yourself into it, i would have loved that-"

You cut him off with a kiss. Pulling back, you whisper.

"Help me finish it? It doesn't feel perfect like i wanted it to..."

He's already stripping off his Versace jacket, throwing it to the paint-smattered floor.

"Hyunjin- why would you throw it on the floor, that's expensive-"

"Don't care."

He's already picked up your fallen brush, handing it to you and selecting one of his own. Crouching down, he delicately dips it into a tin of black paint and adds two little stick figures in the corner- a tall one with a paintbrush and a shorter one holding its hand. He changes brushes and gently dabs yellow and red to its face, similar to your face in its current state. It takes you a moment to realise that it's you and Hyunjin. He grins, setting his brush down.

"Now it's perfect."

a/n: don't forget to request ! likes and comments are so appreciated, and again, thank you for all the love <3

[greeenchrysanthemums]

UPDATED appearances for the GG rivals au characters: now with Lizzie and Joel!!

Once again, i am no artist so they are just written descriptions with pictures here and there. Most of them are largely the same as the previous post, but I have added little tidbits to certain descriptions, some of which are lore related!

Gem looks similar to this gorgeous fanart, except her dress has slits up the side to allow for easier movement. This look is sometimes replaced entirely by a trouser and tunic combo of the same colour if she knows the mission she is being sent on will need a great deal of movement in close quarters or something to that affect. No matter the outfit, her sword never leaves her waist. Her hair is in a low bun with a braid wrapping around the front of her head, like this. I do not imagine her with horns in this au.

Scott and Impulse wear armour similar to how applestruda draws it in her au, with their cloths in shades of teal and yellow respectively. Scott has long, back length hair, that he wears down and covering one eye. He was born with heterochromatic eyes, one blue and one hazel. His teeth are sharp, and he has fin-like ears due to his Coral Crest heritage. Impulse has shortly cropped hair, stubble on his face, and two little nubby horns that are tipped in black extending out of his forehead. He also has sharp, clawed hands.

Grian's eyes are entirely black like a barn owl's, and he has feathers on the high parts of his cheek bones and ears. His hands end in sharp talons rather than nails. He also has bird-like legs and taloned feet. His wings are not visible, if there at all. He wears a red shawl/cloak that has a high collar and ends around his waist, held closed by a brooch in the shape of an eye, similar to this but golden instead of silver. It has a hood, but he only wears it if he is trying not to be seen. His undershirt is black, and it is a long sleeve. His trousers are brown.

Scar wears a similar black cloak as Grian, held closed by the same brooch, though he wears his with the hood up. The cloak has red flower detailing on the hem. His eyes are green, and his hair is brown. He has a single grey streak in the front of his bangs. His tunic and trousers under the cloak are both black and he wears his shirt just a little bit too open at the top. He also always wears a smile, but pretty much everyone can agree it is deceptively kind and fake. He looks the most human out of the whole cast, so much so that it is entirely uncanny. EDIT: I can't believe I forgot to mention! Scar has a cane as well. It's wooden with a gold handle.

Mumbo and Etho wear matching outfits, claiming it is professional since they share a job and shop, but it is something they choose to do, not something that is required of them (they are just very, very silly). They are simple outfits consisting of white tunics with black trousers and thick, leather aprons on top (mumbo's is red and etho's is a dark green). They both wear goggles and thick gloves, as well as chunky boots, all for safety since they work with explosives very often. Etho wears a black bandana to cover his lower his face, both to hide his scars and his identity. His goggles replace his headband in this look, doubling as what keeps his hair out of his face. His scared eye is missing entirely; he does not have a false eye, it is just an empty socket. Mumbo wears his goggles around his neck when they are not on his face.

Bdubs also wears thick gloves to protect his hands in the garden. His shirt is white, and he has brown trousers that are a tad bit high watered, something he claims is intentional as he does not want mud all over his trousers. The previous argument becomes moot, because over this outfit he wears a thick cloak that is almost always covered in some manner of flora and/or mud. He completes the look with a wide brimmed hat to protect him from the sun.

Cleo is also dressed similarly to Etho and Mumbo but her apron is a plain brown that is stained with soot. Her tunic sleeves are always rolled up to show off her strong arms and she doesn't wear her safety gloves nearly as much as she should. She forgoes eye protection entirely. One of her eyes is missing, replaced with a glass eye of a slightly different shade of green than her organic eye. Her hair is pulled into a much messier bun than Gem's, with frizzy stray hairs going every direction. She is NOT a zombie in this au, she is completely human.

Ren is dressed in all the typical regalia of a king, complete with a diamond encrusted, golden crown and a thick red cape with a fluffy collar. His thick beard is long and braided. His eyes are red, as well as blood shot, and he almost always appears angry. He, of course, has wolf ears and a tail. He simply would not be Rendog without them.

Martyn is dressed in the same armour as the other knights. His under clothing is green, as is the bandana he wears around his forehead. He usually appears worried, but he smiles often in the presence of the king. He always has a hand on the sheath of his sword, ready to draw it at any time.

Pearl wears a white tunic with flared sleeves tucked into a pair of high waisted black trousers. Over this she has a deep, red cloak that stops at her waist and is held closed by a circular broch that, when unclasped, takes the shape of crescent and wanning gibbous moons. She has a crescent moon shaped birth mark on the left side of her face. Her hair is always down and messy under her hood. When she is on the job, she carries a scythe strapped to her back, along with a crossbow. There is a sheath on her leg which contains a dagger.

