#raw sienna

[inkstainedpalettes]

Inktuneber Day 30

Thriller - Michael Jackson

ITS NOT HALLOWEEN WITHOUT THRILLER BABY

[lightingelectratwo]

Oh no, I burnt my sienna

[artbyvegavega]

Feel Alive

2020 / 9"x12" / Acrylic on Pastel Paper

[hautecouturehues]

[aliettali]

ouagh underpainting

[wuntrum]

one thing about me is that i'll use brown and blue together for an underpainting

[athenaholmesartistsguild]

Harukaaaa I love youuuuuuu

I’ve been on a doll making kick for a few weeks and I finished my first doll!

Here’s Haruka with her design from my comic ‘Lol. I Lived.’ Eventually I’ll take some nicer pictures free of all my room clutter lol.

I’m planning on making Kiryu and Majima next. Sneak peeks of Kiryu are below the cut:

So angy

Kiryu’s finished faceup! I am absolutely in love with how he came out

Unfortunately, my lovely cats knocked him off my desk so his nose broke off :’)

I used some air dry clay to fix it, but I still have to repaint.

Fun fact! Even though I finished Haruka’s doll first I actually sculpted Kiryu’s face before I did hers (you can see her unfinished head in the background of Kiryu’s broken nose picture).

The first Haruka head I sculpted was too big for her body and also looked a bit older than I would’ve liked:

I made a lot of mistakes with this sculpt and ultimately I’m glad that I had this first run to figure out my process. I made a lot of progress when I sculpted Kiryu and I’m excited to keep making more dolls!!

[punk-raphaelite]

“I don’t believe there are ‘off-putting’ colours” - David Hockney on olive green

This quote is on one of the opening pages of “The Secret Lives of Color” by Kassia St. Clair - a book about the history of different dyes and pigments. The book goes over about 75 colours and is really easy to pick up, and beautifully designed

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word Alternatives: Colours

BLACK atramentous, charcoal, coal, crow, darksomeness, denigration, duskiness, ebony, funereal, jet, inkiness, melanism, melanotic, midnight, niello, obsidian, pitch, raven, sable, singe, sloe, smirch, smoke, sombrous, soot, swarthiness, swartness, tar

BLUE aquamarine, azure, berylline, cerulean, cerulescent, cyan, cyanosis, cyanotic, electric blue, ice-blue, indigo, lividity, midnight, navy, Oxford blue, pavonian, pavonine, peacock blue, robin's egg blue, royal blue, sapphire, turquoise, ultramarine

BROWN adust, auburn, beige, biscuit, braise, bay, bronze, brune, brunette, buff, burnt umber, burnt sienna, caramel, castaneous, chestnut, chocolate, cinnamon, cocoa, coffee, drab, dun, embrown, fawn, grege, hazel, henna, infuscation, khaki, mushroom, ochre, paper bag, pumpernickel, raw sienna, raw umber, roan, rubiginous, rufous, russet, rust, scorch, seal, sepia, sorrel, suntan, sunburn, tan, taupe, toast, umber, walnut

GRAY ashiness, canescence, cinereous, cineritious, dullness, ecru, fuscous, glaucescence, greige, grisaille, gunmetal, hoar, iron, lead, mousiness, oyster, pewter, slatiness, smokiness, steel, taupe

GREEN aerugo, aestival, avocado, beryl, chartreuse, chloremia, chlorophyll, chlorosis, chlorotic, emerald, foliaged, glaucescence, grass, greensickness, ivy, jade, loden green, holly, olivaceous, olive, patina, patinate, pea-green, smaragdine, springlike, verdancy, verdantness, verdigris, verdure, vernal, virescence, viridescence, viridity

ORANGE apricot, cantaloupe, carotene, carroty, ochreous, ochroid, pumpkin, saffron, tangerine, terracotta, Titian

PINK carnation, coral, coralline, flesh-pink, incarnadine, peach, primrose, roseate, rosy, salmon

PURPLE amethystine, aubergine, bruise, empurple, fuchsia, lavender, lilac, lividity, magenta, mauve, mulberry, orchid, pansy, plum, puce, purpure, purpureous, raisin, violaceous, violet

RED beet, blowzy, cardinal, carmine, carnation, carnelian, cerise, cherry, copper, crimson, damask, encrimson, erubescence, erythema, erythematous, erythrism, erythroderma, ferruginous, fire, floridity, floridness, flushing, gules, hectic, henna, incarnadine, infrared, laky, lateritious, lobster, lurid, magenta, mantling, maroon, miniate, port, puce, raddle, rose, rosiness, rouge, rubefaction, rubicundity, rubor, rubricity, ruby, ruddiness, rufescence, rufosity, russet, rust, sanguine, scarlet, stammel, vermeil, vermilion, vinaceous

