#especially with his self portraits

[askblueandviolet]

Don't feel Bad about your draws, Macaque is not that good in it too (he just lie about it)

MASTER POST

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[dizzybevvie]

Ik there are some Zephyr and Nuffink enjoyers out there and good for you /gen but i just cannot get invested cus...."Nuffink" ?????????

[rxmye]

" 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 "

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 — For so long, he found art in his surroundings, nature was his muse . . who would've thought that he'd be able to find another muse, within you.

gender neutral reader / yandere oc x reader / obsessive / unhealthy themes / I guess the reader is his 'hater' / perfectionist yandere / kind of egotistic yandere / he has a praise kink frfr / maybe a bit self centered . . / kind of unedited / also might appeal to ppl with a savior complex

masterlist | requesting rules | character info . . . a/n: I feel like Lore takes up a good chunk of this fic, but enjoy . . also might be one of my longest fics . .

He was a calming presence, and a thoughtful friend to all he called his own. Elegance took a human form, in Xavier Wilson—A beautiful work of art indeed . . Born presenting a talent that could rival many others in the industry.

From a young age, Xavier presented himself as a man of the arts, often drawing out vivid tapestries of his dreams or memories. He would often lose himself in the pages of his notebook, scribbling away with intricate drawings and stories, his mind was his own magnum opus.

However—people was never his strong suit. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, surely if he was as magnificent as those around him expressed, he'd most certainly be able to recreate the portraits of those around him?—But no, none of his portraits could compare to his various other works.

As he got a bit older, his mother decided to enroll him in classes that could help expand his talents, which ranged from various music lessons, theater (didn't end well), art history—etc . . .

Xavier let out a breathy sigh, staring at the keys of the grand piano absentmindedly—his gloved fingers gently glide over the keys, tired would be the best way to describe him as of right now—his professor had left an hour ago, yet Xavier couldn't find it in himself to move.

Truth be told, Xavier wasn't a fan of music, he preferred quiet solitude—and though he had long since gotten used to the sound of the piano, violin, and any of the other ridiculous instruments his mother was so keen on getting him to play—he still preferred the silence over all.

Over the course of time, Xavier disinterest towards music dimmed—Alongside his distaste towards instruments . . He figured the reason he disliked it so much was due to his inability to play as perfectly as his professor . . Xavier was a perfectionist, and anything he couldn't perfect was simply 'wrong' in his eyes, and as he reached his teen years, he accepted that fact wholeheartedly.

Xavier stood still, as his mother fixed his tie for him—he could do it himself but he let her enjoy this moment, she always disliked watching her son 'grow up so fast'—"are you nervous?", she asked softly, gently holding his hands, smiling so brightly.

'Am I nervous?—' he thought, clearly not. He felt calm, neutral even. It was his first big show, yet internally he knew that things would end well for him, he could feel it. He's always been lucky, in fact his father's nickname for him as a child was quite literally 'Puer aureus' which translated to 'the golden boy' from Latin.

He clicked his tongue, a common habit of his—especially when he wasn't being exactly truthful—he paused for a moment as if to think, then he smiled at his mother, "Just a bit, but I'll be fine" he spoke calmly, gently squeezing her hand to reassure her. "Don't worry, I've prepared well for this . . Haven't I?"

Praise, he adored praise, and that day he received quite a lot of it—not just from his parents, or acquaintances . . .—but crowds of people. Honestly, it stroked his ego, quite a bit . .

By seventeen years of age, Xavier's talent was known worldwide, his rise to fame quite massive and fast . . He had to attend class, while also hosting live performances and art galleries. (such a struggle, really . . .)

University admissions were coming around, and most of his friends had chosen what schools they plan on applying to—what path they plan on going into—what school they hope to go to the most, the conversation was an eye opener and yet it all felt so bitter.

Xavier tapped his pen on the table, zoning out from the conversation his friends were having . . only to zone back in when Neva spoke, "—so Xavier, have you decided where you'll be applying too . . ? I'm sure you'll get in."

He clicked his tongue in response, closing his eyes absentmindedly as he spoke, "To be honest, not really . . probably something arts related?", Xavier was about to speak up again but stopped himself, starring down at the table, a sigh escaping his lips.

"That seems like a waste of money", he looked up, starring at Oliver with questioning eyes, and Oliver quickly explained himself, "Art school is great and all—But it won't really make much of a difference for you, in fact the rules could restrict your talent . . It could be better for you to just try something new? You're good in school a degree outside of your comfort zone may be something good for you!"

He hated that his friend was right, he hated being wrong. He prided himself for always knowing what was best for himself and his abilities, and in a spur of pettiness he found himself taking art anyway, trying to prove his friend wrong . . even though he was well aware his intentions were pure in all ways.

Xavier had done well in his courses so far, and with his fame, he was breezing through classes—and yet, when the topics of portraits came up . . he found all that floating out the window.

None of the models they had for class, felt right—none of the art he did, felt authentic . . felt like himself, when it came to art, Xavier took everyone to paradise, his art felt like peace . . his art was calm . . his music was soft, lulling almost . .

Yet now, as he stared at his canvas, covered in mixed harsh colours, a vibrant mess of paint, his brushes wrecked, paint dripping from the easel . . It felt like anything but calm.

And that's when he dropped out, a question to his perfection would wreck the fragile image of himself he had created in his mind, a man so perfect and lucky in his own right a humbling experience like that was to never see the light of day.

Xavier found himself turning to something different, just like Oliver suggested, his alternatives were selective, yet he kept many paths open, Photography, fashion, and business were his top picks and things he found himself surprisingly enjoying . . Surely if he could paint and create melodies of such wonders, then he can stitch some fabric together, solve a few equations, and take a few photo's here and there just fine . . right?

A few years had past, and Xavier was now running his very own Luxury fashion line, he still hosted art galleries here and there, and composed music on the side, but his business took up most of his time.

But on his free days he'd turn to photography, taking pictures of things he sought comfort in . . and people, he'd often take pictures of unsuspecting people, pretty ones . . people not so pretty as well, just to try and recreate the life they had on a canvas . . yet somehow always failing to do so.

The moment Xavier found himself close, he'd reach a dead end . . and that destroyed him, internally.

Over the years, he accepted the small flaws in his behavior, and tried his best to reform them, presenting himself as the perfect public figure. He did go to therapy in the past, but when things started rising up, he quit entirely.

Xavier laid back on his office chair, and scrolled through his recent posts comment section, and as expected almost all of it was praise . . some of envy, but that only fueled his ego more . . Until he found a comment that set him off, "His art is so melancholy, it feels a bit sad . . His previous works were brighter, like more happy but now it kind of feels sad . . Like the life in his work isn't there anymore."

Xavier stared at the comment dumbfounded, never had he received that kind of feedback . . portraits he drew were indeed lifeless, but his other art was always regarded as lively, and that was what he always strived for . . Curious, and in a fit of rage . . he clicked on the commenters profile, and saw you.

You, you . . You were what he was looking for, his muse. So, full of life . . He scrolled through your page, and couldn't help but feel the urge to draw you, and paint you . . and paint you he did. . Because soon his entire studio was filled with pieces inspired by you . . so full of 'life' . . .

Yet at some point, he had reached the end of your posts, and it just wasn't enough . . he needed you . . He wanted your feedback, he craved your praise . . like no other, he wanted input . . he wanted to know if his work was truly still lifeless . . he wanted you.

After all, a artist isn't complete without his muse.

want more, buy my limited time only advent calendar?

@ rxmye , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.

[innuendostudios]

regarding Measurehead

I've been watching a max-stats run of Disco Elysium's fascist political vision quest - cuz, hell no, I'm not disappointing Kim myself - and the portrait it paints of Measurehead is fascinating. in the base game, Measurehead is just a comically contradictory roadblock to meeting with Evrart: the philosophy of white supremacy spouted from a massive Black body. most players will interact with him early in the game, usually in close proximity to meeting The Cuno, and he's part of what makes the early game seem so unreprentantly edgelord. the kid said the f-slur! the Black guy is a racist! har har!

I've never loved that this is the foot Disco puts forward first, but, on deeper engagement, the game always has more on its mind.

properly speaking, Measurehead is, at his core, a genuinely good and kind man. he gives Harry good advice about not living in the past; he loves and adores his mother; he has an unhealthy respect for his hard and distant father but recognizes he learned strength and self-respect from him, while nevertheless refusing to repeat the cycle of abuse; indeed, he recognizes the balance he feels in himself, the mix of masculine and feminine, of soft and hard, was only possible because his parents lacked that balance in themselves, that his father saw the loving softness of Measurehead's mother and pivoted to its opposite, denying himself softness and embracing the rigid and cold so that Measurehead could experience both; Measurehead has chosen not to have children perhaps because he knows he could not retain this perfect balance, would have to follow his father's example and embrace only one side of himself to provide balance to a child; and he knows this self-possessedness, this full knowledge of who he is, is what makes him appealing to women, far more than his physique or philosophy; and, by all accounts, he eats pussy like it's going out of style.

what makes Measurehead such a batshit character is how he has to contort his philosophies to make room for this, how malleable fascism and race supremacy ultimately are. he can't just not want kids cuz he doesn't want to repeat daddy's patterns, he has to embrace a philosophy of "semen retention" and deny himself orgasm, and he fits that with race supremacy by insisting the real legacy is perpetuating ideas rather than flesh. he can valorize his devotion to his mother and the sexual consideration he pays his partners by insisting this makes him desirable to women and is how he outcompetes lesser men. the philosophy of "balance of soft and hard" is how he can exalt his father as a masculine ideal while still distancing himself from his father's abusive behavior.

one could argue these are all perversions of fascist rhetoric, if fascism had any coherent rhetoric to begin with. Measurehead has grasped the nonsensical nature of race science and authoritarian logic and put them to his own ends, and, being a giant specimen of a man, he can more or less get away with it.

I don't write this as a defense of Measurehead, because, of course, he is spreading a fascist rhetoric that encourages all kinds of violence and bigotry in the world, and a man who is good and kind in the privacy of his mother's office but is a champion of subjugation when in public - especially when he is, in his bizarre way, a true believer - is no kind of decent. but I see it as a look into the utter emptiness of fascist thought.

the four emissaries of fascism we meet on the vision quest - Gary, Rene, the racist lorry driver, and Measurehead - speak a lot of the same words but, at their core, have nothing in common. they have all latched on to the rhetoric and bent it to different ends - Rene yearns for the monarchy, Gary wants a pat on the head, the lorry driver is an incel, and Measurehead is trying to self-actualize within the confines of hypermasculinity. the only rhetoric that can encompass all four is one without substance, one of infinite flexibility, that offers nothing more than the promise that you will get everything you want, and that directs your rage at something other than yourself.

in that respect, despite being perhaps the most emotionally healthy person in the game, I find Measurehead pitiable.

[endless-ineffabilities]

be young, be dope, be proud

dynasty heir Aemond x heiress reader

a/n: randomly and carelessly drafted after a night out, so don't even ask me what this is. title obvi from Lana. also, I feel like the setting here is an acquired taste. so, enjoy? 💁🏼‍♀️🤍

themes/warnings: spoiled rich assholes, New York/modern references, language, clichés galore, Targs are like the Kennedys if that whole family was pure evil and Rep, SMUT, angst between brats who clearly want each other, also—you're kind of a hypocrite

main masterlist

The estate reeks with old money: marble columns, ancestral portraits, and a long dining table loaded with crystal and silver. Chandeliers try to warm the place, but it's all cold opulence. Outside, the gardens are cut and tamed to show that even nature has a price.

Your father always brings the family along to stately dinners up there in Westchester, with the usual crowd in attendance—the Targaryens, the Velaryons, the Lannisters—the whole lot.

Between them, they could probably purchase every building in Manhattan without creating a single dent in the bank.

Hell, maybe they already have. Generational wealth truly is the gift that keeps on giving.

You've tried to distance yourself from it. From people whose words drip poisoned honey and condescension. Being waited on like new order royalty.

But who are you to talk, when your father's lineage traces back to the fucking Mayflower? You and them are one and the same—filthy rich and borderline insane.

It is nearly impossible to maintain a steady sense of self, to have ample room for personal growth, when everything, every single thing, is handed to you on a silver platter. There is no tension there, no struggle, no need to exert any effort.

Failed your courses? Your father donates a building to the university. Aemond gets several DUIs? His great-uncle is a Supreme Court Justice. Aegon nearly burns his friend's house down while throwing a bacchanal-themed party? Let's just say that friend is grounded. For a week. Oh, the horror. Their family had many other estates, in many other places anyway.

When there are no real repercussions to your actions, you will feel like you can do just about whatever you want.

Burn the world down, for all you care. You can just buy a new, better one.