Bigb wears a blue tunic with brown trousers, along with a thin white apron when he is working. He always seems to have flour stains on his clothes whether he is on or off the clock, no matter how hard he tries to wipe it off. Big strong arms for him as well.

Skizz wears the same armour as the rest of the knights, and his underclothes are black. The shoulder of his armour has a cross emblem on it that delegates him as a medic, and he has medical supplies carried across his chest. The sleeves of his tunic are ripped off and he does not wear his gauntlets, showing off a plethora of scars along his arms. He is a dove avian, but one of his wings is heavily damaged and half missing as a result of an old injury he sustained on the field. He has white feathers on his upper cheekbones and ears, but he lacks the talons that Grian has.

Tango wears a short sleeved red tunic and black trousers with big chunky boots that are never free of mud. His hands are clawed, and his ears are pointed; both are tipped in a red to black gradient. His eyes are entirely red. He has a long tail that ends in a tuff of fire that doesn't seem to actually have any real heat.

Jimmy wears a blue tunic with a brown vest over it. Brown trousers and chunky boots. His sleeves are always rolled up and he is always covered in some manner of dirt, both because of the work he does on the farm, and from being very clumsy. He has bull horns, one of which is chipped. He also has a tail and bull-like ears. He has a gold ring in one of his ears.

Lizzie wears a flowy purplish-pink dress that is thin, both to allow for free movement and to allow airflow in the Coral Crest heat. Her teeth are sharp, and her ears are fin-like. Her nails are very sharp. She wears her pink hair down with a string of pearls like this. She wears many silver and gold bracelets on both wrists, along with a few anklets on both ankles. She does not wear shoes unless she is out of the castle.

Joel Wears a thin, short sleeved white tunic and brown trousers under a set of armour. While Wintertide armour is more thick and sturdy, as well as a darker greyish colour, Coral Crest armour is more thin and agile, and is a lighter grey, almost white, colour. He wears no gauntlets. His hair is short and messy with the back pulled into a tiny ponytail. He has a short, scruffy beard. He also has fin-like ears, sharp teeth, and sharp nails. He puts on a tough guy act by scowling all the time.

[ilyuu-archive]

summertime drift.

the sun nigh, and a puff of wind drifting along with the air. heat abuzz, a hum of the world underneath you, as you spend some time with them. (or some small moments in the heat with them.)

ft. childe, dainsleif, diluc, kaeya, kazuha & yoimiya.

warnings : suggestive (kaeya), fluff, literally fluff everywhere and anywhere, kiths here and there, lmk if i missed anything!

childe.

ripples in the sea as you shuffle your way back into the shore. crisp air coats you, and the cold starts to crawl onto your skin - it’s a towel, dry, warm, that wraps around you that soaks you in its comfort. that and the pair of arms slipping around your waist, tugging you in. you catch a spark of red, sunlight reflecting off the jewel, and feel it graze your shoulder. that and droplets of seawater. you try to squirm out of his hold, onto for him to tighten his arms a bit, now trapping you in him.

little to no escape, you relax into him, and he reciprocates it with a peck atop of your head - you feel heat starting to bloom from there.

dainsleif.

puffs of clouds drifts in, and shadows are cast all upon the meadows as it veils the sun for a few minutes. flowers sway softly with the wisps of wind, tousling his hair - he’s found himself lying amid a field of blossoms, all vivid, all with life. in the haze of the heat, cicadas abuzz; blades of grass flowing; and a crisp touch to the breeze, he feels himself at… a peace. and said peace secures itself when he feels your fingertips raking his hair, sun-kissed locks slipping through the spaces of your fingers.

he closes his eyes for a moment, and let himself indulge in the moment’s peace with you. nothing but the tandem of heartbeats alive is all he hears.

diluc.

you take in sip after sip of a cold drink of your choice, feeling the heat in your skin, clothes, as the sun continues to rise, almost nigh. ice cubes shake around with every shift of movement, letting the frost seep into the the palm of your hand. at the corner of your eye, you see him staring at you - something that comes close to softness swirling in his irises. all he sees is you, nothing else, even in a moment as small and common as this. and from that point on, the ice cubes melting in your cup could do little to cool the heat in your cheeks.

and you return his gaze, his flits to the side - it’s then that a soft red, almost the shade of his hair, touched his skin.

kaeya.

a spoonful of ice cream, mists of ice floating from it, lingers just shy of your lips. there’s a smile on him, slowly curving up, and it’s to that you lean in a bit, enough to be closer to him, that you open your lips just slightly. it’s then that he took a bite out of it first, his eye softening with amusement at the look on your face, and it’s when his hand slipped to the back of your neck, pulling you towards him, that you feel how cold his lips are against yours (you can taste a mix of vanilla and chocolate chips.)

his tongue slowly teased your lips ajar, and as a sound slipped from you, you feel his fingers fall away from you - the pad of his thumb brushes your lower lip, swiping a bit of ice cream, and tasting it himself. (you turned your head to the side and he can only chuckle.)

kazuha.