YELLOW aureateness, auric, aurify, banana, begild, bilious, biliousness, cadmium, canary, chartreuse, citreous, citrine, citron, engild, fallowness, flavescent, flaxen, fulvous, gildedness, gilt, goldenness, honey, icteric, icterus, jaundice, lemon, lutescent, luteous, luteolous, mustard, ochroid, old gold, primrose yellow, saffron, sallowness, sandy, straw, sulfur, topaz, xanthism, xanthochroism, xanthoderma

WHITE achromatic, alabaster, albescent, albinic, besnow, blanch, bleach, bone, calcimine, chalk, cream, cretaceous, eggshell, etiolate, ghastly, ivory, lactescent, lily, lime, milk, pearl, sheet, swan, sheep, fleece, flour, foam, marmoreal, niveous, paper, pearl, phantom, silver, snow, driven snow, tallow, teeth, wax, wool

VARIEGATION (diversity of colors) spectrum, rainbow, iris, chameleon, leopard, jaguar, cheetah, ocelot, zebra, barber pole, candy cane, Dalmatian, firedog, peacock, butterfly, mother-of-pearl, nacre, tortoise shell, opal, kaleidoscope, stained glass, serpentine, calico cat, marble, mackerel sky, confetti, crazy quilt, patchwork quilt, shot silk, moire, watered silk, marbled paper, Joseph's coat, harlequin, tapestry; bar code, checkerboard

variegation, multicolor; parti-color; medley or mixture of colors, spectrum, rainbow of colors, riot of color; polychrome, polychromatism; dichromatism, trichromatism; dichroism, trichroism

iridescence, iridization, irisation, opalescence, nacreousness, pearliness, chatoyancy, play of colors or light; light show; moire pattern, tabby; burelé or burelage

spottiness, maculation, freckliness, speckliness, mottledness, mottlement, dappleness, dappledness, stippledness, spottedness, dottedness; fleck, speck, speckle; freckle; spot, dot, polka dot, macula, macule, blotch, splotch, patch, splash; mottle, dapple; brindle; stipple, stippling, pointillism, pointillage

check, checker, checks, checking, checkerboard, chessboard; plaid, tartan; checker-work, variegated pattern, harlequin, colors in patches, crazy-work, patchwork; parquet, parquetry, marquetry, mosaic, tesserae, tessellation; crazy-paving; hound's tooth; inlay, damascene

stripe, striping, candy-stripe, pinstripe; barber pole; streak, streaking; striation, striature, stria; striola, striga; crack, craze, crackle, reticulation; bar, band, belt, list

mottled, motley; pied, piebald, skewbald, pinto; dappled, dapple; calico; marbled; clouded; salt-and-pepper

Source: The Concise Roget's International Thesaurus, Revised & Updated (6th Edition) More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[womenofwrestlingfashion]

Raw 11/20/23

Chelsea wore the Riverside Lace Up Long Sleeve Crop Top and Kesara Micro Mini Skirt in Lime from Oh Polly (no longer sold) with the Sienna Leather Knee-High Boots in Green from The Attico (on sale - $1,015)

[aeth-eris]

★ aries moon: burnt sienna feels like desert sands at dusk, rugged and warm, with a raw intensity that draws you in. it carries the energy of clay pots hardened in fire, bold and unbreakable, yet shaped by the hands that mold it. aries moons reflect this untamed aesthetic, their emotions erupting with the fierce vitality of something freshly forged. their love burns hot and immediate, like the glow of embers in the dark, and their anger is primal, quick to ignite but just as quick to cool. burnt sienna inspires action—a charge forward, unafraid of the scars that passion leaves.

★ taurus moon: rose gold is the quiet luxury of a soft-lit room, glowing with warmth and understated elegance. it’s the sheen of polished metal, the gentle curve of something crafted with care, timeless and grounding. taurus moons embody this aesthetic, their emotions wrapped in a soothing steadiness that feels like home. their love is rich and tangible, like velvet under fingertips or the scent of fresh roses. they crave beauty that endures, a life touched by comfort and stability. rose gold whispers of devotion that lingers, of love that doesn’t shout but instead holds you gently, unshaken by chaos.

★ gemini moon: periwinkle is the pastel buzz of ideas, soft and curious, flitting between lavender clouds and pale blue skies. it feels like delicate notebooks filled with sketches, like laughter drifting across a summer breeze. gemini moons embody this aesthetic, their emotions light and playful, shifting like watercolors blending on paper. their love is full of questions, their heart a kaleidoscope of wonder, always seeking new connections. periwinkle reminds us that emotions don’t need to be heavy to be meaningful—they can dance lightly, like petals falling from a tree, leaving beauty in their wake without needing to stay.