Granted, not everyone in your circle is an entitled egotist. There's Helaena, who strangely enough, does not possess a single self-important bone in her body, unlike her aforementioned brothers. Jace, who spends most of his time getting involved in political activism, for the side that his magnate grandfather Viserys steadfastly opposes.

You'd always sit beside either of them in these dinners, for the sake of your sanity. Unfortunately, Aemond and Aegon are never far. Especially Aemond—who occassionally stares you down as he sits across the table. Aegon, seated to his left, whistles at you. "Hey. Hey so... are you still slumming it with the art crowd?"

"I'm sorry?" You narrow your eyes at him. He didn't even say hello or mind if I cut in? as Jace was telling you about attending the DNC rally.

Aemond watches you again, so closely it raises goosebumps along your arms. He's been stealing glances at you ever since you arrived with your family. And you've been openly shooting glares at him when you sense it. Him and that steely one-eyed gaze of his always gets under your skin.

Aegon sneers, and you think how it's so in character of him. "You still live in Brooklyn? Cosplaying as a normie?"

"Fuck off, Aegon."

You've been living in Brooklyn for the past year, trying to finish up your Masters from Barnard. You would never hear the end of how this is the most redundant and useless thing, especially from people like Aegon. It does seem contrived, daddy's little heiress playing at being a scholar at Columbia, but at least you are doing something.

Besides, you have no desire to take over your family's empire. If anything, you want to branch out, maybe take on Jace's proposal on starting a charity foundation together.

"Aegon! Do you know how messed up that sounds?" Jace comes to your rescue, but you know it'll be for nought. Aegon's brain is too warped, too silver-spoonfed, to recognise his folly. You used to feel sympathy for the guy—this life is all he's ever known, and it isn't as if the adults around him ever set a good example, so can you blame him?

Used to. Now, he just annoys you. You grew up the same, but you are not like him, aren't you? So did Hel and Jace. So did Aemond. And Aemond, while still an asshole, is at least someone you can tolerate. He's vicious when it comes to his ambition, but he's genuinely smart.

He's cold and aloof, but he is also capable of tenderness.

You would never readily admit to anyone how you know this about him.

And he's staring you down, once again. You immediately know it's him when you feel someone nudge your shin under the table.

You eye him warily. What do you want?

He raises his eyebrows. Nothing. Just missed you.

At least that's what you're picking up from him. Why wouldn't he miss you? You're probably the best thing in his life right now. He should be so grateful you're still giving him the time of day, especially after everything he's done.

Aemond nods ever so subtly, the gesture meant for only you. You already know what he's getting at, but you don't feel like caving just yet.

It's another long moment of tuning in and out of your conversation with Jace, but Aemond's unspoken question lingers. When you deign to look at him again, he tilts his head to the side. Let's go.

He knows to leave first, and he stands and excuses himself from the table. Barely anyone gives him any mind, the adults debating passionately at the farther end.

You wait one whole minute, your heels tapping impatiently under the table. Then you follow suit.

"I need some air. Might have a smoke or something," you mumble to Jace. He wouldn't want to tag along, the scrunch of his face revealing how much he loathes the habit.

"Just the one," he tuts, raising a finger.

You roll your eyes fondly. "Okay, dad."

Aemond has just lit a cigarette when he hears you come in. The door to the private library lets out a tiny creak then shuts without a sound. He faces the window, his back to you. But he knows it's you. He can almost hear the derision in your exhale. A hint of your unmistakeable Guerlain scent is present in the room.

When you draw closer, he sees the ghost of your reflection on the glass, a mirage perched atop his shoulder. He thinks of the age-old visual of having an angel and a devil on either side. You would be the angel, and the devil... would probably be his own self.

The side he fights to keep buried. He knows you see it, and hate it, but you want him anyway. You let him have you anyway. And these stolen moments with you are the only times when he is truly free.

Without a word, he offers a cigarette to you, his hand moving with a smooth, practiced form that makes it feel like he's not just offering you a smoke but issuing a silent challenge. He lifts his lighter, an intricate, expensive thing engraved with his family crest, flicking it open with a soft metallic click, then holding the flame steady as you lean in.

He can't help but admire how beautiful you are as the glow illuminates your face.

"Do you ever get bored?" you sneer, folding your arms as you lean against a shelf. "Sitting there all night with that smug, 'yes, I agree with all of this' look while your family drones on about the 'sanctity of tradition.' Like a good little heir."

Aemond raises an eyebrow, barely looking up from his cigarette as he takes a drag. You sure have a habit of getting right down to business. "Funny," he replies smoothly. "For someone who 'hates' tradition, you play the part of Daddy's obedient little princess pretty well. I saw you batting your eyes at every gray-haired councilman at that table."

"Oh, please." You roll your eyes, heat flaring in your cheeks, though whether from anger or the way his gaze always seems to pin you in place, despite your best efforts, you can't say. "I'm not doing it because I like it. I don't sit there pretending I'm better than the rest of the world."

"You don't?" He cocks his head, his lips quirking into a wry, infuriating smirk. "Could've fooled me, princess. All I ever hear from you in these dinners are 'Oh, absolutely' and 'Oh, that's so interesting'—like you'd just die if they didn't think you cared."

"Wow, okay, says the guy who spent twenty minutes nodding along while they debated the tax breaks for HNWIs. Planning to cut yourself some more slack there, hotshot?" You take a quick, sharp puff, the smoke billowing out of your lips as you continue your tirade. "You're a damn statue, Aemond. Most of the time, you don't even say a word, and yet somehow you sit there looking like everyone should be grateful you graced them with your presence."

He takes a step closer, and his voice drops. This is something only you can do—you get to him, you hit him where it matters. Or, you're the only one he allows the privilege of doing so. "And you hate it, don't you? You hate that I don't care what they think. That I'm not actually here to impress anyone."

Your laugh comes out bitter. "Please. You don't care because you're so convinced they already think you're perfect. You don't have to impress anyone because you're Aemond Targaryen, right? The perfect heir to a glowing legacy."

"Better that than playing the poor, tortured rebel." He's so close you can count the facets of the sapphire in his socket, a dangerous gleam flashing behind them—another outlandish, excessive thing only a billionaire's son would think to do. "At least I'm not pretending I want to burn it all down while running around in the same circles as everyone else. Tell me, do you actually care about the policies Jacaerys painstakingly explains to you? Or is it all just for show?"

"You don't know me, Aemond."

"Oh, but I do. In fact, I think I'm the only one who knows the real you."

You clench your jaw, craning your neck up to look at him. How ironic that he literally has to look down on you too. "Unlike you, I actually feel something about all this. You sit there like you're above it all, and it's pathetic."

"Pathetic?" He lets out a low, humorless laugh. "You want to talk about pathetic? The only thing pathetic is you standing there acting like a revolutionary when you're just like the rest of us."

"At least I want to get out. At least I want to make a goddamn difference and—"

"Then do it," he says, his tone mocking, as he leans in closer, his breath warm against your face. "Get out. Run off, make your big escape. Show everyone how different and special you are, princess."

"Oh, right," you shoot back, trying to regain some of your moxie after his unexpected retort. "And leave you to taint my image after then?"

He scoffs, the gesture dismissive, almost cruel. "You wouldn't be here if you actually had the guts to go through with it."

Aemond may be a pretentious asshole, but he's right, and you know it. "You know what, Aemond? What if... I tell you that I like it. The power, the status, all of it. Is that what you want to hear?"

He smirks. "You'd be adrift without it. You'd be lost without all this to complain about." His gaze drops to your mouth, as if he could already guess exactly how a rendezvous like this is going to end.

How it always ends.

You feel your breath hitch, your pulse racing even as you grit your teeth against the draw of him.

"Don't look at me like that," you snap, trying to keep the upper hand. You should leave. You know this, know you should storm out and leave him here with that damn arrogant smirk on his face.

Call it a truce, and do it all over again next time.

"What's wrong? Afraid you'll do something you'll regret?"

The challenge in his tone has you seething, heat blazing up your neck. "You're insufferable, you know that?” You try to sound as furious as you feel, but your voice wavers, and the corner of his mouth tilts in a dark, smug smile.

"Then leave, princess." His eyes flash, daring you, mocking you, yet he doesn't move back. "Go on. Show me that strength you keep talking about."

The words are meant to push you away, to test how much you can take, but they do something else instead. They push you over the edge, sending you surging forward before you even know what you're doing, fisting the front of his pristine shirt and yanking him down to you.

Your mouth meets his, all anger and fire, biting at his lips as he smirks against you, welcoming the aggression. His hands find your waist, pawing at your gown, pushing you back until you stumble against the bookshelf.

You try to hold onto the anger, to use it to keep yourself in control, but the way he kisses you—rough, possessive, familiar, with a hunger that seems to match yours—makes it impossible. His hands slip to your hips, fingers digging into you with a desire that you both pretend doesn't exist anywhere but here, in the dark corners of your little meeting places.

"Stop," you gasp for breath, pulling away for just a second, trying to steady yourself, but he follows, his mouth trailing down your jaw to your neck, biting down just enough to make you groan.

His fingers slip beneath the slit of your dress, finding bare skin. "Then tell me you don't want this."

Your head tilts back involuntarily, the blissed hitches in your breath becoming frequent. You should tell him to stop, but the words never come, not with his fingers tracing up your thigh, the pressure of his lean body against yours, the electric shiver that races through you as his mouth tongue dances with your own.

You give in, letting your anger melt into something messier, something that's been building between you both for so long you don't know how to unravel it. Your hands move to his white-blonde hair, pulling him closer. His hand slips higher, while the other is braced against the bookshelf behind you.

There's nothing careful about it—gone are the dynasty heirs who are unfailingly curated and perfect and genteel in the public eye. It's all frantic, hands grabbing, mouths clashing, neither of you willing to let the other take control but both of you giving in to the heat. He yanks your dress up, lifting you and positioning himself between your legs, his breathing rough as he makes quick work of his belt. Then he lets his trousers and underwear drop halfway down his thighs, and his cock springs free, pressing on the draped material of your gown, which you hurriedly bunch to the side.

It's like a sick power play when he takes two fingers and plunges them past your soaked entrance, right to his knuckles. All without breaking eye contact.

But neither has the upper hand. You and Aemond are one and the same.

"Seems like you're ready for me, princess."

"Mhmm, aghh—" He hooks his fingers inside you, hitting that damned spot. "Just fuck me already."

And when he does, his cock practically propping you up against the bookshelf, it's fast, chaotic, your movements nothing short of needy and desperate, as if you're both trying to prove something to the other. You don't care about the priceless first-edition books that rattle precariously behind you, nor about the way his fingers dig into your flesh that guarantee bruises that will show tomorrow. Right now, you're past caring, past pretending that you actually ever cared about anyone but yourself.

And maybe... Aemond.

His groans come out unrestrained against your neck, his tongue flicking over the droplets of sweat, as if he can't bear you being any less than perfect.

Only he can taint you, only he can see you broken in and fucked out like this, your lipstick smeared to the side of your mouth. That same shade of rouge littering his cheek, his jaw, the collar of his shirt.

No words are exchanged, as if they've been used up in your twisted version of foreplay from earlier.

All he offers is, "Fuck, baby, I'm close," as his hips continue in its assault, his hands buried in the softness of your arse, keeping you in place.

"So am I," you counter.

He falls apart inside you, his cock sputtering while lodged deep in your clenched walls. The near-animalistic growl he lets out brings you to your climax, your forehead falling against his as your entire body is rendered limp in his arms.

When you finally pull away, flushed, your heart still racing, he looks at you with that same arrogant smirk, and you can't help but feel the distaste rising back up.

"Still think I don't know you?" he murmurs, smug satisfaction written all over his face.

You glare at him, pulling your dress back down, refusing to let him have the last word even as his expression uncharacteristically softens as he gazes at you, making you want to pull him close and kiss him again. Gentler, this time.

"This can't happen again," you force out your usual lie.

"That's what you said last time, princess."

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[tojicide]

FRENCH BOYS! ☆ RAFAYEL.

summary. when your paintings were featured in the same gallery walk as rafayel’s, he can’t help but commission you with an oddly cheeky request — ❛ paint me like one of your french boys. ❜

warnings. fem!reader, artist!reader, body appreciation, reader paints rafayel in the nude, terms of endearment, oral ( m. receiving ), cowgirl, p in v, unprotected but he pulls out. wc. 3.6k. portrait inspo!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

❛ Paint me like one of your French boys. ❜

You feel like you’ve read the line enough to have it engraved into your skull by now. You were still having trouble assessing whether or not the words were actually printed on the page or if you’d somehow misread them a million times over.

After all, who in their right mind would add that at the end of a memo for an art commission? Rafayel, you learned. That’s exactly who.