underneath a shade, cast by a tree and its leaves, fluttering to the touch of a gentle breeze, you lie your head on his lap as you lift your arm, fingers splayed to try and touch one of the spots and dots of sunlight. it’s stolen away as his hand closes in on yours, the coolness of it all draws out a sigh from you, light, content. his gaze lightens, and it’s as if the sunlight melted with it. he pulls your hand just shy of his lips, brushing his lips across your wrist, back of your hand, to your knuckles.

his lips trailing across your skin, you feel a shiver slither up your spine as you stare up at him. he can feel it, and lets out a soft laugh, his smile clear and airy.

yoimiya.

amid the covers of a cold night, sparks lightened the skies. a thin streak shooting up into the air, only to then burst - a myriad of shades, at first, as brings life and light to the eyes that stares in awe. all before it slowly makes is descent back in the world, fading, faint, yet alive in its energy. yet it couldn’t compare to the light in her eyes, lively, true to the word, as she catches every second of its fleeting beauty and hopes. and it’s you she always shares it with, her hand seeking yours out, fingertips grazing, to only wrap in on yours.

her gaze strays to you, just for a moment, and her hold on your hands tightens every so slightly - a burst of feelings simmering in her chest, and all so positive and sweet.

general taglist (open!) : @zuyoo, @starz222, @haliyamori, @kazumist, @tartaglia-apologist, @mikacynth, @angelkazusstuff, @doumalove, @kpop-and-otome, @emo-mess, @kazuuaki . . .

[sonkitty]

The Sideburns Scheme Post #56

(For reference: The Sideburns Scheme)

Crowley, Good Omens 2, Episode 4, The Hitchhiker, broken

...

Sideburns Check

The above image is slightly brightened.

The sideburns are long. I think the long sideburns are the "human" reading during the minisode as a reversal compared to the present day.

...

Brighter Red Streak Check

With his hat finally off, Crowley has a visible more saturated red streak of hair. I'll go over my theories about that in the Story Commentary.

...

Hairstyle Changes

The sideburns are still long, but now the hat is finally off.

When Crowley faces and addresses Mrs. H, his hair looks more red compared to when he turns around to look at Aziraphale. Then his hair looks darker, and the red in the streak is more subdued.

...

Earthly Objects

(For reference: Earthly Objects)

Crowley opens the case of broken bottles. Only one thumb is shown to touch it, but he has all five digits visible with his right hand to indicate his previous touch. So, my own guess would be that he's aiming to get credit for the touch by having his hand shown in such a way.

Mrs. H. has two questions with, "Broken? All of them?"

That could give them a standard set to start the scene.

Mr. H. has two more questions and Crowley uses her name, "Mrs. H."

While these two are interacting, Aziraphale does have a visible touch with his hat, and there is someone known to be playing the piano, even if they are only shown from behind.

Mrs. H. repeats her name back to Crowley. She touches her own purse and rubs her gloved hands together. She mentions the number, "40". She continues on for a bit before the piano interrupts her swearing.

While she was talking, a Rule of Three was met with three of the girls entering and passing through the ongoing conversation.

Aziraphale takes out a white handkerchief when offering to help Crowley.

...

For paying attention to the pockets...

In my attempts to figure out anything, I noticed two cuts where there's a black top hat on a table on the stage behind Mrs. H. with what's probably a stuffed rabbit. Presumably, it has something to do with the magician. In the other cuts, the hat and stuffed rabbit are not there.

The girls who pass through, specifically pass through between Aziraphale and Crowley, which draws attention to them being on their "correct" sides for most of the scene.

...

(For reference: The Rainbow Connection Part 4: The Door Trick and The Door Catch)

I said this minisode had clues for The Door Catch, so let's look for clues about The Door Catch.

One of the most important elements in The Door Catch is that somehow, some way, the shadows of the green leaves on the back of Aziraphale's coat are allowed to be the Green of the maintained Rainbow Connection.

While neither Aziraphale nor Crowley sit during this scene, the piano player is visually pocketed between them, and that piano player has her back to us, the viewer.

A really tricky and difficult mechanic in the Rainbow Connection is from non-rainbow-colored shades: black, white, brown, and gray.

I think there is a findable poem that goes:

Black blocks.

Brown borrows.

Gray shades.

White keeps.

The "gray" is spelled as "grey" in the official subtitles, so I'm just using the spelling I'm more familiar with.

When I was drafting this part into the relevant post, it occurred to me check that this minisode might have a clue for each one. The clue for "gray" is the most obvious one, later, but I wanted to see if others could be found.

Black and white together seem to do something like a trap.

The piano player is wearing all black with, presumably, a black dress and black shoes. I'm mainly noticing it's a match for white because this scene initiates the clue for White.

Aziraphale pulls out a white handkerchief and waves it around. This handkerchief will be used again later during the actual Bullet Catch act.

...

Story Commentary

Who broke the bottles? Was it the Metatron messing with the story because he's got something against whiskey? Or was it Aziraphale's wishful thinking so he could have an excuse to help out Crowley? Or is it just part of the written story from one or both of them with the clues within the games?

Well, my guess would be the last one of those since it matches with my overall theory, but the other theories are good too.

Now about that more saturated red streak of hair...

One of the theories I have on it, here, is that this 1941 minisode is experiencing something like a "bleed-through" effect from the present day. It's closer in time than the other minisodes. So, the streak is there as part of this "bleed-through" effect. Season 1 established that Adam could retroactively change reality. Someone or something could be doing that in this story.