★ cancer moon: seafoam green feels like the pull of tides under a silver moon, gentle yet immense, quiet yet infinite. it’s the shimmer of waves against soft sand, the cool embrace of ocean foam lapping at your ankles. cancer moons carry this aesthetic in their hearts, their emotions vast and ever-shifting, like the sea in all its moods. their love is a haven, protective and nurturing, like driftwood washed ashore—a reminder of safety after the storm. seafoam green whispers of connection that runs deep, of feelings that ebb and flow but never truly leave, anchoring us in their rhythm.

★ leo moon: goldenrod is sunlight spilling through open windows, radiant and bold, filling every corner with life. it’s the brilliance of gilded frames and the warmth of golden hour, a color that exudes confidence and charm. leo moons wear this aesthetic in their emotions, their love bright and unapologetic, their joy contagious. they live for moments that shine, for affection that feels like applause, for connections that make their heart blaze like the sun. goldenrod is a reminder that love, when shared freely, becomes something luminous—a source of warmth and inspiration for everyone who stands in its light.

★ virgo moon: moss green is the quiet perfection of dew-laden leaves, soft and grounding, a color steeped in the serenity of nature. it’s the texture of moss between stones, the scent of earth after rain, unassuming but rich with life. virgo moons reflect this aesthetic in their emotions, careful and deliberate, tending to feelings like a gardener nurturing fragile blooms. their love is shown in small, thoughtful acts, steady as ivy climbing a wall. moss green teaches us that growth is often quiet, that strength can be soft, and that emotions, like the earth, are most powerful when rooted deeply.

★ libra moon: blush pink feels like the soft sweep of a silk scarf, delicate and refined, with a grace that lingers. it’s the glow of twilight skies fading into pastel hues, the gentle charm of petals falling from a flower. libra moons embody this aesthetic, their emotions flowing like brushstrokes on a canvas, always seeking balance and beauty. their love feels effortless, a harmony that soothes and inspires. blush pink reminds us of the power in subtlety—how emotions can be tender yet transformative, quiet yet deeply felt. it’s the elegance of connection, the warmth of a heart longing for peace.

★ scorpio moon: black cherry is velvet cloaked in shadow, a rich and moody red that whispers of mystery. it’s the sheen of dark wine in a glass, the depth of candlelight flickering against crimson curtains. scorpio moons carry this aesthetic in their emotions, raw and intense, like secrets waiting to be revealed. their love is transformative, a force that pulls you into their depths, where passion and vulnerability intertwine. black cherry reminds us that beauty often lies in darkness, that the most profound emotions are found in the shadows. it’s a color that captivates, much like the scorpio moon’s soul.

★ sagittarius moon: amber glows like resin catching the light, warm and golden, infused with ancient energy. it’s the warmth of lanterns strung in the night, the firelight reflected in curious eyes. sagittarius moons embody this aesthetic, their emotions burning with a restless optimism, always seeking the next horizon. their love is expansive, radiating joy and laughter, their heart untethered and alive. amber teaches us that emotions don’t need to be confined—they are meant to be explored, celebrated, and shared. it’s a color of hope, of adventure, a reminder that the journey is as important as the destination.

★ capricorn moon: slate gray is the polished elegance of stone, cool and timeless, a color that stands unshaken. it’s the stillness of mountain peaks cloaked in mist, the quiet resilience of marble weathered by time. capricorn moons wear this aesthetic in their hearts, their emotions steady and reserved, their love enduring and practical. they don’t express feelings with grandeur but through actions that speak louder than words. slate gray reminds us that strength is often quiet, that emotions can be profound without being loud. it’s the beauty of constancy, the comfort of knowing some things remain solid and true.

★ aquarius moon: electric teal hums with energy, vivid and magnetic, a color that feels like it’s always on the verge of transformation. it’s the glow of neon lights against a dark cityscape, the shimmer of holograms that feel just out of reach. aquarius moons carry this aesthetic in their emotions, their feelings charged with creativity and innovation. their love is unconventional, valuing freedom and individuality, their heart sparking with ideas that change the world around them. electric teal reminds us that emotions can be futuristic, that they don’t need to fit into traditional molds to be meaningful and powerful.

★ pisces moon: lavender mist drifts like a dream, soft and ethereal, a color that feels like moonlight wrapped in haze. it’s the shimmer of starlight on still waters, the quiet magic of dawn breaking through the clouds. pisces moons embody this aesthetic, their emotions boundless and fluid, like waves dissolving into the horizon. their love is empathetic and transcendent, weaving itself into the hearts of others like a whispered melody. lavender mist teaches us that emotions don’t need to be fully understood to be beautiful. it’s the quiet wonder of feeling deeply, of connecting with something greater than ourselves.

★ book a reading ★ ★ masterlist 1 ★ ★ masterlist 2 ★

[simplyghosting]

Her loyal retainers are the burnts of umber and sienna, of course.