Rafayel has heard of you in passing, of your astounding professionalism and the unique ways in which you depict your subjects. He didn’t know you personally though. In fact, he’s only ever seen you at the art exhibitions that your promoters put on for you.

And even then, you never truly gave him the time of day. Why should you? In the grand scheme of things, he’s a stranger.

Rafayel has never been the biggest fan of the unknown, which was why it surprised him that he was such a big fan of yours.

Call him crazy, but he wanted to get to know you. He’d even reached out to your studio a few times on the basis of collaborating on an art piece together, but when he was met with the generic excuse of your busy schedule preventing you from meeting with him, he was left to resort to the extreme.

He was quite familiar with the art style that you possess. He thought that your knack for figure painting made you interesting, made you admirable. Paying homage to the Renaissance period was a lost art in and of itself, and you managed to do so with nearly every single piece you created.

Now, here’s why he would absolutely understand if you called him crazy…

He would even understand if you called him self-concerned, if you called him vain—if you called him anything your heart desires, because all adjectives of the like are spectacular words to describe him… especially after he sent you that forsaken commission.

A commission that piqued your interest enough for you to accept, but a forsaken commission nonetheless. He knew that it made him look like an arrogant fool, because all things considered, who commissions a nude portrait of themself?

He tried not to dwell on it, because that was exactly how he ended up here, in your presence. Sure, he was posing nude in front of the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on, but at least you were here…

“Soooo… how’s it going?” he asks, desperately trying to fill the silence between you two that only the sound of your paintbrush scraping against the canvas interrupted.

You peek your head out from behind the canvas, catching another glimpse of him sitting on the grand throne that he had custom made just for this moment.

(He was paying good money for this, alright? If he was going to have a painting of his naked body lying around, he wanted it to depict him in his godliest form.)

“Pretty good,” you shortly answer, sweeping your tongue over your bottom lip as you paint the shadow of a particularly sharp line on his abdomen. Seriously, he was absolutely jacked. At least you had that to keep you from growing bored.

Rafayel smiles as you keep your answers to his questions brief. That’s about the third ‘pretty good’ he’s gotten out of you in the last hour, and don’t even get him started on the sheer number of ‘alright’s you’ve given him.

So, he presses on.

“Not much of a talker, are ya?” he asks, absentmindedly tilting his head to the side as he speaks, only for you to quickly lean around the canvas to look at him. “Uh oh. Am I in trouble?” he asks with just about the cheekiest grin you’ve ever seen.

You sigh. “Yes. You should really stop talking.”

Rafayel raises an eyebrow at you, his smirk still tugging on his lips. “Should I? Here I was, thinking that you were enjoying this dazzling conversation of ours.”

That earns an eye roll from you, which is about the most expression he’s gotten out of you thus far. “You’re too expressive when you speak, Rafayel. You’re a horrible subject.”

He huffs at that, knitting his eyebrows together. “Am not. You mean to tell me that this body of mine makes for a horrible subject? Tsk tsk.”

“That body of yours?” you echo with a small breath of laughter. “Please. Am I supposed to be fawning?”

Rafayel gives you a sulky expression. “Puh-lease,” he mimics you, “I have abs, okay? I’m not saying you have to do anything with that information, but if you were to fawn, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“You think quite highly of yourself,” you say, tucking behind the canvas as you stroke the paintbrush over the area that you were currently working on.

He rolls his eyes at that. “Jeez, woman. Sue a guy for being confident.”

When he’s met with your silence and the sound of your paintbrush splashing in a nearby cup of misty water, he sighs. “I’m just joking with you. I’ll—”

“Even when I give you the silent treatment,” you lean out from behind the canvas to look at him, “you still won’t stop your yapping.”

Rafayel furrows his brows, cocking his head to the side as he gives you a deadpan expression. “Lady, please. I was about to tell you that I was going to shut up from now on, but come to think of it, I don’t wanna.”

You found it ironic that your own inability to shut up is what led you to this position. You bite your tongue, shifting to sit behind the canvas again, but his voice is what reminds you that he’s still there.

“Anywho,” he continues. “You’re a hard woman to track down. What made you accept my commission?”

“Good pay,” you deadpan, though a smile curves on your lips. “And the final line of the memo you sent me.”

Rafayel is doing his best to keep his stoic demeanor, but once he finds out that his risky behavior has paid off, he’s internally celebrating. Very much so.

“Tell me,” you continue, peeking at him. “Are you even French?”

He shakes his head, the soft strands of blue hair that hang just above his eyes moving just the same. “No,” he admits. “But my tiny fib got you here, didn’t it?”

You press your lips into a line as his movement ruins the stillness of his pose, but you try not to scold him for it. “Sure it did,” you answer. “Some nerve you have.”

“The nerve,” he echoes through a soft chuckle.

However, the nerves that he’s truly concerned about right now are the ones in his cock that are very quickly waking up. He does his best to not shift around in his seat, but once you disappear behind the canvas again, he does just that.

He really hadn’t thought this through. How embarrassing. Not only is he erect, but he’s erect from purely talking to you. What a mess he is.

The bright side is that there’s a thin layer of silk fabric draped over the lower half of his body, but with the rapid swelling of his erection, he’s realizing that it’ll do very little to help him out.

“Uh…” he clears his throat. His ears are as red as a fire truck, he’s sure of it. “Can we take a quick break?”

You don’t look at him from behind the canvas as you answer. “I’d prefer it if you gave me a bit longer. I’m almost done with this section, I don’t want to disturb the pose just yet.”

He curses himself for hiring such a professional. “Alright,” he murmurs.

You continue working for a few seconds before you speak up this time. “What made you seek me out, Raf? I mean, you’re a pretty good painter yourself.”

Raf. He didn’t think that he’d done enough to earn that level of familiarity to get you to give him a nickname, but he’ll gladly take what he can get.

“I dunno,” he lies. “I guess I just wanted to be the muse for once,” he adds. That time, however, he was being truthful.

He’s always wanted to be the subject, the one in front of the easel, the one who is paid attention to. Call him an attention whore if you must, because he’ll gladly claim that title. Especially if it’s attention coming from you. He’ll pull out all of the stops to get it, just like he has today.

“That’s almost poetic,” you joke.

“Almost?” he repeats. “Alright, you’ve really hurt my feelings now.”

You shortly hum. “If that’ll get you to stop talking and sit still then I’m glad.”

He huffs quietly, sitting still and silent for a grand total of two minutes. He tried to keep it up, but the silence was gnawing at him.

“What are you currently working on?” he eventually asks.

To answer his question, you’d have to blatantly say that you’re painting his crotch… so instead, you stand up to turn the easel around entirely.

Rafayel takes a moment to gaze at the canvas, his eyes blown wide in wonder. You really were talented, and you’ve managed to make him look absolutely unreal in a way that he believes only you can.

His eyes settle on the section you painted last, judging by how most of the wet paint conjugated in that area. He swallows the growing lump in his throat, studying the way you even painted the faint outline of his length beneath the silk cloth.

“You’re finished with it?” he asks, raising his eyes to meet yours. “That part, I mean.”

You nod, turning the easel around to face you again. “Yeah,” you answer.

Rafayel clears his throat as he glances down at his crotch, which was sporting a full erection beneath the silky fabric. That had changed since you began to paint him, which wasn’t exactly your fault, but he curses his horny brain for what he says next.

“You got it a little wrong,” he tells you.

Your eyebrows raise as you drop your gaze down to the part of the canvas he’s currently correcting. “What? No, I…” you say as you peek at him from behind the canvas.

He shifts a bit under your gaze, watching quite intensely as you eye compare your painting to how he looks right now.

“Hm. I guess I did get it a little wrong, yeah,” you murmur, more so to yourself than to him.

Rafayel nearly smiles at your tone of indifference. “I hear that visual learning is the most efficient,” he suggests, cocking a brow at you. “Gets you well acquainted with the… material.”

“And by visual learning do you mean physical learning?” you counter.

…So yeah, physical learning definitely sounded more appealing to the both of you, which is exactly how you wound up kneeling in front of him with his cock in your mouth.

Your tongue flattens on the underside of his shaft as you sink lower, prompting him to collect a bit of your hair in one of his hands. “Gods, woman, are you trying to kill me?” he huffs, a sly grin on his face as he keeps his eyes closed.

Unsurprisingly, he can’t bear the thought of seeing your beautiful face be made of a mess of. He knows he shouldn’t feel this way, that he’s the reason you’re in this position, but he still does.

His large hand on the back of your head guides your movements as you suck him off, his head tilted back as you use your tongue on him. His stomach muscles are taut, and you’re finding yourself fawning over him after all, because his abs truly are that magnificent.

“Holy shiiiit,” he pants, finally cracking his eyes open to look down at you. He really shouldn’t have done that, because now he feels like he’s about to cum in your mouth. “Fuck, ‘m sorry, pretty,” he stammers, closing his eyes again. “Can’t… can’t help it. Feels too good.”

You don’t think he has anything to be sorry about, and if anything, you should be assuring him of the opposite. It was one thing to stare at him from afar, but it was another to look at him from this angle—with his eyes screwed shut while his forehead glistens with sweat especially.

He almost feels embarrassed for how loud he’s moaning, his thick thigh tensing as you rest your hand on it to brace yourself. You’re making him feel like a virgin with the way you take him in, the sensation of your tongue making him feel fuzzy.

“Just like—shit—just like that, cutie, yeah,” he babbles, hardly sure of what he’s saying anymore. All he knows is that if he opens his eyes and sees your gorgeous mouth stuffed with his cock, he’s going to cum.

You pat his hand on the back of your head as a means of getting him to guide your movements to his liking, noticing the way he so clearly hesitates with you. You can’t blame him. He doesn’t know you well enough to know that you actually like this sort of thing.

But with the way your mouth feels around his cock, he’s in absolutely no rush to deny you or himself this wish. He pushes your head a bit faster now, listening to the lewd sounds of your spit sloshing around with every thrust he gives you.

“Too fucking good,” he rasps through a moan. He’s almost too lost in you, his lips permanently parting as he lets his vocal cords roll out the most filthy words you’ve ever heard. “Mm-hmm, use that—fuck—pretty mouth of yours, gorgeous.”

As if the sight of him reacting so visually to your mouth wasn’t enough, the words he gives you are more than enough to have your heat pooling between your thighs. You’re both a mess here.

He flings his head back, his eyes shutting even tighter as your nose brushes against the tufts of dark purple hair at the base of his cock. It was safe to say that the curtains certainly matched the drapes…

You gag as he pushes you a bit too far on his length, his eyes snapping open almost immediately. “Oh, honey, ‘m sorry,” he huffs out, releasing your hair to let you off of him.

You shake your head as you cough, pulling your mouth off of him for a brief moment. A thick string of saliva still connects your bottom lip to the base of his shaft, and that alone has his cock twitching right in front of you.

“You’re so pretty,” he breathes as he shakes his head, almost dumbfounded by the sight in front of him. He may be out of breath, but he’s still very in tune with his abundant attraction for you. “Come up here, gimme a kiss.”

Rafayel is pulling you and you’re complying, and his lips are slotting against yours within seconds. He holds your jaw in his hand, his other moving to the small of your back to pull you closer until you’re kneeling between his spread thighs.

The kiss is sloppy, the saliva on your face immediately transferring onto his skin, though he doesn’t seem to mind. Not one bit. Instead, he’s slipping his tongue into your mouth, gathering more of your taste on his tongue.

“Don’t think I’m well acquainted enough,” you murmur against his lips, planting your hands on the back of the throne while you shift to straddle his lap. “Do you?”

He shakes his head without thinking. “Nuh-uh. Think you need a little more,” he replies, running his hands along your thighs until they slip beneath your dress.

One of his hands cup your mound while the other rests on your hip, and he nearly moans at the feeling of the sopping wet fabric clothing the needy area between your legs.

“This all for me?” he asks with a lopsided grin, his eyes hooded as he looks at you. You nod your head, a soft whine leaving you as he pulls the fabric to the side, running two fingers along your slick pussy. “Mm, I wanna taste her.”

You shake your head, your hand reaching to stroke his throbbing cock, brushing your thumb along the tip as a spurt of pre-cum leaks from it. Denying head isn’t exactly your go-to, but you can’t help it. You want to feel him inside of you.

He follows your hand down to his shaft before he raises his eyes to meet yours again, giving you the sweetest smile imaginable. “Alright, silly girl. Pussy’s all mine next time though, promise?”

“Promise,” you whisper with a smile.

Rafayel seems pleased with that, so he gives your thighs a light squeeze as he shifts to stand up, only for you to gently nudge him back down.

He raises a brow at you, a smirk quickly growing on his face. “Oh? Pretty baby wants to ride me, is that it?”