Another theory is that the streak is there because of either Crowley performing his miracle for the bomb, the books, or both, or Aziraphale performing his "real miracle" to make sure he and Crowley survive the bomb.

I had a present day theory that the streak is an after-effect of a Big Miracle that Crowley performed, but things don't quite match up with that theory because of various parts in the story where it disappears and my not finding any good guidance or reason for why it would disappear since I don't know how many drafts the story has and how it fits.

Plus, there are clues the streak is actually a result of the lightning...somehow. That doesn't fit either, but I'm generally suspicious of the camera work when Crowley first shoots the lightning out.

Mrs. H. has dealt with Crowley and makes no comment on that streak, but humans generally don't comment on Crowley's appearance as it is. If she does actually see it, and has seen it, then that would put the "bleed-through" effect as the more likely theory.

So, those are just ideas I'm throwing around. I'm more uncertain on them compared to stuff like the Threshold Tricks, the supernatural zone made with help from the sideburns, and the connection Aziraphale and Crowley make through borrowing each other's homes.

...

That's it for this post. Sometimes I edit my posts, FYI.

...

Main post:

The Sideburns Scheme

[laikaflash]

A Mirror Across Timelines: Mitsurugi

(For the September community prompt. This will also be on Ao3 with notes and stuff later.)

As strange as it had been for Mitsurugi to find himself in Beijing, he was brimming with strength. Not a moment ago, he was in a Spanish port town and what had happened there was far too invigorating to have been a dream. In a flash of white light, he was spirited away to a place lit by a strange fiery glow. All around him floated towers and arches that twisted and broke into rubble, all being pulled into a blue maelstrom. The air itself thrummed with power when he dueled the silver-haired shapeshifter Iska Acht who brought him there. Then came a voice that rumbled through the chaos like distant rapids, but its words were no clearer to him even as the second white light faded. Whatever it was that had awakened there—warrior or demon—Mitsurugi wondered if it was waiting for him in Ming.

Passing shop after shop along the wide street, Mitsurugi looked around to get his bearings. Although he could recognize many characters, his pronunciation of any of them would stand out as much as his armor did. Passersby gave him a wide berth and he caught more than a few uneasy looks from them. Mitsurugi maintained a nonchalant attitude that had served him well in his travels, but there seemed to be something more to their wariness. Was Hideyoshi carrying out his ambitions of conquest?

Amid all the chatter, he caught the word wōkòu—Japanese pirate. Mitsurugi jerked his head to his left and saw two young men hurry into an alley and disappear. He scowled, knowing it would make no difference to them that he had slain pirates on his way back to Japan several years ago. Shading his eyes as the sun glared through a gap in the dark clouds, he hastened his steps. Though the clouds were rolling northward, toward the mountains, the air felt heavy enough to rain at any moment. Much to his relief, ahead was a red-fringed banner that bore the character for wine.

He had not realized just how hungry he was until he walked into the tavern. Mitsurugi had no desire to explain in halting Chinese how he had gotten here from Spain, but the tavern-keeper had noticed the reals among his few wén coins and seemed to give a knowing nod. After a filling meal of fried rice and enough wine to ease his nerves, Mitsurugi bought a night’s stay in a small room upstairs. As he settled in and began to unfasten his armor, thunder rumbled outside and rain followed.

Whoever this new opponent is, he thought to himself, maybe the silver-haired child will lead me to him.

A white flash, like lightning striking nearby, startled him to his feet. But no sound came. A blaze of crimson light filled the room. Mitsurugi grabbed his sword, with only his cuirass remaining to shield him. His heart pounded fiercely as he recognized the power that coursed through him once more as he prepared to draw. The red light vanished as though it had been snuffed, leaving only the soft light of the paper lantern overhead.

Now a swordsman stood before him. His short, black hair was streaked with gray, as was his beard. A katana was tied at his sash, yet the top of his frayed, black kimono hung off his left shoulder like a monk’s robe. The hems of his black hakama were equally tattered. A large necklace of prayer beads hanging from his right shoulder seemed to complete his monkish look. Yet, his bare right arm bore what were almost certainly dueling scars.

“Are you here to fight me?” Mitsurugi challenged.

Sardonically, the swordsman raised a thick eyebrow. “Here?” he asked with a barely suppressed laugh. “Don’t you know who I am?” He pointed to a single, round scar just below his right shoulder.

Mitsurugi sheathed his sword and instinctively touched the same spot on his cuirass. “How…?” he gasped. “How is it possible?”

“You should know.”

There was no mistaking the scar from the tanegashima duel. Mitsurugi remembered how Iska Acht changed her form three times to test him, but it had been nothing like this. If this was a trick, he suspected that his older self would not have bothered to kick off his geta. “I mean… How did you get here?”

“Ah, that. The Astral Chaos brought me here, and there’s no telling where it can take you. I could’ve gotten lost there if it wasn’t for you. Tell me, where are we now?”

“Beijing. The outer city.”

The swordsman took a glance from the lattice window. “So it is. What year is it? You look about twenty years younger than me.”

“Eighteenth year of Tenshō, unless something happened while I was gone. Or, an Earth Ox year.”

At this, his older self cracked a wry smile. “Hm. Say, is that Shishi-Oh?”

Mitsurugi hesitated, noticing that the grip on the swordsman’s katana was black. “Yes.”