High school me was a fool, an ignorant whelp. Yellow ochre is the most gorgeous color. A queen among earth tones. I would fight for her honor.

[eowynstwin]

imprimatura / muses

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish shows up one day to model for your studio class. He's flirtatious, too attractive for his own good, and more interested in you than you'd ever expect him to be. And his boyfriend Ghost is interested too. - ao3

He arrives early as you’re setting up for your students, in jeans and a tight t-shirt, and the first thing that crosses your mind when you lay eyes on him is Jesus, he’s fit. 

You are no stranger to bodies. Hundreds of them have cycled through your studio, all shapes and sizes and colors; you think you may know every dip, every roll, every hard angle and soft curve that a human body is capable of holding. The mystique of defined muscle has long lost its novelty. Bodies are bodies, and each holds the same value as the next when subject to brush and canvas. It never matters, you teach your students, what a body looks like in the modeling chair. It only matters if they can reproduce it accurately.

Even so, when a body like this walks in, you really can’t help but take notice.

Decadent muscle, fed and worked well, round and full with hydration. It’s impossible to miss, even through his clothes; each group delineated clearly, gracefully, as if sculpted rather than built, and alive with soft, subcutaneous movement. It’s indulgent to look at, the comfortable breadth of his shoulders and chest down to that slight taper of his waist and bulk of his thick thighs. It’s a physique no hard-bodied gym rat could hope to achieve merely with extra time at the racks—a physique that is easily, harmoniously attractive in its makeup of muscle and healthy fat.

The man is also mohawked and suntanned, and his mouth rests at an angle that suggests he often smiles—as if he knows that Michelangelo would have swooned at the sight of him. He comes into your classroom, saunters over to you, and stops precisely two paces away from you.

“Sergeant John MacTavish,” he says, offering his hand. “I understand you’re the instructor?”

He has gorgeous, vivid blue eyes (pthalo and cremnitz, with a touch of hamsa). You blink several times. Fit is still rattling around your skull, and begins knocking against sergeant at the same rolling frequency as his warm Scottish brogue. You realize his hand is still outstretched and quickly take it to shake.

“Yes!” you say. His palm is tough, callused, and not soft in the slightest, but very warm. “Nice to meet you, sergeant.”

He gives a grimace. “John’s fine. Or Soap.”

“Soap?”

“Nickname, y’know.”

Neither of you have released from the handshake. Soap’s grip is firm, the kind of firm that suggests he can squeeze much, much tighter if he needs to. And if the grip isn’t any indication, the broad forearms, dusted soft with dark brown hair, certainly are.

Black lines, a sword and helmet framed in laurels, catch your notice. The ink has the soft edges of having lain in the skin for a few years. You turn his arm to see it more fully. “Oh. Nice tattoo.”

He looks at the ink as if it is entirely new to him, and then gives an easy grin. “Thanks. I’ve got a few more too. Hope they aren’t hard to draw.”

When you loosen your grip on his hand, he releases you immediately. You still feel the squeeze in your bones even as you drop your hand to your side.

“So, then, Soap,” you say, “have you ever modeled before?”

He shakes his head, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his low-slung jeans. It tugs the waistband just a bit, revealing a sliver of warm, tan skin (raw sienna, flesh ochre, naples yellow). “Should have, honestly, with how much it pays.”

“It gets very boring, very fast,” you say. “What do you plan to wear for the breaks?”

“Was I supposed to bring that m’self?”

You are unable to suppress a laugh. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck and going a little sheepish—as if expecting a reprimand. You suppose it’s a valid expectation to have, in his world. You aren’t terribly familiar with the military, but you do know it’s one hell of a stickler for rules.

You also can’t help but admire the appealing pull and stretch of his bicep and deltoid, the flex of his pectoral as he lowers his arm. 

“Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go see if I can find something for you?” you suggest kindly, letting him off the hook.

“Sorry,” he says, pretty blue eyes filled with genuine apology. “I’ll remember nex’ time. Thanks.”

The expression is so hangdog that you almost want to pat his head and noise at him reassuringly, like an actual dog. You press your lips together to hide a smile, and leave the studio.

When you get back from the models’ changing room, you find Soap with one hip against the counter where you’d been organizing your supplies, one knee loose and shoulders set at a relaxed angle. You want to laugh at his easy contrapposto. He’s going to be an excellent model. You can feel it. 

It looks as if he’s moving around the sticks of vine charcoal with one outstretched finger; he pulls his hand guiltily away when you reenter the studio, crossing his arms over his chest as if to hide the evidence of his snooping. It makes his pectorals bunch and round out, gathers the thickness of his biceps up into chiseled, full definition.

You lift one brow at him as you walk over.

“Never could keep my hands to m’self,” he admits, still sheepish.

“It’s alright,” you allow, smiling back. “Do you draw?”

“Used to,” he says. He looks back at the charcoal. “No time, now.”