His pet names for you nearly make you buckle, and you’re not sure how considering you’re already sitting down, but it almost happened—you’re positive.

“Yeah,” you answer, slowly rubbing the head of his cock along your folds. “Look me in the eyes this time?” you tease.

He’s too drunk on the feeling of your pussy teasing his tip to realize that you’re joking with him. “Huh? Oh right, yeah, cutie, whatever you want.”

If you thought he was whiny there, it was no match for the man he became once the head of his cock pushed into your hole.

“Holy shit, woman, you really are trying to kill me,” he moans, resting his head back. “I was only joking before.”

You chuckle as you slowly lower yourself on his length, feeling the way his girth stretches you out, earning a whine from your lips in return. He smiles at you, cupping your cheek with his hand.

“You feel so good, pretty,” he whispers, his other hand resting on your hip as you begin to bounce on his cock. Up and down, up and down. “Shiiiiit, baby. Fuck me like that, yeah, just like that.”

A smile stretches across your lips as you watch his expression go from one of eagerness to one of absolute bliss, his eyes half-lidded as he watches you.

“Gods,” he breathes as his cock slides between your walls. “Pussy’s so tight—fuck,” he gasps out as he grips onto your hips, slowing your movements. “Gonna want more if you keep doing me like that.”

And by more, he means he’s going to start fucking up into you. He really didn’t want to, not with how pretty you looked riding him on your own, tits bouncing in his face and all.

You whine as he slows you down, and you come to a complete stop for a moment as you sit in his lap, cockwarming him. “Is that not the point?”

Rafayel raises a brow at you, a lazy grin on his lips. “Pfft. Alright, woman, you asked for it.”

You really did ask for it, though when he grasped onto your hips to make you slightly hover over him, you’re quickly realizing that his words were anything but empty.

His cock rams into you before you can even register that he’s moving beneath you, his thrusts hard and fast. You moan nearly every time the tip of his shaft reaches the back of your walls. Without much thought, you lean forward, resting your head on his shoulder as he continues to fuck into you.

“Ah-ah,” he playfully scolds, leaning forward to nip at the neckline of your dress. “Pull ‘em out for me, cutie.”

You do it without hesitation, shrugging the straps of your dress off your shoulders just enough for your tits to be revealed to him. He moans at the sight, leaning in to press a kiss on your perked nipple.

“Such pretty tits, honey,” he murmurs against your skin as he sucks your nipple into his mouth, the pace of his cock pushing into you not letting up whatsoever.

It’s your turn to moan embarrassingly loud now, your eyes squeezing shut as you feel heat pool in your lower stomach. He’s far too preoccupied with sucking on your tits to notice, but once he does, he nips at the sensitive skin of your breast.

“I thought we were looking each other in the eyes this time,” he says, leaning up to press a kiss on your cheek. And when you open your eyes, he smiles. “Thaaat’s more like it, pretty.”

You return the smile, but not for long. Another moan rips through you, your forehead moving to rest on his, though you keep your eyes open.

“Oh… ‘m gonna cum,” you choke out, earning a chaste kiss from him.

He nods. “Let me have it, baby. Need you.”

And it’s not like you had a choice in the matter. You’re shaking in his lap as your orgasm washes over you, another airy moan leaving your swollen lips as you find your release on his cock.

“So perfect, so beautiful,” he coos, leaning forward to kiss you again, slowing the pace of his hips down as he fucks you through your high. “Mhm, so sweet for me too.”

A soft whine leaves his lips as he pulls out of you. You watch as his hand strokes along his cock, a guttural sound leaving his mouth as he paints his own stomach with thick, white ropes of cum.

He pants as he keeps his eyes on yours, leaning forward to press another kiss to your cheek. You lean into his touch while your other hand threads into his hair.

“Well, won’t you look at that. Guess you’re your own muse after all,” you joke, giving him a suggestive wink. “Y’know, since you painted your own—”

“Mhm, I got the joke, gorgeous,” he deadpans, leaning in to press a kiss on your lips. “You’re just hilarious, aren’t you?”

“…Yeah, I think I’m pretty funny.”

note. helloooooo! i really enjoyed writing this lol, i like the lightheartedness of it all. i might write a pt2 for the hell of it buuuuut i hope you enjoyed reading <3 all interactions are greatly appreciated :)))

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

[blythesarchives]

Cut Your Hair.

summary: You help Bucky cut his hair.

warnings: Comfort | Mentions PTSD & past trauma | Post!Endgame

a/n: I wanted to write a blurb exploring the emotions around his hair for fun. I imagine this time frame is after Endgame, you are living in his apartment in NY. I used a lot of symbolism because I love to include it in fics. Anywayy unedited, so ignore mistakes. wc: 2.3k

You returned to your apartment after a particularly fruitful grocery shopping trip, managing to get all the necessary items for your planned dinner. New York had been experiencing a notable shortage of certain food products recently, so you felt especially fortunate to have acquired all the ingredients on your list. The scarcity had made simple shopping trips feel like treasure hunts, with each found item a small victory.

As you entered the living space, your arms laden with bags full of your culinary prizes, you called out, "Bucky? I'm back!" Your voice carried a mix of excitement about your successful foraging and the slight strain of carrying multiple heavy bags. With a relieved huff, you practically dropped your burdens onto the kitchen counter, the plastic rustling as it settled. You looked forward to telling him of your success, but you hadn’t heard him reply.

The apartment remained eerily quiet in response to your call. The silence was unusual and slightly unsettling, given that Bucky was typically quick to greet you upon your return. Your brow furrowed in confusion and a hint of concern as you scanned the room, anxiety began to creep its way through your body while an assortment of negative thoughts flooded your mind. "Bucky?" you called out again, your voice tinged with a note of uncertainty.

Still, nothing.

Now you started to worry.

You cautiously maneuvered around the counter, your footsteps deliberately quiet as you navigated through the dimly lit living space. The short hallway stretched before you, leading to the bathroom and one of the bedrooms. Your heart raced with each step, the silence of the apartment amplifying every small sound. As you approached, a sliver of light caught your eye - the bathroom door was slightly ajar, a warm glow spilling out into the darkened corridor. A wave of relief washed over you, causing your tense muscles to relax ever so slightly. You exhaled deeply, your hand instinctively moving to your chest as if to calm your pounding heart.

"Bucky," you called out, your voice a mixture of relief and lingering apprehension, "Shit... you really scared me there." The words hung in the air, met only by an eerie silence. Seconds ticked by, and still, there was no response from behind the partially open door. A creeping sense of unease began to settle in the pit of your stomach as you stood there, waiting for a reply that didn't come.

"James?" Your voice quivered with concern as you gently rapped your knuckles against the door. Hesitantly, you pushed it open, the hinges creaking softly. The sight that greeted you made your heart ache in your chest. There he stood, hunched over the bathroom sink, his posture a blatant portrait of distress. His hands, knuckles white with tension, gripped the edges of the ceramic basin as if it were a lifeline. You worried his metal hand would break the fragile ceramic but it looked like he had more self control for the moment. Bucky's head hung low, curtained by the long strands of his hair that fell forward, obscuring his face from view. The absence of his shirt revealed the taut muscles of his back, adorned with long scars, each one rigid and fairly faded, but still there.

No matter what he did to try to scrap them away, they were still there.

Your eyes were drawn to his hair, the ends were jagged and uneven, as though hacked at in a moment of impulse or desperation. Littering the bottom of the sink were the casualties of this impromptu haircut: dark locks intermingled with the gleam of small fabric scissors, splayed against the white porcelain. The air hung heavy with an unspoken tension, leaving you frozen in the doorway, unsure of how to proceed.

"Bucky...what did you do?" You inquired softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Your hand moved with cautious deliberation, gently alighting on his shoulder. The moment your fingers made contact, you felt his muscles tense beneath your touch, a reflexive response to the unexpected contact. However, within seconds, the tension melted away as he seemed to recognize you.

Silence hung heavy in the air for what felt like an eternity. Bucky remained motionless, his gaze fixed downward, avoiding eye contact, but eventually he lifted his head ever so slightly. His icy eyes, brimming with an unspoken emotion, met yours in the reflection of the mirror before you. He looked so distressed, his face splotchy and flushed with an angry red, eyes were puffy and swollen from the tears had been running down his face before you came in. His bottom lip protruded slightly in a dejected pout, completing the picture of a man clearly grappling with some internal turmoil.

"What happened?" You prompted again, you kept your voice low and patient. Your words came out as a soothing murmur, not wanting to cause any distress to him, since he was clearly struggling. You felt his body tremble under your hand, your heart broke seeing him like this.

"Don't..." he began, his voice trembling with apprehension. He paused, swallowing hard as if to gather courage before continuing, "Don't be mad..." The words escaped his lips in a barely audible whisper, laden with fear. His entire demeanor spoke volumes, suggesting he was terrified of your potential reaction to something he had done or was about to reveal.

You felt your brow furrow involuntarily as you processed his words, your eyes instinctively seeking out his face once more. The fear etched across his features only deepened your concern.

"Why would I be angry?" you asked, your tone soft and reassuring. "You haven't done anything." Your words were meant to soothe, to dispel the cloud of anxiety that seemed to envelop him. However, your attempt at comfort appeared to have little effect.

He shook his head vigorously in response, the sudden movement causing several stray locks of hair to cascade from his head, pieces he had evidently cut himself - some still clinging stubbornly to his remaining hair.

"Because you cut your hair?" you asked, your voice a mixture of concern and curiosity. The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions.

He nodded weakly, sniffling to clear his nose. The gesture was small, but it spoke volumes about his emotional state. You sighed softly, the sound barely audible in the quiet room. You reached up and ran your fingers through his still long, but much shorter locks, noting how they now only reached his jaw in some spots, and past his shoulders in others. The texture was different, unfamiliar from the choppy cuts he gave to his hair, clearly indicating his anger towards it.

"You've let it grow out a bit," you observed, your tone careful and neutral. Your fingers continued their soothing motion, offering comfort without words. After a moment of contemplation, you spoke again, your voice soft and reassuring. "I'm not mad, you know. It’s your body, you can do whatever you want with yourself, remember?" You paused, considering your next words carefully. "Do you want some help with it? Maybe we could style it together, find a look you really love, instead of letting you stay like this."

He remained silent for a beat, contemplating your words with a furrowed brow. The weight of his long, unkempt hair seemed to press down on him, both physically and emotionally. An overwhelming desire to rid himself of this burden consumed his thoughts. He yearned to feel the liberating sensation of shorter hair, to shed the heaviness that had settled upon him like a thick, suffocating blanket. In his mind, cutting his hair felt liberating. He had been stripped of all bodily autonomy for so long, this was something he wanted to do. For himself.

His head inclined, giving a sharp nod. "Yes...yes, please..." he replied with a soft rasp, "Cut it all."

You were certainly no professional hairdresser, but with the assistance of a few hastily searched tutorial videos on YouTube, you managed to grasp the basic concepts and techniques. The shorter hairstyle he wanted alleviated a lot of pressure you had to make it perfect, so a quick cut and shave would be easy compared to any sort of specific styling. As he settled into the chair you pulled into the bathroom, you grabbed the scissors and let out a deep breath to calm yourself.

Carefully, you began the process of trimming away at his dark, lustrous locks, cutting the long pieces away with scissors first before you'd clean it with a buzzer. Each calculated snip was made carefully, regularly checking in with him to make sure he was still doing fine. You found yourself completely engrossed in the task, paying close attention to maintain an even trim.

The freshly cut strands danced through the air for a brief moment before gently descending to the cool tile floor of the bathroom. Upon contact with the ground, the severed locks curled and twisted, creating an abstract pattern around his feet. The contrast of the dark hair against the light-colored tiles made your heart throb, the meaning behind cutting his hair away was much deeper than any outside eye could comprehend.

You didn't notice his tears at first, but as more of his hair fell away, the evidence of his emotional turmoil became undeniable. His shoulders quivered beneath the weight of his feelings, the internal struggle becoming more visible to you. You maintained your composure, focusing on the task at hand, your fingers steady as they continued to work through his locks. Dark tear trails etched paths down his cheeks, struggling with handling it all on his own.

When you finally reached for the electric clippers, the soft click as you turned them on echoed in the silence of the bathroom. He closed his eyes then, a gesture of surrender or perhaps trust, allowing you to proceed with this final, most drastic stage of the cut. The gentle vibration of the buzzer filled the air, a constant, reassuring hum that seemed to ground you both in the present moment. Bucky gave the occasional sniffle, the emotional undertones of this act filled both of you.

With a final buzz, you switched off the clippers and gently placed them in the sink. Your fingers glided through his freshly trimmed hair, feeling the soft, short strands beneath your touch. The cut was perfect - a smile played on your lips as you admired your handiwork, you were proud of yourself. "Wow..." you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper, "You look just like that old photograph I have of you. It's like stepping back in time." Your words were soft and full of gentle admiration. Softly, you encouraged him to open his eyes, eager to see his reaction to his new look.