“May I see it for a moment?” The swordsman’s voice lowered to an almost reverent tone.

Mitsurugi’s heart sank at the thought that his finest sword had been lost. Even so, he unsheathed it. The older Mitsurugi gazed upon Shishi-Oh as though it were a son he had not seen in years. His expression turned somber and wizened.

“Cherish it. Hone it and wield it well.”

“Of course.” Mitsurugi gravely nodded and sheathed his sword. “I need it in top condition. There’s an opponent I’m supposed to meet. He must have something to do with this Astral Chaos. I heard something—”

Surprise flashed in the older swordsman’s eyes. “What did you hear?”

“I couldn’t make it out. That silver-haired child, what’s her name…? Iska Ahha…” He felt his throat catch on what was meant to be a guttural sound, along with slight embarrassment for it. “Acht, that’s it! I thought this Iska Acht would bring me to a worthy opponent, but well, here I am. Whatever that voice was, she had different ideas.”

The older swordsman thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “You’ll meet him, this new opponent.”

“Where did—uh, where might I find him?” Mitsurugi felt as though he had been talking to Edge Master, rather than himself.

“You won’t find him right away, but you will need one thing. Head to the fortress at Xiwei on the western border of Ming, and in time, you’ll meet your greatest opponent yet.”

Mitsurugi grinned. “That’s more like it! But what am I supposed to find there?”

“A shard of the very sword that started this. You’ll know you’ve found it when you feel it.”

With his brow furrowed, Mitsurugi wondered if it was that same power he had felt in the Astral Chaos. “If that’s so, I’ll prepare to set off at once!”

The older swordsman grinned back at him. Then crimson light filled the room once more. A regretful look crossed his face he stepped back into his geta. “I'm afraid I can’t stay much longer.”

Mitsurugi stood transfixed at the glowing portal, half-expecting Iska Acht to appear. He almost wanted to reach out to his older self, but he gratefully bowed.

“Fare well.”

Mitsurugi felt a chill as his older self stepped into the twisting chaos. At once, the crimson light was gone, and in one last flash of white, the room was once again as it should have been. He fell silent as the sounds of people in the tavern, noises of the street, and rain returned all at once to his ears.

“Damn,” he hissed, pressing a hand to his forehead. “I could’ve asked him what changed in his time!” But he knew it would be a long time before he reached Japan again, and he was no stranger to long journeys. Mitsurugi quietly settled on the bed and began to plan. Soul Edge itself seemed nearer than it had ever been.

[plutobutartsy]

angel in a maid dress!!! :D

they were plannimg on getting it in pink but changed their mind when they remembered yellow is david's fave colour (thanks discord muah)

bonus: davey's reaction + flats ^-^

ID and tag list under the cut!!

[ID:

Image 1: A stylized drawing of Angel in a maid outfit. Angel is depicted as a short black and feminine presenting person with dark skin and a curvy, chubby build. Their head is tilted slightly to the left side and they are looking at the viewer with a smile. Angel is slightly blushing and they are wearing light orange eyeshadow as well as a shiny transparent lipgloss. Their right hand is raised towards their forehead with their palm facing the front and their middle and ring finger curled. With their other hand they are slightly raising up the skirt of their dress. Their left leg is also slightly raised towards the side. They wear their straight dark brown hair in a side part with the ends slightly curling up at the shoulders. There are also four light brown streaks in their hair, two running along their fringe on their left side and two starting beneath their right ear. The base colour of the dress they are wearing is yellow. It has long puffed sleeves and comes down to cover their knees. Their apron is white with ruffles at the bottom and on the straps and with a big bow in front of their stomach at waist height. At the bottom of the dress, two white ruffled peticoats peek out. At their collar, they are wearing a white jabot and a light orange bow on top of it. On their head sits a white ruffled maid headpiece with orange ribbons at the sides. Their shoes are light yellow mary-janes that show off their white ruffled socks. Around Angel, there are sunflowers in the corners of the image and framing their face are some sparkles. The drawing is fully coloured and shaded.

Image 2: A stylized drawing of simplified Angel and David. Angel is wearing the same outfit as before. They are bending forward towards David with a happy smile on their face and a slight blush. David, who is drawn as a tall man wearing a simple T-shirt and pants, as well as with his hair pushed back, is looking at Angel with a surprised expression. He us blushing a bright red. There's a speech bubble comming from Angel, saying, "Davey!!! How do I look? Do you like it?" Next to them is text that says, "knows exactly what they're doing", as well as small flowers and sparkles framing their face. A second text next to David clarifies that he is speechless. The background is completely in yellow while David, Angel and the speech bubble are in white.

Image 3: The same drawing of Angel as the first image, except the sunflowers are missing and the drawing is only in flat colours.

End ID]

tag list:

@oceanicwhitetipshark @febreze-bottle-without-febreze @teaseat @swanconcerto @beemybella @soup-scope (send an ask to be added or removed <3)

[asherbakugou]

Mirror - We are born of love; love is our mother

Morro had always believed – or rather, he'd thought he'd known – that he'd been abandoned by his parents, but he'd pushed that aside in his need for survival. And then Sensei Wu had found him and things had changed for a short while. He'd had a home, where his belly was always full, a room that was all his own, and a closet of clothes just for him.