“Are you deployed often?” you ask, taking the opportunity to look at his face. 

Beauty is cheap in art, but you notice it all the same—appreciate the strong brows, the hard angle of his jaw, the dark stubble of a beard you suspect he can’t keep shaved down, and the long scar that cuts through it across his chin. The light brown of his complexion is speckled with sun exposure, and there are the faintest of creases at the corners of his eyes, which you expect will deepen into genuine, gorgeous crow’s feet as he ages.

He’s not all rugged, though. There is a soft, thick curl to his lashes, which are as dark as strong coffee or expensive chocolate, and an equal decadence to the pink, plush little swell of his bottom lip—which, in the very middle, has the smallest of divots, as if he regularly spends time biting it. 

They’re traits that are far too sweet to belong on an otherwise masculine face, and their effect is such that they turn an objectively average set of features into a shockingly attractive portrait—that suddenly has something fluttering, just a bit, in the roof of your stomach.

He looks at you, and catches your survey. You can see him realize you’d been watching, the knowledge of it blooming in ocean blue eyes like ink dropped onto linen.

“More often than no’,” he answers, showing teeth in a crooked, interested grin. And now he’s looking at you—attention flitting across your face, dropping down your body and jumping back up to meet your gaze. The creases deepen at the corners of his eyes.

The fluttering intensifies. The sudden role reversal has you feeling at once flustered and unmoored. You are never the subject of any perusal—always comfortably the observer.

“Well—” you try, and you’re embarrassed at the low tone of your voice. You clear your throat. “Well, let’s make use of the time we have you, then.”

His smile remains, cocksure and easy. “Let’s.” 

He knows the effect he’s had.

“Anyway,” you say, blinking several times and proffering the sheet you’d retrieved, “none of the other models are your size, so I’m afraid this will have to do.”

He takes it in his hands, which are sun-dark and striking against the clean white linen. “So it’s a toga, then?” he asks.

“Whatever you like. Let’s go over the basics, and then you can undress.”

“Oh, already, aye? Y’move fast, hen,” he drawls, still grinning. “I like it.”

Heat rushes to your face, but you don’t feel embarrassed enough not to laugh. You busy yourself with tapping your charcoal sticks back in place, putting them back in an even row ascending in order of length, and saving yourself from having to look him in the eye. “Ha! We don’t do a lot of foreplay in this studio, I’m afraid.”

“No?” Soap hums, and he steps closer. He’s very warm, enough that you can feel it even with the space between you. You do have to look at him then. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes casting pretty shadows on his cheekbones as he gazes down at you. “That’s a shame. I’m right partial to it.”

Your brows lift, and you will your pulse to remain steady even as you inhale, catching a thread of—cologne? Aftershave? Just plain deodorant?—coming off of him. The scent caresses you, almost beckoning you to lean forward. You swear you can see the thrum of his heartbeat, there in the soft hollows by his Adam’s apple.

You blink. He is your model. “Well—I’ll try to set you up as best I can, anyway. Follow me, please.”

And you turn your back on him, because this is your workplace, and you are at work, and if you don’t get on with things you might do something stupid like actually flirt back.

Soap hadn’t been sure what to expect when he arrived at the art studio. He’s never been to one before, much less one housed in a university—which he has also never been to—and hell, he only ever took one art class in high school.

If pressed, he’d have imagined old brick walls covered in diagram posters, shelves of supplies in all colors, the smell of paint hanging permanently in the air. What he finds instead is modern, clean, and impersonal. Stage lights hang from fixtures in the ceiling, pointing at a platform in the back center of the room. A tight line of easels, all folded up, stand pressed into a far corner, next to a tower of stacked chairs, and waist-high cabinets line half the room against the bare, painted cinder block wall. The linoleum floor looks new.

None of this, however,  has any opportunity to disappoint him. His final unmet expectation, standing across the room and organizing a tray of art supplies, is a very welcome surprise.

You’re bonnie. Like, every point on his wishlist bonnie. Christ, he must’ve done something really good lately, because he can’t imagine just lucking into this. There’s not a hard angle to you, all sweet and soft, but when you meet his gaze during introductions there’s a sharpness to you that skewers him through the chest. You are much smarter than him, he can tell immediately. 

He’s always had a thing for smart women. Soft ones, too.  And if that weren’t enough, you let him flirt shamelessly with you, while checking him out the whole time.

Steaming Jesus.

You direct him to get onto the platform and sit down, still clothed, in an armchair draped in another pristine white sheet. The stage lights are bright overhead, and they highlight free-floating wisps of your hair in gold. 

“You want to ensure that you don’t rest your weight on only one or two points,” you explain. You have a nice voice. Steady, confident—this is your territory, your studio, and in it you are clearly the master. “The main danger is that your arms or legs might fall asleep, and you won’t realize it until you get up, in which case you’ll fall. We can’t touch you, so we can’t save you from that.”