"What do you think, sergeant?" you asked, your voice tinged with anticipation as you waited for him to fully take in his reflection. As he gazed into the mirror, a profound sense of unfamiliarity washed over him. The face staring back was simultaneously familiar and foreign, he didn’t react like you expected but honestly…what did you expect? He looked disoriented and unsettled by his own reflection.

It felt so... strange, almost surreal. The sensation was akin to looking at a photograph of a long-lost relative, recognizing traces of familiarity but ultimately confronting the reality of a stranger. It felt like he were dreaming, seeing a resemblance of the man he once was - a version of himself that now seemed to belong to a distant, unreachable past.

The realization that this former self was now forever out of reach hit him with unexpected force. He knew he’d never be the person he was again, but seeing himself like this just…felt so sudden. Bucky felt the sick twinge of grief, as if he just lost a dear friend or a beloved family member, but the person he was mourning was his former self.

He had once cherished his former self, but that version of Bucky had long since vanished. HYDRA, black tendrils wrapped around him with its insidious grasp, had extinguished his essence, snuffing out his very being like a feeble, flickering ember desperately clinging to life in the face of an unforgiving winter storm.

Bucky found himself irrevocably altered. No longer was he the vibrant, spirited individual of his past, now reduced to nothing more than a charred remnant of his former self - a piece of blackened charcoal, devoid of the warmth and light that had once defined him. The flames of his identity, once burning bright with passion and purpose, had been mercilessly extinguished, leaving behind only the cold, lifeless ashes of who he used to be.

The cold consumed him, trapping him in a relentless, chilling embrace. Cryo never truly left him, the sensation continued to maintain its icy hold on him, refusing to let go. But, you...you were what he needed more than anything else in the world. You taught him what it was like to have a gentle touch, to be loved and cared for no matter what he did in his past.

You were patient.

You were loving.

You were nurturing.

You helped him throughout his long and dreary recovery, standing by his side throughout every visit to the doctor or hospital, the endless nights where he couldn’t sleep, the panic attacks that left his throat raw and eyes burning. When the days seemed darkest for him, you were there to thaw the ice that had frozen him for so long.

Winter slowly began to surrender to the bloom of spring, and you were the greatest force of nature he knew.

Bucky's voice emerged as a soft whisper after several minutes spent silently staring at his reflection in the mirror, the steady stream of tears cascading down his face had been completely unnoticed to him. You gently wiped the tears away, your thumbs tenderly brushing against his cheekbones as you dried them with care and affection.

“It’s perfect..”

Thanks for reading. -em 🌿

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Cover images from Pinterest

[killishin]

— ◇ jjk men when you draw them.

pairings: nanami kento, gojo satoru, geto suguru

category: fluff

content warning: suggestive themes, sfw

a/n: i love when men support their partners in their art, its literally so sweet. saying so as an artist myself. wrote this in the dead of the night so not proofread. hope everyone enjoys :)

dividers by @cafekitsune

masterlist

NANAMI KENTO

he would have all your art and pieces memorized. he would be the one who'd give detailed compliments— strokes, composition and a hell lot of 'you're the best, darling'. he would definitely have favourites, and god forbid you ask him to choose— he'd be going back and forth, trying to choose because you won't accept the 'all are beautiful answer', only to mess with him.

also i believe, he would also have tried it out. just some doodling, some sketching perhaps— turns out he is good. he can grasp the basics quite fast and he finally understands why art is such a part of you. best believe all he ever draws is you.

now, the often times you draw him, he's a mess. a sputtering mess even though you've made like a ton of portraits of him, in every medium you knew and still he blushes.

"sweetheart why don't you draw something better?" he'd suggest as he tries to maintain the small smile on his face that was itching to widen into a full blown grin. he was all mushy inside.

"define better." you rolled your eyes at him, a knowing smile adorning your lips.

"i don't know— i guess something more... captivating?" his nose crinkled as he suggested that, looking up at you only to pause at the deadpan stare.

"honey, the love of my life—" you begin as you inch close, holding his jaw between your thumb and index, "this should be the last time you insinuate that you aren't captivating."

you lean closer to peck his lips and he subconsciously moves forward to chase your lips, not caring about the dazed smile or the blush raging on his cheeks that he tried so hard to hide.

"you are my muse." you added, murmuring against his lips, to further mess with him.

oh you best believe he is going to thank you for that portrait and sweet praises.

with praises. just in a different setting.

GOJO SATORU

"BABE AM I REALLY THAT HANDSOME?!" he exclaims, fully believing himself that yes, he is that handsome.

he is that push you need when your mind is stuck in an art block, with his constant over the top praises and compliments, he literally powers the creativity in your mind. he is the type of guy to literally decorate your shared home with your pieces, every inch. he'd leave no opportunity to show off, to a friend or even sometimes strangers. it gets especially concerning when the person doesn't quite like it.

"how do you not like it?"

"gojo i just—"

" absolutely pathetic taste." he says with the withering glare still on, rattling the other person's soul and you need to literally drag him away.

and oh when you draw him. its like already fanning that enormous, gigantic ego into something much more out of control. he absolutely smothers you, crushing you in a hug and a fit of kisses attacking your face.

"babe do you have a crush on me? seems like you do, how you draw me so damn beautiful."

"you idiot we're married."

in the moments when he isn't as loud with his appreciation, you catch him gazing at your paintings in silence, that content and proud smile on his face.

even his wallpaper is a your painting of your self portrait, for him to gaze at but also to boast about you when someone asks about the painting in the wallpaper.

"my love's a genius." is what he always says, and never gets tired from it.

GETO SUGURU

he loves your art, like its a part of you. he even helps you sometimes when you don't quite know if it looks good, gives pointers and suggestion. he even tells you if something looks wrong that maybe you overlooked, says it in the best way possible. he likes to watch you do your magic, at first it was a little unnerving for you in the beginning of your relationship so he used to just sneak and watch. there's just something about you in your element that puts him at ease, grounds him.

he poses for you if you want to draw him, a huge help and you don't even have to go look for references. he'll do whatever you like. whatever pose you suggest, anything. (he means anything ;])

"is this pose alright?" his eyes twinkle while he smiles smugly, knowing exactly what he's doing.

"...yes. hold that." you can't even focus on your canvas, god knows drawing what.

"darling you're sweating. you okay?"

"shut up."

he keeps the more...mature art safely tucked away, his daughters don't need to see that, only for his eyes.

but like satoru, he's vocal with his appreciation. whenever guests are home he literally gives a whole ass description, from the strokes, inspiration, interpretation, paragraphs of pure compliments— literally everything. and lets just hope they do not say they don't like it, that sweet smile doesn't look much sweet later.

and you don't know it, but he has drawn you a concerning amount of times, he just doesn't show you because they're his little secret.

reblogs are appreciated :D

[melancholicstation]

GOD BLESS AMERICA AND ALL THE BEAUTIFUL WOMEN IN IT —HUSBAND!JACK SCHLOSSBERG COMFORT HEADCANONS 𓍼 𓇢𓆸

jack schlossberg fan fiction is for the lovers

WIFE!READER returns and is the orion carloto archetype, who balances modelling and writing, and i imagine her making tiktoks in the same vain of alanabananaxox (she's been my no.1 tiktoker since 2021) and sotce on tiktok.

taglist: @candyneckl6ce @rocker-chick-7 @ultr4v1ol3nt @violetharmonsfavgf @strip-weather-forecast @darcyspirits @fortheloveofjos @h-l-v-kennedy-blog @h-l-vlovesvintage @bluelancergirl @snowsgames @salvatoresablondie @dulcegal @kennedyism @bloxholden35 @kimcrystal123 @absurdlyvintage @jackiesgirl @chemicalw0rld @remotewatch @starsprangledgirl

no matter the stressor husband!jack literally treats it as a top-priority emergency

immediately goes to start a bath for you in your gorgeous copper bathtub (cause of course you have a copper bathtub ... duh) with some suzzane kaufman bath salt's that he picked up down in greenwich after a meeting with vogue's magazine department.

husband!jack is a freak for baths and it's rubbed off on you ... seriously like that man takes baths multiple times a week, on top of daily showers

if he had to be out on a day you were particularly anxious for whatever reason he would come home with a laundry bag of new tasteful yet cute stuffed animals from loewe and never tell you the prices cause he knows you'd crash out

is great at being a body pillow and has no shame just laying in silence together for hours

would try to make you feel better by getting the overpriced (not in your opinion) criterion subscription just so you could watch vintage halloween movies without running a risk of getting hacked on some third-party sketchy website

would 100% let you live in his clothes while he was out of the house so you could feel comforted even if he wasn't physically near

would absolutely try to distract you with light comedy, despite his cockiness he is indeed a funny guy so it helps slightly

husband!jack would be such a proponent of a healthy mind is a healthy body so he'd make you go do jump rope with him (cause why does jump roping have to be so humiliating) or even worse takes you out to paddle board, like imagine your knee-deep in that melancholic state where you only read plath novels and listen to unreleased lana and your boyfriend drags you out to go paddle boarding???? like cmon now

you do feel better afterwards but you would never tell him that

if you guys owned any pets together he would without a doubt tell you he's going to be out for a couple of hours and come back with one of those portrait paintings of house-pets to cheer you up (editors note: vang olsen mimi does the most delightful pet paintings if your in greenwich!)

he would absolutely NOT be above trying to self-medicate your problems (within reason) by smoking w*ed with you or sharing a cigar being the chicest couple ever!

would 100% smother you in delightfully soft cashmere blankets in the pattern of gorgeous tapestries

would earnestly read poems (robert frost, emily dickinson, and shakespeare) to you to get you to sleep on the especially hard days

is a devout optimist and routinely talks you out of your doom scrolling

always holds space for whatever emotions you are feeling but always wants to provide solutions to your problems

and when he encounters a problem he can't so easily fix he invests time into getting your mind off it and plans steps you can take to lessen the hold whatever your stressing about has on you

writes mini impromptu love letters/pep talks on the empty spaces in your agenda notebook (wife!reader would totally own more than 1 of these louise carmen organisers in an apropos shade of autumn scarlet )

encourages you to do self-care rituals with your staple skincare products by letting you do the exact same steps on him

while husband!jack cooks for you both you read him your favourite chapters of "democracy" by joan didion in the kitchen every night and it remains a pillar in your routine despite the tumult

during your hard times jack is serving peak husbandry doing the washing, cooking and cleaning

when he's on his lunch break at the office you get text messages like this:

always makes sure that you take your medication (if you take any) at the exact times its supposed to be at and has little alarms on his phone

husband!jack would increase his acts of service to 1000% like that man would be taking your row boots into the cobbler for a new sole

would bring home flowers without a special occasion, just cause

would without a doubt bring out those STELLAR accents just to see you smile

disclaimer: this is all obviously fiction and i do not know this man nor how he calms anyone down, this is all for some fun distraction in these trying times.

to anyone struggling with the results and its ramifications (same here) i would really encourage you to read this beautiful (free) essay from alanabanaxox on patreon: https://www.patreon.com/posts/i-miss-dancing-115580140?utm_medium=clipboard_copy&utm_source=copyLink&utm_campaign=postshare_fan&utm_content=web_share

[mywhisperingwords]

the truth always comes out | george f. weasley

summary: a game of truth and dare with a little twist word count: 1.2k masterlist

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with the kind of reckless energy that could only come from a group of seventh-years who had long since stopped caring about rules.

Outside, a thunderstorm rattled the windows, but inside, the fire crackled warmly, casting golden light over the cozy chaos of Honeydukes wrappers, Butterbeer bottles, and a pack of Exploding Snap cards smoldering on the coffee table.

George Weasley was sprawled across an armchair like a king holding court, his long legs stretched out in front of him as he flicked a Chocolate Frog wrapper at Lee Jordan’s head.

You were sitting cross-legged on the rug, half-listening to Fred recount yet another tale of mischief involving Filch and a bucket of undetectable swamp goo.

Your laughter came easily, but your attention kept wandering to George.

He looked especially unfair tonight—the firelight catching in his messy hair, his crooked grin lighting up his face every time someone laughed at one of his jokes. It was infuriating how effortlessly charming he was.

And it didn’t help that you’d been harboring a not-so-small crush on him for the last couple of years.

But you kept it hidden, afraid of what would happen if he’d find out about it. The two of you were friends—nothing more.

“Alright, alright!” Fred clapped his hands, dragging you back to the present. “Let’s shake things up a bit, shall we?”

Lee raised an eyebrow. “What’s your grand idea this time? Another one of your ‘genius’ inventions that turns us all into canaries?”