But he'd been abandoned – no, that wasn't right, he'd abandoned Wu, in his pursuit to be the Green Ninja, but he'd thought it an indisputible fact. His parents, or maybe just one, had abandoned him in the streets of Jamanakai Village. And now . . .

When Morro had first looked at that picture, it hadn't seemed all that special, but when he had looked closer to see the Master of Wind . . . She had looked nothing like he imagined, all things considered. When he'd imagined the previous Masters of Wind, they hadn't looked so . . . kind, or gentle. They'd always looked mean, or stone-faced, in his imagination.

Eteri – his mother, the one he'd thought had abandoned him – had looked so kind, more like Lloyd with his bleeding heart, rather than Morro. Rather, he looked more like Aryan, the Master of Smoke, with his downturned brow, and sharp, angular features.

He couldn't take it, so he fled, but he only found himself in a wing of the Monastery that had more drawings of the previous Elemental Alliance. Not all were of them in their GI's, and he found hinself staring at one in particular.

Eteri was sitting against a cherry blossom tree, cradling a baby in her arms, looking down with a smile and adoration in her eyes. The picture was done in watercolor, and he wondered what his mother would have looked like in real life.

Her hair was the same inky black as his, with pale green streaks the color of jade – which were darker than his own emerald streaks –, falling around her face in slight waves. Her eyes were grey – no, green or . . . They looked like river stones covered in dark green moss, so different from his green-black eyes of rotting undergrowth.

Her skin was a beautiful shade of light brown with a reddish undertone the near opposite of his own sickly white pallor. In all, he didn't think he looked anything like her and his heart burned as if he was being dragged beneath the waves of Stiix again.

Biting his lip in his efforts to keep himself from crying, he didn't notice the blood beading or Garmadon coming around the bend. Morro's entire body tensed when the man came to stand at his side, looking at the picture with an exhaustion and an ache.

"You look so much like her, I am surprised I did not realize who you were sooner," Garmadon admitted, seemingly not noticing how his words – those simple words – had Morro's lungs freezing.

"I think you've gone blind!" Morro snarled, forcing hinself to speak past the lump in his throat. "I don't look anything like her!"

Garmadon turned to look at him, dark brown eyes glinting with a dark red sheen that seemed more threatening than ever, "I fought alongside Eteri for nearly 23 years, spent more time than I can remember training with her or simply spending time in her company. You look very similar to Eteri."

Morro drew himself up . . . to what? Yell and scream? When had had that helped? When had it become so much harder to be angry?

"How? How do I look like her?"

"Your eyes are the same," Garmadon began, smiling slightly at the sneer he recieved. "I do not mean color. Eteri was the gentlest of us all, until she was pushed and then all bets were off. You could always see every emotion going through her mind in her eyes, just as I can with you."

Morro reeled back, confused, before he remembered all the times Lloyd would stare into his eyes and then, he would either push harder or back off, as if he knew which one he needed.

"You are taller than she was, but otherwise you could be siblings. I have no doubt in my mind that she's smacking Aryan around for making her son so tall," Garmadon laughed to himself.

"What happened?"

That took the mirth out of Garmadon.

"The Emporer sent an army, and we attacked to keep them away from the Monastery but we didn't realize it was a trap. He had some of his soldiers sneak into the Monastery in the hopes of taking away the two babies that lay within. You and Lily. They only succeeded in taking you, and for that they suffered."

"Never had I seen Eteri so angry. Jiang was as well. Together they summonded a storm so powerful that no soldier from his army survived that day. The rivers were dies red for days from the massacre but we succeeded in weakening the Emporer. Over half of his force had been apart of that army and we began to prevail."

"Aryan and Eteri worked tirelessly to find you . . . And that was their downfall. I do not know all the details, but I know they were outmatched and exhausted but they won. It came at the cost of their lives. When we found them, Aryan – Aryan was already gone, and Eteri begged Keahi to find you, for her."

"He died searching for you."

Morro frowned as the image of red, bloodstained and cracked armor flashed in his memories. "He– Did he wear a necklace with a jade amulet?"

"Yes. How did you–"

"He got me to Jamanakai but he died from his injuries," Morro said, giving a bitter laugh. "I thought he was just someone I'd dreamed of but . . ."

"Keahi was your godfather, and he loved you as his own."

"Yeah, lot of good that did him." Once again, Morro stalked off.

Instead of wandering in the Monastery, he left, unable to be in this place that had once hosted his parents, his family.

[knarroweddown]

Well, Well, Well...

Time heads out the door, shutting it gently, and Purah scribbles names next to items. Then she gets to work.

—

Contrary to popular belief, as reliable as he was, Time should not be trusted on errands alone. Ask his lovely wife, Malon, there is a reason she has to accompany him to Castle Town after all. 

The door shuts softly behind him, crackles of the furnace accompanying the occasional sighing breeze. Colorful streaks peek above the distant mountaintops, brightening Time’s figure as he makes his way down to Hateno.

‘Alright, Link. Make this quick, no detours or noticing suspicious soft patches of dirt. Just a cucco egg,’ Time thought, steeling himself against anything mysterious.

The noise of conversation gradually rises as the Hero of Time makes his way closer to the small village. He pauses at the dye shop. Oh, that shade of red would look good with his fireproof tunic and that light green-

No, stay focused.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Time calls to a nearby villager, “Are there any ranches nearby? I need to gather a few eggs for a friend.”