“Y’canna touch me?” Soap repeats.

“Not without your explicit consent,” you say.

He smiles at you, the kind of smile he saves for bright nights at the pub over platoons of shot glasses. “I explicitly consent to you touching me.”

The corners of your mouth tug upward, just a bit, and you look away, clearly bashful. Something in Soap’s chest starts beating a drum. He knows already he’ll ask you to drinks after the class ends tonight.

“I doubt I’d be able to do much,” you say, “you’re a bit more substantial than the usual models.” Your eyes flick down his torso and back up.

“Guess I’ll have to follow your advice, then,” he says.

“You should,” you say, and he looks at your thigh shamelessly as you pat it—even beneath your jeans, he can see the ripple of the impact. “One of the worst-case scenarios is nerve damage.”

“So you have done this before!”

He can’t help it—Soap’s imagination runs wild. Titanic, draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls wild. It’s not exactly polite to imagine a teacher naked while she’s in the middle of giving him directions (and Jesus, what a concept, he might be half-mast already), but Soap has always found that people like it when he’s a little rude.

You drum your fingers. “I have.”

He finally hears the nerve damage part of your instruction. “How, uh—how bad can it get?”

The drumming stops. “For me? It just starts to twinge a bit if I sit on this side very long. So don’t rest your weight all on one hip, yeah?”

Concern assuaged that he had not ignored your genuine pain in order to objectify you, Soap grins. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you say. “Also—even if it doesn’t hurt, Soap, you can stop at any time, okay?”

That has him blinking. “Kinda defeats the purpose, doesnae?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. This is your first time modeling. You don’t know how you’ll feel, sitting here with your clothes off and everyone looking at you. If you need to stop, I want you to stop. I’ll make sure you’re paid anyway, so don’t worry about that.”

You are…so serious about this. The line of your brows is furrowed, imploring, like a little discomfort on his part is a violation of the highest order.

“Sure,” he says, a little dumbstruck and mostly lying. He’d be a rubbish soldier if he tapped out of a little thing like sitting down, but it’s nice that you care.

You purse your lips, nod, and then move onto the task at hand, stepping back and then down off the platform. When you begin to survey him—gaze flitting up and down his body, more pensive than appreciative—he has to resist the urge to flex.

Instead he watches you as you look at him. He especially likes, he decides, the slope of your nose and the smart, serious press of your mouth. You could get him all turned around, he thinks, if you gave it half a try.

Your tits are also great, but that’s by the by.

“Try resting your elbow up a little higher, and twist at the hips a bit,” you instruct, and Soap obeys. “Hm. How would you feel about crossing your ankles?”

You continue like this—nudging him in directions he doesn’t think make all that much of a difference, standing in different positions around the room to check the angles. He half-wishes he could step out of his body and join you, curious as he is about what you’re seeing, what your students will see. He’s not sure he has any clear expectations for how the class will go, but if you’re any indication, it’ll be more fun than he expects.

“Not sure if I’ll remember how to get back into this,” he says, partly to be helpful and partly to get you to talk to him again.

“I’ll help you, don’t worry,” you say. “Okay, I think that’s a good one, you can move now—I’m going to start setting up, the students should be here any minute.”

He stands, and you turn away to collect your supplies, so Soap figures this means it’s time for him to strip. He pulls off his shirt and drapes it over the chair’s arm, unbuttons his pants and shoves them down to his knees.

“Soap!”

He freezes. Then he looks at you. You’re blushing again, deep and saturated, mouth parted in surprise and hand pressed to your chest. He does not miss the quick flick of your gaze down his body; he’s probably violated some rule or another of the studio, but he can’t help but grin.

You’re adorable.

“Gotta happen eventually, right?” he says.

You cover your face with your palm. “I was going to leave the room first!”

“First time someone’s wanted to run away when I’m takin’ my clothes off, I won’t lie—”

“You just come get me when you’re done!” you say hastily as you beeline for the door. “I’ll be right outside!”

Soap chuckles a little when you’re gone, the door slamming mortified behind you, and folds his clothes up behind the armchair he’ll be sitting in. You’re so cute. He can’t wait to sit naked for you for the next three hours.