Fred grinned wickedly and reached into his bag. “Better.” He pulled out a small vial of clear liquid, holding it up dramatically.

Your stomach sank. “Fred, is that—?”

“Veritaserum!” Fred declared triumphantly.

The group erupted into chaos.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Angelina demanded, crossing her arms.

“Let’s just say Professor Snape is a bit careless with his potion stores,” Fred said smugly.

“You’re going to get us all expelled,” Alicia groaned.

“Only if we get caught,” Fred said cheerfully. “Which we won’t.” He plopped the vial onto the table. “Now, who’s ready for the most honest game of truth or dare you’ll ever play?”

“Absolutely not,” you said immediately.

“Absolutely yes,” George countered, smirking down at you. “What’s the matter? Scared someone’s going to dig up your deep, dark secrets?”

You glared up at him. “I have nothing to hide.”

“Prove it.”

Damn him and his stupid grin.

The rules were simple: each player took a drop of Veritaserum before their turn. If you chose “truth,” you had no choice but to answer honestly. If you chose “dare,” you were still at the mercy of the potion—it would compel you to follow through.

You quickly discovered that this was both hilarious and deeply dangerous.

Fred was the first victim. Lee dared him to serenade McGonagall’s portrait, and despite Fred’s protests, he found himself kneeling before the painting, belting out a completely off-key rendition of Can You Feel the Love Tonight.

“Points for commitment,” Angelina said, stifling a laugh as McGonagall’s painted self scowled down at Fred.

Next up was Alicia, who admitted under duress that she once accidentally walked into the boys’ dormitory wearing nothing but a towel and had been hiding from the twins ever since.

Then it was your turn.

You took the drop of Veritaserum with a sigh, feeling the potion settle like warm honey in your chest. Fred leaned forward with a gleam in his eye.

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” you said, because you weren’t stupid.

Fred grinned. “Who was your first kiss?”

Heat rose to your cheeks. “That’s easy. Michael Corner. Fourth year. It was awkward and terrible.”

The room erupted into laughter.

“Michael Corner?” George snorted. “Did he even know how to kiss back then?”

“Barely,” you admitted, rolling your eyes. “I spent the whole time wondering if it was supposed to feel like I was kissing a wet sponge.”

George was laughing so hard he nearly fell off his chair.

As the game went on, the questions and dares got bolder.

Angelina dared Lee to wear a full set of Gryffindor Quidditch robes while reciting lines from Romeo and Juliet. Alicia admitted she once nicked a bottle of Firewhiskey from Hogsmeade and replaced it with water, leaving an unsuspecting Filch none the wiser.

And then it was George’s turn.

He took his drop of Veritaserum like a champ, winking at you as he did.

“Truth or dare?” Fred asked, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Truth,” George said easily.

Fred’s grin turned downright evil. “Who do you fancy?”

George’s smirk faltered for the briefest moment. His eyes flicked to you, then away.

“I…” He hesitated, his hands gripping the arms of his chair as though physically restraining himself.

“Come on, Georgie,” Fred teased. “We’re all waiting.”

George groaned. “Fine. I fancy—” He stopped again, his jaw tightening as his gaze drifted to you.

“Spit it out!” Lee said.

“I fancy you!” George blurted, his face going crimson.

Your heart stopped.

The room exploded into cheers and gasps.

“You what?” you managed to choke out.

George looked mortified, running a hand through his hair. “I—I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

Your cheeks burned as every eye in the room turned to you. “You fancy me?”

Everything about this felt like a dream, too good to be true.

“Yes,” George said miserably. “I have for ages.”

Fred let out a low whistle. “Well, this just got interesting.”

You did not know what to say. If it wasn’t for the truth serum, you could’ve sworn this was all just a stupid joke. But it wasn’t.

Everyone’s eyes were watching your next move, but all you could do was stare at George with disbelief.

The awkwardness didn’t last long—Fred saw to that by immediately daring George to snog you.

“Fred!” you yelped, your face burning.

“What? It’s only fair!” Fred said, grinning.

To your utter shock, George didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, cupping your face gently as he watched your reaction carefully. When you didn’t pull away, he kissed you. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, your heart racing as you kissed him back, all the tension and unspoken feelings between you finally bubbling to the surface.

When he pulled away, his cheeks were pink, but his grin was pure mischief.

“Worth it,” he said.

The room erupted into wolf whistles and applause, and for once, you didn’t mind being the center of attention.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of laughter and ridiculous dares. By the time the fire burned low and the last drops of Veritaserum were used up, you found yourself curled up next to George on the rug, his arm slung casually around your shoulders.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear, “this might be the best night I’ve ever had.”

You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder. “I’d hope so.”

When he laughed softly in your ear, you knew that this was exactly where you were meant to be.

[colorlessjay]

Concept: S16 Dean got really, REALLY into photography while retired. Why? Well he realized far too late he had barely any pictures of Cas, so Dean is making up for lost time once Cas came back. And like, Cas’s beauty is hard to capture with some dinky phone camera and so he does some research and learns about lighting and lenses and depth of field, etc

And of course Dean is an old fashioned guy so he of course uses an old school film camera and has a dark room in their marital home and of COURSE Cas is his favourite muse and model.

Does he take 1000000 glamour shots of his gorgeous wife? DUH. Does he take even more creeper CANDID shots of Cas? double DUH. Does he also force Cas into doing dumb couples shoots with him like awkward prom pics or whole family portraits with terrible matching sweaters? What do you take him for? of course he does

(He also loves taking pictures of Jack and Cas together, and he has an active and willing collaborator in Jack. They once did a silly shoot for Jack’s 5th birthday where they have him do a baby->Kindergardener photo shoot but as his fully grown self and it’s hilarious to Dean and no he doesn’t then almost start crying right along Cas at the set ending with Jack standing on their porch, wearing a backpack, a spider-man t-shirt, and holding up a chalkboard with “first day of school!” Dean DIDN’T start crying then because he was already crying at the picture of Jack all blanket burrito’s and swaddled up with a “welcome home jack” à la baby’s home from the hospital style pic lol)

Sam tries showing Dean his new phone’s super high end camera and Dean is sooooo annoying and dismissive of it and scoffs at the results, especially what he learns it’s got that post processing AI shit on it. Bah.

(Claire makes his break out his rapid shot gear to get some sweet pics of her fighting a vampire to send to Kaia. Dean promises he’s staying out of the fighting part cuz he’s retired and this is Claire’s hunt but he does get a twinge of FOMO when she is the one with a machete and he’s got the telephoto lens to stay out of the way. But him catching the money shot of Claire doing the final beheading? That’s more exhilarating that the last 10 vampires hunts he went on before retirement combined. The pictures turn out AMAZING considering the lightning conditions at night! And the blood splatter! No Sam this isn’t disturbing and serial killer shit this is art!!)

Dean’s 2nd favourite model is of course Baby, he ends up getting some gig work are a car photographer from fellow old heads that also want glamour shots of their old classic cars on real film. Jody teases that it’s like Dean is directing a porno for the cars with how he talks about “lighting the contours” and “we gotta highlight this lady’s curves just right”

(And speaking of porno’s, yeah Dean’s taken many, MANY erotic nudes of his favourite model. Often on or in his 2nd favourite model. And yeah the cowboy gear gets used a LOT in these. Why do you think Dean asked Rowena for a spelled locked box that OBLY him and Cas can open? It was a lovely birthday present from the Queen of Hell that was only happy to provide!)

I love this idea so much I'm gonna write smut about it

Anon, idk who you are but DM me more of these ideas

reblog

[gabrielleragusi]

For Artists: My Experience with Commission Platforms and Illustration Agencies

Hi there! I’ve been wanting to compile a list of commission platforms that I’ve personally used for the longest time, and I finally did it! I’ve highlighted the still-active commission platforms in bold and struck those that don't exist anymore so you can jump to the sections that interest you without needing to read my entire story.

Let me start by briefly introducing myself.

I’m Gabrielle, a fantasy illustrator. Since 2014, I’ve been working on book covers and illustrations for publishers, authors, and book subscription boxes. Early on, work wasn’t as frequent as it is now. I had to search for opportunities myself, and even small private commissions were important for building my portfolio and earning some money, which I’d spend on materials, books, and online courses. Like many other artists, I started out by trying my luck with the biggest art community available at the time.

DeviantArt

2009-2018

Once upon a time, there was a virtual haven called DeviantArt. To my teenage self, it was a magical place. I signed up in 2009 and thought I’d never leave!

At first, I created an account just to share my work and learn. I didn’t even think about commissions for four or five years. But when that first inquiry finally landed in my inbox, things took off! My mum swears she remembers my excitement when I got my first commission, but for some reason, I’ve completely forgotten about it. I can't remember what it was or how much it paid. It might have been a portrait of a fantasy character.

Commissions on DeviantArt were fairly frequent, especially considering my cheap prices at the time. I used to offer discounts and post my rates in my DeviantArt journal, or in Commission groups that featured artists either monthly or weekly. After checking out my profile, a client could simply send me a private message and from there, we’d discuss payment, deadlines, and other details, and the platform didn’t take any fees, much like how ArtStation works today. Everything happened through private messages or email, with direct contact between artist and client.

The downside of this process was that there was no dispute resolution system on the platform. I had to handle all issues myself, and unfortunately, problems did arise sometimes: there were clients changing their minds about commissions, asking for refunds after work was delivered, refusing to pay, or just ghosting me. These issues didn’t happen because clients were evil, but rather because I was inexperienced and allowed some to take advantage of my naivety.

However, all that frustration helped me develop my commission process through trial and error (mostly error). And despite the challenges, I can say with satisfaction that most of the commissions I received through my DeviantArt profile were positive experiences.

DeviantArt eventually introduced a commission feature for Core (Premium) users, which came with a platform fee, but I didn’t use it much, and I’m not sure if it still exists.

The real beauty of dA, though, was the connections I made. I was able to meet people, both artists and clients, that I’m still in contact with today, and some of whom I still collaborate with.

I closed my account in 2018 or 2019, but by that time, I hadn’t really used it for a couple of years. The new user interface was a bit of a turn-off for me. I had always loved the geeky, and dare I say cozy, look of the old green and grey aesthetic, with its customisable panels that you could move around and personalise with HTML code... But I digress.

Artists and Clients

2013-2016

While taking small commissions on DeviantArt, I discovered Artists & Clients. It was a nice platform for clients to get things like their D&D characters or groups illustrated for relatively cheap. I think my highest price was $50 for a single character portrait, with the platform taking a 15% cut. I used it for about two or three years before the platform started to change.

As more artists with hentai art styles flooded in, the homepage shifted, and so did the clientele. There’s nothing wrong with drawing naked anime girls, of course, but you can understand that if a client is looking for a fantasy, semi-realistic painting of their female orc character, or a realistic portrait of their spouse, it's more than likely that they won't bother sifting through a sea of anime girls to find the style they want, imagining it isn't here. Let's just say that, at the time, the website took a definite direction that wasn't in line with my genre, but this direction didn't make the different, more realistic art styles stand out either.

Soon, commissions slowed down for me, so I closed my account, but by then I was already working elsewhere.

That said, this platform could still be a useful tool if you’re looking to take on smaller commissions.

DreamUp

2014-2015

DreamUp wasn’t an AI generator back then. It was actually a subsidiary of DeviantArt, where clients could post projects and artists could apply. It was a competitive platform that offered well-paid work–very well-paid. I remember seeing jobs posted that ranged from $300 to $1,200. DreamUp was a very professional platform for clients with a mid to high budget.

I believe I landed my very first book cover commission through this website when I was in my last year of high school. I remember getting the job and going to school the next morning, excited to share the news with my classmates. Everyone was super thrilled for me (we were a really close-knit class!), and I felt like I was walking on air.

Unfortunately, as far as I know, that book was never released, but it didn’t matter because I was moving forward, and fast.

I’m not sure when DreamUp was shut down, but I do know that DeviantArt held onto the copyrighted name, assigning it to something so anti-old DreamUp that it still boggles my mind.

ArtCorgi

Now Artistree

2014-2019

When I received an invitation to join ArtCorgi from its founder, I already had a somewhat consistent portfolio. I was painting portraits and fantasy illustrations, and the clients on this platform were looking for both–your typical wedding and pet portraits, as well as book covers, which were what really interested me. To get to the latter, I had to do the former. Over the years, I’ve painted so many realistic portraits that now I have a strict rule for my own sanity not to do them any more. I have great respect for portrait artists, but it’s just not me.

When I first submitted my prices to the person I was in contact with, she kindly suggested that I raise them... a lot. That was a major step forward in my professional career. I went from charging $50 to $100/$200 overnight. And to my surprise, people actually wanted to commission me at those prices!