“Ah! O’ course there are! The closest one is right up there.” Rising onto the balls of her feet, she points over the house roofs and up the hill to a small windmill. “Not only do they have cuccos, but they also have a few sheep and cow products if ya need ‘em as well!”

Time bows slightly in thanks, eyeing the hill he had just descended from, “I appreciate the information.”

Preparing to make the hike again, he shifts in his armor. The breeze ruffles his hairs and leaves twirl in the air when he makes it halfway up. That of course is when his thoughts became a tad bit sidetracked.

“...ink,” came a whisper.

Time’s ear twitches, seems like someone’s looking for Wild. Unfortunate that he’s probably halfway across the continent already.

“Listen, Link!”

His head turns sharply and in a flash, he’s back in the Lost Woods. Green fairies flit to and fro between the tree trunks, giggling amongst themselves. A blue light floats in the shade of the trees, retreating deeper into the thick foliage.

Time feels his heart jump into his throat. “Wait!” He cries, “Slow down! Navi!”

Sharp branches slap against his face, but Time doesn’t feel any of it. The light was growing dimmer and he wasn’t getting any closer. Around him the trunks grew thicker, packing tighter together the further he pushed forward.

And then darkness.

Link- no, Time, frantically looks around, turning in circles to find his friend. “S-she has to be over here somewhere…”

Everything blurs momentarily and he’s back in reality. Except…

A well sits in front of him, its depths beckoning him like a spider in its web. Cautiously, the Hero of Time makes his way towards its stony hem, peering into the abyss. Time feels his ear twitch-

“Watch out!”

Metal meets metal, sparks soar into the noon sky. His mirror-image stares back at him, except it isn’t. Its eye glowed a bloody red and the body a translucent black. Time felt himself falter in shock, allowing the Shadow to retreat back.

“What, stuck in the past?” It cackles tauntingly, swinging its sword in circles. The Shadow lunges at Time, feinting to the right and slicing him across the back of his thigh.

Time screams in rage and pain, stumbling and catching himself on the well when his leg gives up. He wobbles on one leg, glaring at his double. This wasn’t an ideal situation, if he was able to the draw attention of one of the boys-

“Tsk tsk, Hero. No one’s around to help you, I’ve made sure of that,” the Shadow snickers, “Say hello to an old friend for me~.”

Then Time is falling, staring up at the red blot that grows smaller and smaller.

—

well wasn't this fun! maybe I'll write a second part, maybe not! Hope the pacing was okay.

WTIYS Challenge by @breannasfluff

[vsyrworld]

challenge : describe a moment in situation with domestic conversation but privates meaning

so here i go. charlos private moments ft team 55

//

the warm lights illuminating the white brown marble countertop where carlos made a mess with his dirty of shreddered coffee beans. The smell is nice as the hot water steamed into thin air, it's coffee (of course), but that does not mean Charles has to start liking one.

He curled up on his dining chair, pen in the right finger sketching on a fake paper he holds with his folded knee (ipad, lando laugh at him and said 'it's an ipad'. but for him, any surfaces for drawing beside paper and canvas, it's consider as a fake).

He might focus on his sketch, but he could feel Caco' eyes trailing down his finger movement. He brushed up and down, change a pen brush to a pencil, rounding his wrist, scribble then add some shadding, Caco moves the same.

After all, carlos' cousin is sitting across of him in the dining table. His palm around his mug, twirling it in the air as if a mocktail. Well, is Charles care enough, he could start building some trust or affiliation or just chitchatting since they are sitting facing each other. But, he saved it for next time.

Meanwhile, a slurping coffee sounds came from rupert, just one chair away from charles' left side. He had the perfect pairing, cookies on the plate. Eyes on Carlos movement in front of him.

The gaze Rupert gives to carlos versus caco to him is certainly had different intesity, different meaning, different question and thoughts (actually charles is 100% sure. rupert eyes on carlos doesn't mean anything, he just sometimes zoned out. like a trainer like an athlete).

Charles didn't care enough though. Even with Caco takes another sip of his handmade coffee, still observing Charles hands movement.

Instead, his mind wanders into some past event. Because of his brain is too full, too cramped with memories, nightmares, bad race, good race, bad days, charles is drawing and calls his teammate.

"Carlos"

"Yess?"

Rupert still munchin his cookies, Caco stays the same like before.

Charles takes his time to finished some pencil strikes, just a little strand of black hair he is drawing. Carlos doesn' pushed him either, busy dealing with something at back of kitchen counter.

When he finished the hair, he changes into a brush pen and start picking up some ferrari colors,

"Honestly," Charles starts truthfully, like he always did to Calros. Then he start talking at the same time he is painting his paper red.

"I don't know what to answer Ollie' questions."

Carlos let a hum behind the counter top, "Really? But you answered him pretty well"

This time Caco and Rupert head turned at him (and Carlos). He knows, even when he doesn't truly see them.

Another paint streaks down, "Now the more I think about it" he cracked his neck to the left and continue to drawing,

"Why do I continue racing while it always giving me, this, same loss over the years?"

Caco raises his eyebrows. Of course he is. He is an outsider.

But Carlos understand. What loss meaning for Charles. Only him, because Charles let him see, let him know, let him in. To his private life.