And he’s definitely asking you out for drinks.

next

[shouyuus]

colorimetery

kuroo; 1,843 words; fluff, lapslock, no "y/n", abuse of extended metaphors, none of this makes sense, kenma is the most in-touch person in this entire fic and that should tell you something, awk!kuroo, whipped!kuroo

summary: in which kuroo is down bad for you and nothing much else happens

a/n: @seiwas this is for u! u asked for kuroo and i humbly deliver :) hope u liked it bby; fun fact, a lot of these colors are pulled from the gamblin oil paints website bc i love their paints and also i love the thought that a lot of pigments were poisonous way back when and ppl were just... casually poisoning themselves while making their art; there's a metaphor in there somewhere... but i'll leave that up to interpretation lol

─── 鉄朗 THERE ARE COLORS he doesn’t know the names for, just like there are birds who will sing songs that no human will ever understand, but somewhere between the viridian of a sun-lit forest and the minor trill of a mockingbird’s call, he finds the shape of you.

and he doesn’t remember exactly when he’d started feeling like this, only that he’d woken up one day to a pastel sky, heard the tell-tale blip of a message from you, and felt his entire body flush vermillion, hard enough to poison.

c’mon, bedhead. time for school.

he grins down at the message, his lips pulling wide, his fingers still blunted by his honeyed dreams (how many of you? don’t ask him — he’s long since lost count) as he types out a reply.

be there in three.

he stumbles out of bed in the raw sienna sunrise, pulling on his uniform pants, shoving the hems of his un-ironed white shirt into the waistband before dashing out the door. he finds you haloed in liquid gold, standing on his doorstep, flicking through your phone before you notice him and your face breaks into an earth-rending smile.

kuroo feels dizzy, punchdrunk, a sake-shot of fire sizzling down his front till it pools in the base of his belly as he pulls on his shoes and tries to hide behind a well-timed cough.

“c’mon, we’re gonna be late.” he brushes passed you, but not before reaching out to ruffle at your hair, savoring in the midnight-soft of your tresses as it slips through his fingers.

you bicker the entire way to school, picking up kenma somewhere along the way. he casts you both a tired, reproachful look before slouching off ahead of you, content to resume whatever game he’s currently hyperfixating on while you and kuroo snipe at each other a few steps behind him.

“you could just ask her out,” kenma says during free period, his eyes never leaving his phone screen as he mashes at the attack button, watching the health bar of the boss monster dwindle even as kuroo makes an indignant sort of choking noise.

“w-what? she’s just — she’s just a friend.”

but at the scathing look kenma darts his way, kuroo finally relents.

“i — we’ve been friends for so long i just… i don’t wanna fuck it up, y’know?” he cards a hand through his already mussed up hair, eliciting a string of giggles from a cluster of girls sitting behind them, heads bent in towards one another, their long hair swishing like willow branches in a mid-autumn breeze; but neither of them take notice.

kenma heaves a world-weary sigh, grimacing as a large WIN!! image flashes across the face of his phone and he slumps back to frown at kuroo.

“i feel like you’ve built up enough affection points to unlock whatever good ending she’s got for you by now, so,” he pins kuroo with a pointed look, “i don’t think she’s gonna say no.”

kuroo can only blink, his mind churning around this strange yet apt analogy.

“aw man, you’re the best, y’know that?” he laughs, reaching over to catch kenma in a headlock, digging his knuckles into the crown of kenma’s head even as he struggles fruitlessly to get free.

it is in the cadium orange glow of sunset, after your art class and his volleyball practice, that kuroo finally works up the courage —

“hey uh — can i ask you something?”

you hike an eyebrow, a dangerous grin sharpening the shape of your lips.

“didn’t you just?”

kuroo lets out a frustrated sigh, “fuck you, you know what i meant.”

you laugh, the timber of it ringing through him like church bells on a sunday morning, and suddenly, he wonders if this feeling might be what inspired the ancients to worship at the feet of so much divinity — just this, the giddiness and anticipation, the knowledge and uncertainty. this, the insurmountable weight of something (call it love or infatuation, he doesn’t care) pressing down on his chest hard enough to rob him of every last breath.

he think that perhaps this is all anyone’s ever needed to start believing in magic.

“okay, okay,” you say, stifling a grin behind pink-pursed lips, “what did you wanna ask?”

“go out with me,” kuroo blurts out, well before he can stop himself. and he almost wants to sink into the earth with the way his entire body goes hot, the aftermath of a tectonic shift, the pluming heat of a volcanic hiccup.

you stare up at him, your expression curiously blank as he watches you, desperate for any sign of your answer, the most minuscule tells of how you might be feeling.

finally, you cock your head and ask, “was… there a question in there somewhere?”

kuroo almost swears*. almost*.

“fuck — fine! i meant — will you —”

“yes.”

“— it’s just i’ve — wait, what?” kuroo freezes, staring down at you with slack-jawed disbelief, blinking as if he doesn’t quite understand what you’re saying.

you allow yourself a smile, and kuroo feels his insides melt to something very much like molten marshmallows.

you let out a sigh that sounds remarkably like kenma’s — exasperated and amused in equal measure — before glancing back up at him with a bashful smile.

internally, kuroo wonders if this is what being “k.o-ed” feels like and he resolves to be just a bit more merciful to all of videogame opponents.