From 2014 to 2019, I took nearly every commission that came my way. I never spoke directly with the clients; all instructions and feedback went through my point of contact, which helped maintain a level of professionalism, although now that I’m used to working directly with clients, I’m not sure I’d want to go back to having an intermediary.

Sadly, as with all good things, this chapter came to an end. My point of contact eventually left communication in the hands of someone else, and shortly after, the commission fee changed to, I believe, 30%.

Simply put, 30% is an unrealistic cut for a website like this. For an agent that gets you all kinds of big work in the publishing industry, sure, but since this was not the case I had to stop taking commissions. Despite that, my overall experience with ArtCorgi was very positive.

Today, ArtCorgi joined another platform, Artistree. As far as I can tell, Artistree doesn’t take any fees from artists, with clients covering a small cost instead.

Sketchmob (?)

2016-2020

This was probably the platform I used the most. I’ve lost count of how many commissions I received through Sketchmob. Many. Enough to generate a steady income at the time. With reasonable fees and a variety of art styles available, clients contacted me almost daily. Communication was direct between artists and clients, and payments could be split. The review system also worked very well… for a while.

Once I raised my prices, requests became fewer and farther apart. But by then, I was already working with my own clients.

Is this platform still active? Who knows. The website is still up and the chat feature works, but I’ve seen users complain that money available for withdrawal never arrived via PayPal (the only payment method the platform accepted, if I remember correctly). Personally, I wouldn’t risk completing a job through Sketchmob right now, at least not until they release an update.

If you’ve used the platform recently and successfully received payment within the last six months, please let me know, and I’d be happy to update this section!

Upwork

2017-2019

In 2017, I was determined to break into the book publishing industry. After trying out Fiverr and Freelancer.com with no success (the competition was too fierce for someone just starting out), I decided to give Upwork a shot. The platform looked very professional, and while the process sounded a bit complicated, I wanted to land the interesting projects I saw featured in my category. I really wanted to work with a big client… but big clients didn’t seem to want me, despite having the Rising Talent badge.

In two years of bidding for jobs and submitting proposals, I only landed two projects: a small commission from a private client who actually reached out to me, and another project that I bid on.

Don’t get me wrong, I was ecstatic at the time and truly appreciated every opportunity that came my way. But looking back, I can see why Upwork didn’t work out for me. The platform just wasn’t the right fit for my style and niche, which is fantasy illustration. Graphic design, however, was (and still is) in much higher demand.

The commission process on Upwork wasn’t as simple as on other platforms. For instance, at the time, costs were calculated hourly, which was a challenge for someone like me who prefers working with flat fees (having already calculated my average hours spent on an illustration). From what I’ve seen, this has since changed.

One positive aspect of Upwork is its current 10% cut on what artists earn. I don’t recall if this has changed over the years, but 10% is quite reasonable in my experience. Of course, 0% would be even better, but for a platform as large as Upwork, 10% is fair.

Illustration Agency

2019-2021

By 2019, I had built a solid, consistent portfolio thanks to my personal work and commissions. I had a simple website in place, my Instagram following was growing… I was steadily working toward my goal of illustrating covers for big publishers (which didn't happen until two years ago).

So, when an illustration agency reached out to me one day, I was over the moon. I had always heard that artists were the ones who had to approach agencies, not the other way around.

Well, that should have been my first red flag.

I won’t name this agency because, unfortunately, I have nothing positive to say about it. In fact, the word “nothing” perfectly describes my involvement with them. Nothing came of this barely there experience.

The agency invited me to sign up, not on an exclusive basis, but they assured me they’d get me work. That work never came. Once in a while, I’d receive messages saying they were trying to pitch my portfolio to a French publisher or another client, but... nothing.

Please understand that meanwhile I was already working directly with shops and authors, so I don’t believe my portfolio was the problem. The real issue was something I didn’t realise at the time: some agencies do this. They feature talented artists in their catalogue without having actual clients lined up, just to appear more professional and credible to potential clients. Did this strategy work for them? Maybe. I’ll never know.

In 2021, I politely asked them to remove my portfolio from their website, and that was the end of it.

After that, I never actively sought out an agent again. By the time my portfolio was strong enough to approach a serious agency, I just didn’t need representation anymore.

Hireillo

2019-2022

My experience with Hire an Illustrator, or Hireillo, is mixed. At the time, Hireillo was a platform that hosted artists' portfolios, featured artist-submitted news, provided useful articles, resources, and directories of artists and agents. I joined the site hoping to catch the eye of publishers, but I was mostly contacted by authors and one fellow artist for a graphic novel.

Unfortunately, most inquiries didn’t go beyond the first couple of messages due to budget constraints. I did, however, have fun sharing news about my painting process and projects I landed on my own, which were often featured by the website. Additionally, if I had questions about 'complicated' things like copyright, or just needed advice, I could ask the website’s owner and that was incredibly helpful.

Despite these benefits, I didn’t see any real results, which was a little disappointing. The subscription fee was also... odd, for lack of a better word. $5 per week. In the end I just couldn’t justify the cost, so I stopped using the website altogether.

Reedsy

2019-2022

Finally, we come to the turning point.

I remember stumbling upon Reedsy randomly. It wasn’t very well known at the time, and I think it still isn’t. I was nervous when I submitted my portfolio because their catalogue features the best of the best: designers who’ve created covers for bestsellers, THE bestsellers, people who’ve worked on Stephen King covers, or George R.R. Martin's. Designers, editors, and marketers who are veterans. I didn’t have high hopes for my application. So, I was in shock when it got accepted.

I had an introductory Skype call with a representative from Reedsy, who explained how everything worked. Before the call ended, I remember asking if there was a good chance I’d get work through the platform. The rep laughed and said, “Yes.”

A few weeks in, I understood that laugh.

Reedsy has an overwhelming demand for book covers and commercial projects. For every designer there are many more clients. In peak seasons, I was getting requests almost every day. I’m not exaggerating.

Reedsy transformed my portfolio and my pricing structure. Thanks to the income I earned through the platform, I was finally able not to take everything that came my way but be selective and choose only the projects that really interested me.

The commission process is simple: artists pretty much decide how to split payments, what to include in agreements, and the best part, the most beautiful and helpful feature of all, they can request and adjust deadlines. For someone like me who's terrible with deadlines, this feature was a lifesaver. The admins are also very kind and responsive, available via email or chat.

Unfortunately (this is my last 'unfortunately', I promise), my time on Reedsy came to an end for personal reasons. I’ll explain since it’s no secret.

All my images on Reedsy were watermarked with my signature (my full name), which apparently violated the platform’s rules. Why? Because if a client saw my last name, they could contact me directly and bypass Reedsy, which meant the platform lost potential fees. I’ll admit this did happen a few times, but I had the good sense to redirect the client back to Reedsy.

After three years, an admin finally noticed and asked me to remove my full name from the watermark and any text on my profile. It was a simple and reasonable request, but here’s where the problem started. Profiles on Reedsy are public, and images appear in search engines like Google Images, meaning anyone could download my work and use it without permission. Sure, watermarks can be removed, but uploading my work without one in the first place felt like a bad idea. Btw, not only do I use watermarks, but I also use Glaze to protect my illustrations before sharing them online.

Anyway, for this reason, and also because I couldn’t get over the fact that full names were public at the time, something I won’t get into because, believe me, I tried over email, and my reasons went into the void (now, last names are just initialised, like Gabrielle R. Okay. Sure.), I had to close my account–they would have done it anyway because it was already 'flagged'.

Overall, if you’re willing to overlook the last name conundrum, I can’t recommend Reedsy enough. If you have a killer, solid portfolio and a love for books and editorial projects, go for it!

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

I hope you'll find this useful! If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask (: Oh, and here's an old article I wrote in 2020, titled:

Tips to freelance illustrators to avoid being screwed over

Who knows, maybe I'll write another 'article' post in four years!

Instagram  - ArtStation - Website - Inprnt - Etsy - TikTok

[the-offside-rule]

Hector Fort (FCBarcelona) - She's All That

Requested: yes

Prompt: Shes All That

Warnings: none

The Rom-Com Masterlist ♡

Hector wasn’t the type to get dumped. Especially not right before prom, and definitely not by Maria, his girlfriend of two years. But here he was, venting to his friends during lunch, still reeling from their breakup the night before. "I don’t need her, anyway." He muttered, crossing his arms and glaring at his plate. "She didn’t even have the guts to tell me why she flaked out on me at the last minute." His friend Pau smirked. "Right, but you’re also sitting here crying about her." Hector rolled his eyes. "I'm not crying. My eyes are dry."

"Right." Pau said, leaning in with a mischievous glint in his eye. "So, if you really don’t need her, prove it. Why don’t you make someone else prom queen?" Hector scoffed. "Please. I could make any girl prom queen if I wanted to." Pau raised an eyebrow. "Any girl?" Hector shrugged, only half-paying attention as he speared a fry with his fork. "Sure, go for it. I’ll take whoever you pick."

Pau grinned as he scanned the cafeteria. His gaze landed on Y/n, sitting alone at a table in the far corner, headphones on, absorbed in a book. She was one of the few people who seemed perfectly content keeping to herself, and she had a reputation for being sharp-tongued and fiercely independent. Pau smirked. "Fine. Y/n Y/l/n." Hector nearly choked. "Her? Are you serious?" Pau laughed, nudging him. "Afraid you can’t handle it?"

Hector straightened up. "Oh, I can handle it." He said, though he could already feel the challenge looming. Y/n was practically impossible to like. She had no time for people who didn’t interest her, and she made that clear. But a bet was a bet.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

The next day, Hector decided to start small. He found out they had history together and made sure to slip into the seat next to her, flashing a casual smile as he sat down. "Hey, Y/n." Hector said, leaning back in his chair. "What’s up?" She glanced at him, her expression barely hiding her irritation, and after a second of silence, she zipped up her bag, moved to the front of the class, and sat down without a word. Hector blinked, genuinely surprised. That hadn’t gone as planned.

Strike one.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

He tried again at lunch. He spotted her in the cafeteria line, balancing a tray of food and a stack of notebooks, and thought he’d give chivalry a shot. "Go ahead." He said, gesturing for her to cut in front of him. Y/n raised an eyebrow, gave him a look that practically screamed nice try, but no and walked to the back of the line instead.

Strike two.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

By the end of the school day, Hector’s confidence was slipping. This was going to be harder than he’d thought. But then, as he headed to the parking lot, he saw her by the school entrance, staring out at the downpour, her massive art project tucked awkwardly under one arm. She looked like she was trying to figure out how to get it home without it being completely ruined. Taking a deep breath, he strolled up to her, putting on what he hoped was his most nonchalant voice. "Need a ride?" He asked. "I don't need anything frlm you." She replie, disgust lining her words. "Well, it's a shame. Seems that lovely artpiece is goimg to be ruined if you don't let me give you a ride." Y/n hesitated, looking torn between her pride and the reality of the rain, but finally nodded. "Fine."

They walked in silence to his car, and she carefully laid her project across the back seat before settling into the passenger side. The rain drummed against the windows as they drove, the quiet tension in the car growing until Hector finally spoke up. "So." He said, glancing over at her. "What’s your project about?" She looked at him, clearly surprised that he’d asked. "It’s… well, it’s supposed to be a self-portrait, kind of abstract. I’m exploring the idea of self-identity."

He raised his eyebrows. "That’s actually… interesting." She let out a skeptical laugh. "Are you serious, or are you just trying to be nice?"

"Have I ever actually been mean to you?" He asked. She shook her head. "No, but my friend. You did push him into a set of lockers before." He sighed. "Okay, fair. But I mean it." He said, more sincerely than he’d meant to. "I think it’s cool. You’re actually a pretty interesting person." She eyed him, her skepticism clear. "You don’t actually care about my project, do you? Let me guess; Maria dumped you, so now you’re desperate for a rebound?"

Hector let out a surprised laugh. "A rebound? No, that’s not it. It’s… it’s more like I realized I want to get to know a different group of people. You’re different." She raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but there was a hint of curiosity in her expression as she looked out the window. She hummed slowly. "We’ll see."

They pulled up in front of her house, and she grabbed her art project, pausing as she stepped out of the car. "See you tomorrow, I guess." She said, giving him a look that was somewhere between intrigue and caution. He grinned, leaning against the steering wheel. "You coming to my game Friday night?" Zhe shrugged, but he could see the faintest hint of a smile as she closed the door behind her. "Maybe." She called over her shoulder as she walked up her driveway.

Hector drove off, a strange new excitement bubbling in his chest. He had a feeling he’d see her there.