"Love is ironic no? To say that I keep going because I love racing. At the same time..." Charles realized he fucked up the color

He wriggles a bit on his chair, fixing his hoddies sleves then erased some of error, "At the same time, racing fucked my life. They took away... my loves one" Charles' already on his second color, it's a warm honey bee yellow.

"My problem is always the same, though" He sighed. Tired of hugging his knee, he put his ipad on dining table.

"Is that I love people. And people that I Iove is leaving me. Then it goes alll around like that again and again..." he strokes a couple of shading, "and again." adding some highlights.

"And I wished I am heartless"

"I certainly wish you doesn't" Carlos speaks up, with a sudden presence of a warm mug beside his ipad.

Charles smelled and a smile peaking up his dimples to rise. He brought the mug closer to his noser, "Seriously, Honey milk?"

Carlos body warming his back. His hand placed firmly against Charles wooden chair.

"Your all the time favorite" he grins wide

"It is" Charles takes a sip with Carlos watching him (And certainly 180 degree different feeling when it's Carlos rather than Caco or Rupert. Even they do exactly the same; looking at him)

"Like it?" Carlos gives him an eyebrow raised

"Love it" A white milk line up on his upper lips and Charles happily lick them clean with his own tougue.

"This is why i don't think you shouldn't be heartless. I don't think you could be either." Carlos squeeze his shoulder, before taking a sit beside him

Of course. Charles also knows, he is a love person. He couldn't and probably wouldn't ever stop loving. Even though it's stupid and hurting

"What do you know about me?" he groans, eyes completely off the ipad now as the device locked and turn into black pitch

Caco squeked on his chair (Charles smiles, knowing that he is triggered), Rupert take a glance to both of them worried (he always be), while Carlos...

he just on his goofy mood today.

"I don't know you very much actually" white lies escape smooth like a butter as they're both smiling.

"what do you want me to know something about you?" Carlos asked, tilting his head. Eyes never leaving him

Charles squirm under his gaze. "my..." dimples showing as he giggles, he fake his thinking gesture, "what do i want for dinner?"

Carlos rolled his eyes.

"I know, Carbonara it is. Your liking"

Charles smiled and nodded as he watches Carlos arise from his chair, Taking sip from Charles' honey milk cups, on the same place charles lips settled. Carlos is still standing beside him, hands hanging loose in the air.

"I love it" He simply agree to whatever Carlos choose for dinner. Not minding a blush start spreading over his cheek. love you, he want to said. Caco gaze burning on him.

"Yes and I think that is what makes you still here" Carlos smiled at him. Warm like a sun.

That is what, Carlos means love. And here, means settling down in Carlos' Maranello apartemen. After hours and hours, they're spending their time to re learn and re analize this season. What went good and bad, what to do for next year. Until moon rises and Charles realized it is too late for him to go back Monaco then Carlos tugs his arm,

come home with me

and he follows, and he is here. Explained why charles here with Caco and Rupert scrutinizing him. Explained why, Carlos cooks him a dinner.

Charles hides his emotion pretty well, he thought. But when he pick up his ipad again, the dimples reflected through the screen, mocking him with three words (you loves him)

"What do you draws?" Carlos breaths softly against his crown head. Almost like a feather light kisses. Charles purrs

He blinks slowly and finally look across the table. Giving Caco a brief eye contact before craning his neck to meet Carlos behind him.

Carlos cheek is tan, smooth and clean. Smells good, citrus aftershave. Perfect, Charles thinks. So, he brings his ipad up, covering his whole face and half of Carlos' profile. He leans into Carlos' space and making sure Caco' trailing gaze fails him.

Rupert swallowed his last cookie, Caco drinks his empty coffee mug. Not that Charles can sees them anyway from behind his ipad. He doesn't care then closes the gap in.

After an utter silence, Charles cringe at the way how Carlos' high pitched dolphin laughter filled the apartement. That sounds so weird. It so stupid, he shakes his head. Then, he is putting down his ipad, making him visible again in Caco' vision.

"Pasta un lunga?" Charles pushed Carlos's arse towards to kitchen. That bastard still laughing.

"It's penne, mon bebe" Carlos mocking him while preparing a pan of boiling water.

Charles groans in annoyance. Of course , Carlos' carbonara is always lunga and Charles is always complaint.

"Do we have penne?" Rupert asks out of curious. Charles back busying himself with another sketch, secretly smiling as Carlos answered his trainer by "No, come on. Carbonara is lunga!"

But later then, when Carlos is plating the carbonaras in the dining table, three plates serves the lunga. And one penne, still sizzling warm in the pan.

>>>

Rupert ask him on the next day,

"What did Charles draws?" He asked while Carlos is driving three of them to airport. Rupert just so eager to back home and grinding down Carlos again with lots and lots of winter training.

But Carlos drives in his unusual calmness, like he doesn't want to leave Maranello fast, like his body, his souls lingering at his apartement. Somehow didn't match with Rupert and Caco excitement.

"Uhm, no. He didn't show anything" Carlos took some time to answered him.

Rupert takes a glance and find fondness in Carlos eyes. He hummed, but Caco interrups in,

"Did he truly is?"

"Yes. Does he ever shows anything?"

Rupert raised his eyebrows at Carlos immediate answer. Later on he realized his athlete is smiling.

>>

later,, carlos said to charles at the dawn. the monegaque bid him a quick farewell before went inside his own car.

it's already midnight when they touched down Spain but Carlos cheek is still warm from Charles' lips.