[auroralwriting]

tolerate it

charles xavier x fem!mutant!reader dofp era

your love for charles should be celebrated, but he just tolerates it

word count: 1.3k | warnings: angst, slightly happy ending

I sit and watch you. I notice everything you do or don't do

Charles was hollow. The shell of the man he used to be. The Vietnam War was hard on everyone, but especially the Professor. Losing so many of his kids was.. unimaginable. It changed him, made him sad and bitter.

Charles used to be so bright, a warm glow that lit up any room he walked into. He used to be funny, charming, charismatic. There was nobody who could dislike Charles Xavier. He made it his goal to be a safe place for everyone. To make people trust him. To make people feel comfortable and happy with him.

Now, Charles was a blank portrait. He was dull and lifeless, he only saw the negative in life. Charles Xavier was a changed man. That was not hard for anybody to see.

I sit and listеn

Of course, you did everything in your power to try and help him. You were no telepath, no empath, just a simple mutant who could manipulate the flora and fauna. It was nothing that could help Charles. No amount of flowers or bright colors could bring back his own color.

So, you listened. You let him share every thought he wanted to share. You let him cry, yell, go silent with anger or sadness. You let him to whatever he needed, because Charles was broken.

You're so much older and wiser

Charles had always been the one to know what to say and do. He was the telepath, for crying out loud. He never needed help, but now that he did, how on earth were you supposed to help him? It felt impossible. It was like he had lived a million lives compared to your one and only. He knew everything and it felt like you knew nothing.

Lay the table with the fancy shit and watch you tolerate it

No matter what you did, it was worthless. Nothing you did helped. No amount of comfort, simple chores, cooking, nothing was helping. It was infuriating, but you tried not to blame Charles. This was not his fault. He was going through something unimaginable.

Even when you tried to just give him your love, it was so different from his usual self. He avoided your kisses, shied away from your touch, ignored your words of love and care.

"I want you to know I'm here, Charles," you'd say softly, reaching out physically and metaphorically.

He would turn his shoulder just before you could reach it. "I'm aware," he'd reply. "I have other things to attend to."

"What things?" you'd ask.

"Important things," was his reply every time.

Where's that man who'd throw blankets over my barbed wire?

Where was Charles? Anymore, you didn't know. At first, you told yourself he was in there. Your sweet, kind Charles. He was just hiding. He was scared, confused, hurt, angry.

Anymore, it was like he had vanished. Your Charles was no longer there. The Charles who had helped you hone your mutation, the Charles who taught you how to love it and yourself, the Charles who comforted you and helped you face your fears was now long gone. The Charles who remained was not the man you'd come to love.

Now I'm begging for footnotes in the story of your life

"Charles, please! I'm here, would you just let me in?" you cried out, clutching a fist over your heart as if you felt it physically break.

"You could never understand what I feel!" Charles yelled in reply. "You could never understand what I'm going through!"

You shook your head, "Maybe I won't! Maybe I never will, but I love you, Charles! I love you so much it hurts. This hurts! I just want to be a part of your world again!"

"My world?" Charles bitterly laughed. "You want no part in my world. My world is a cruel, unimaginable place that doesn't involve you." His words stung like venom. He didn't even react to what he said. He had meant it.

What would you do if I break free and leave us in ruins?

"What are you doing?" Charles asked, looking around the bedroom you'd once shared to see it empty of your belongings. A suitcase laid on your bed, your clothes folded neatly inside.

"I'm leaving," you answered. "your world no longer involves me."

Charles' eyes widened in shock, "That isn't what I--"

"Isn't it?" you retorted, folding another shirt into the suitcase with an odd sense of serenity.

"My darling," Charles' voice shook, "my love. Don't-- please, don't leave."

You glanced up to him, "You no longer need me, Charles. And I, you. It's better this way."

"It isn't!" Charles cried out, walking over to you with urgency in his steps. "Please, my love! Please, don't-- agh!" Charles doubled over, clutching his head. "No, no, please, not now! Please! Leave me alone!"

You quickly knelt beside him, grabbing him to hold him up. "Charles, look at me, you're okay," you gently shushed. "Hank! Hank, we need the serum! Hank!" you yelled into the empty hallways, hoping your old friend would come in a hurry.

"My darling," Charles sobbed, one hand clutching his head and the other your arm. "my one, my sweet, please, please don't leave me. Please! Oh, God!"

Tell me I've got it wrong somehow

Charles' head laid on your lap as you softly cascaded your fingers through his soft, brown hair. He was holding your legs tightly, fearing you'd get up and leave him any moment now. Your suitcase was forgotten on the floor, clothes spilled out from Charles' panic earlier. You didn't mind. They'd have to be put back in the dresser, anyways.

"I'm so sorry, my love." Charles muttered. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Do you love me?" you whispered, looking down into his eyes.

"More than anything in this world. You're the one thing keeping me going, the one thing that reminds me I'm alive." Charles replied. "I'm so sorry."

You nodded, "I know,"

I know my love should be celebrated, but you tolerate it

In the short days that passed, Charles tried. He did, he really, truly tried. He had his moments where he couldn't bear it, but more often than usual, his hand rested in yours. He'd press his cheek further into your lips when you'd kiss it, a shaky breath leaving his lips as his eyes closed as if he were trying to memorize and savor it like it was his last. He'd even seek you out in moments he needed grounding.

That was enough for you.

I sit and watch you

You were going to help Logan. Anything to get Raven home safely, even if that meant leaving Hank and Charles behind. Sitting on your ass was not for you.

"She won’t listen to me."

You and Logan turned around. You saw Hank turn around where he stood just a few paces behind you. Charles emerged from the building. It made your heart tingle.

"Even if I go with you, even if we find her, I can’t convince her to stop any more than I could convince her to stay." Charles continued as he walked closer.

"You won’t have to convince her. Magneto will."

You shared a weary look with the other two men. "Logan, as good of a plan that is, it's going to be insanely hard to get to Erik."

"Why not?" Logan nearly frowned. "Where is he?"

"Where he belongs." Charles replied. "Prison."

Your eyes locked with him, "Charles.."

"No, I know," Charles replied, walking up to you and grabbing your hands, interlacing them with his. "You don't need to speak, my love. I made up my mind. I am coming. If not for mutant kind.. at least Raven. My sister. And for you. You passion and will. I.. have let you down, time and time again. This time, I don't think I could live with myself if I did it again."

Heart leaping, you felt your face morph into one of sheer joy, "You're coming?" you whispered.

"I'm coming, darling."

I sit and watch you.

[gambleofstars]

Luficer HCs for Tall!Reader (gn)

₍ ⌨ ᶻᶻᶻ gambleofstars is typing ... ₎

ପ(๑•̀ᴗ•̀)* NOTICE: part of this post is NSFW, so minors do not interact.

↳ ❝ [a/n: i just really like this pathetic little man and i wanna take a lil bite outta him :3 anyway this is 100% self-service tbh, i'd love to be ridiculously tall and just twirl pretty boys around in my arms] ¡! ❞

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ No matter your stature, seniority and hierarchy are still a thing, so when Charlie introduces you to his (adorably tiny) dad, you bow your head and call him 'your majesty'

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ But over time, as you become his advisor and close confidant, you take great pleasure in using your height to your advantage; like sneakily peeking over his shoulder to see him doing his little arts-and-crafts projects.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ The one thing you loved doing and Lucifer found embarrassingly hot extremely annoying is lifting him up at random times. Oh he's reaching for something on high shelf? Up he goes on one of your shoulders. He's dragging his feet on an early morning meeting? Your arms are ready for a bridal carry. He's just lounging around? Now he's laying atop of you with his face in your chest.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ And you know this man loves physical contact.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ (He'll grumble about 'respecting royalty' but he'll wrap his arms around your shoulders and enjoy the warmth of your embrace and that lovely fragrance you always use.)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Mind you, all this is after many years of you both getting closer; so Lucifer trusts you completely. With his daughter's life, even.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ So it's not surprise he enjoys being pampered and worshipped for once especially since his last relationship didn't end well . He enjoys letting you drape his night robe over his shoulders when he wakes up, or fixing his hair as you circle over him.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ You'll mutter: "How cute" and he will blush like a delicate little maiden. It really is the cutest thing.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ You'd complain about having to crane your neck down all the time, but the sight of Lucifer's eyes looking up at you, all doe and round, make it worth it.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ And he obviously loves the height difference between the two of you (looking at the old family portrait, he clearly has a type and you'll definitely tease him about it).

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ One of the main reasons he loves your height is the fact that when he does get into that lonely, depressive, dark space in his mind, he can curl up into a ball and be held by your secure embrace.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Next morning, he'll rouse from his sleep, place a kiss on your cheek and ask if you want any coffee. You'll kiss him back and effortlessly lift him up to go to the kitchen together.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ (The second best thing is that he's basically eye level with your chest which is a huge bonus.) NSFW. mdni.

NSFW. mdni.

𓆩♡𓆪 You already know this man has a size difference kink. Like, come on just look at him: all the forms you can choose in the world and you choose a pathetic pretty boy?

𓆩♡𓆪 He likes getting thrown around. Manhandling him in bed will get you cute little protesting whines, but he won't retaliate, he knows his tastes are obvious.

𓆩♡𓆪 Lifting him up with his thighs around your waist is a sure way of making him beet red from the tips of his ears, all the way down to his neck. It looks very pretty on his skin, in all honesty.

𓆩♡𓆪 Honestly, he loves all the marks you leave on him - be it teeth or nail (you always apply balm to it soon enough anyway).

𓆩♡𓆪 Even though he is million times stronger than you, he will let you pin him down with his little wrists and pretend to struggle as you kiss and lick at his neck.

𓆩♡𓆪 He also loves it when your shadow looms over him like a mountain when he's on his back; it's almost like you're keeping him secure from the world's eyes, it feels so, so intimate.

𓆩♡𓆪 Aftercare is also made easy with his small and your big statures.

i love this man i love this man i love this man i love this man i love this man i love this man i love this man i love this man i love this man i love this man i love this man i love this man... :3

signing off, gambi

[storgicdealer]

ok gang. its theory time

the analysis of the new mercenary scene. meta, blueprints and time

warning it is incredibly choppy because of the chaos i am in rn !!!!!! but anyways

okay so. the video cuts off at green&red defending themselves but i doubt that really means a lot

the glitching. it IS reminding me of the way chosens memories were scanned through. but mercs having a whole tv remote?? chosens memories mightve as well pushed them to use youtube ?? but why didnt they access it earlier ?? why vic didnt???

bc of these question im more willing to think they themselves decided to use youtube right now. maybe only right now !

this raises a ton of questions. does outernet have somewhat of an access to internet after all? is it just their own tech? (could be supported by the fact that if youtube was common there i doubt theyd be using specifically television for it. i feel like theyd use other screens instead without a need of a remote especially considering how advanced their tech is)

still possible that it is common. considering they aren't that focused on it and there are random workers in the bg literally enjoying the show

this whole thing is VERY meta lol but i do think the mercs are the ones that influenced the stream in this way

A BIG portion of alan drawing a flower from ava season 2 is paid attention to in the glitching scene for some reason ?? maybe as a note for his and secs alliance.

the video then cuts off and goes to victim again. the whole video was watched through

the stream cuts off to mercs. **RIGHT** at the moment chosen notices the freedom stick rights article. based on the vid it could be just primal messing with shit but i feel it was intentional. (ha. freedom? loser. we're here instead)

later. the video resumes at victim again. i didnt see any changes to vics or chosens ending.

okay. the mercs. pulling up screenshots for this one

i. cant decipher THAT much even though the quality is 1080p for me.

but i DO see that the first blueprint has as i suppose the hover ??

the text pinpoints "power core" and its pretty much the most readable thing for me. another one is kyokaz was here its just a cameo

the blueprint shows buttons? perhaps the controller of the hover? going to a circle thingy. perhaps what is working inside the hover

the whole thing on the left corner says f___ complex but i cant decipher

second screenshot. the blueprint left to the first one looks like a pc?? and its not surprising even in the screenshot itself bc. the mercs have one to the right corner behind em

now. third sc.

HELLO?

firstly. A VIC DRAWING????? WITH A GUN????

there is a possibility of it being any stick but. i feel its victim. in my guts

shooting?? what. for.

it is scribbled out . . .

there is a possibility (along with the self portrait of vics in the unused bg) that it was just. him doodling. it would kill me actually because he is no great artist like sec. just a doodler (<words of flareboi here)

now. this

again . the question how they accesed it.

if they can get youtube to open there. how did vic not know of the showdown. of sec

showdown was uploaded online. that was literally in canon !!!

unless there's a rule that not everything internet-like and youtube like can be accessible. but i dont really think of any implications that proved that

except. for the fact that showdown was already uploaded. before the ep even ended. would it imply time passing differently in both realms?

lord i needed to scream it out.

OH GOD !!!!!!!!!!!