“i said yes, you big volleyball-obsessed oaf —”

“oh,” kuroo says, still not quite sure what he’s supposed to do from here.

you roll your eyes and turn back towards the sidewalk, taking a few steps before twisting your head to look at him.

“aren’t you gonna walk me home?”

kuroo nearly trips in his eagerness to level himself with you, but once he does, he straightens his shoulders and puffs out his chest.

“so —” he says, in a stab at his usual carefree bravado, “do i get to call you my girlfriend now?”

you shrug, “sure, if you want to.”

kuroo deflates ever so slightly, “what? you don’t want me to?”

you slant him a look that makes his knees turn to jelly.

“yeah, i do. but that won’t matter if you don’t, right?”

“i — i do!”

“so then…”

you turn your back on him again, though he’s sure this time he catches it — the dash of sweet magenta, swept across your lips like a kiss, or a promise.

or, the thought licks up the back of his throat, tantalizing — the promise of a kiss.

“oi.” he jogs to catch up with you, reaching out to sling an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in to press his lips into the thick of your hair, breathing you in, losing himself in the familiar smell of your shampoo — green tea and apples, or something of the sort.

you laugh, and he basks in the sound.

by the time he walks you home, the street is gilded in goldenrod yellow, your shadows stretching long beneath you, the slant-wise light painting everything in an ethereal glow.

“well,” kuroo says, shoving his hands into his pockets, if only to keep them from fidgeting, because guys like him don’t get nervous. at least, not like this.

“well,” you echo, letting your voice linger over the ‘l’, letting it twist around your tongue, the sound lulling at the top of your palette till kuroo feels his stomach catch.

“see you tomorrow?” he asks, cursing himself internally for sounding so uncertain. since when has he been so uncertain?

your lips twist into a tease, just a fish-tail flicker, and kuroo knows he’s done for.

“do you wanna stay for dinner?” you ask, just as he opens his mouth.

“unless you don’t —” his voice jerks into an abortive breath.

somewhere behind him, a raven fluffs out it’s feathers on the low-cut wall that separates your house from the rest of the street. a single black feathers flutters to the ground, dark as an oil spill.

“unless i don’t what?” you ask.

kuroo swallows around his thundering heartbeat, feeling the last dregs of sunlight seep from the far horizon.

“i was gonna say… unless you — you didn’t wanna say goodbye,” he admits, his eyes flicking away from your face if only to give himself a momentary reprieve from the intensity of your gaze.

you purse your lips, shrugging up a shoulder, a single lock of hair slipping from its place behind your ear.

“i never do. c’mon — or else they’ll start eating without us.”

kuroo is speechless as he watches you make your way up the shallow steps to your door, glancing over your shoulder towards him. he doesn’t know how many times he’s stayed over for dinner, how many times he’d lingered in the perfumed warmth of your room while you showered, flipping absently through the latest volume of jump, how many times you’d fallen asleep with your damp hair slowly soaking into his school uniform.

he couldn’t count them all if he wanted to. and he doesn’t really want to.

he takes a breath and takes the front path two steps at a time, leaping up the staircase with a smirk as he skims his palm along the top of your head. you make a sound like an annoyed hamster and kuroo allows himself a laugh that bubbles up and up and up till it’s spilling over, till he pushes open your front door and is greeted with the familiar sandalwood radiance of your front hallway, the light pooling around his ankles as he toes off his shoes.

“hey,” you say, and he turns around, only to find you leaning up on tip toe to brush your lips against his.

he freezes, but you’re pulling back already, shrugging off your coat, shouldering off your school bag and shouting down the hallway to ask what’s for dinner, and to say that kuroo’s here.

kuroo finds himself caught in the sharp cerulean blue of your laughter like the rain-washed sky, the smoke-ridden darkness in the shades of your eyes, he turns to see you blushing, even as you motion for him to follow you into the dining room. he does, only tripping over himself once (though he’s been feeling wobbly since this afternoon, when he’d resolved to ask you out in the first place).

and he tells himself that, yes, there will always be colors he doesn’t know the names of, bird songs he will never be able to understand. but colors, he can learn. and as for the birds — well, he figures that they’re all probably singing about falling in love anyway.

TAGLIST: @yaoduriaa @ominouslywritinginmyhead @naomihatake @cheesypuffkins87 @crispynutella @dira333 @stunies @phroggii @fennecnco @encrytpta @simpingdailyforthem @ryescapades -- join the taglist!

[chasingrainbowsforever]

Raw Sienna Macchia With Deep Red Lip Wrap - Dale Chihuly, 2002

Blown Glass

[imorynn]

⟢˚ 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 ── avis amberg ꨄ︎

˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹ ⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹ ⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚

⟢˚ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : Avis Amberg ౨ৎ reader

⟢˚ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 : NSFW ノ sexual content ノ mentions of self pleasure ( fingering ) coming from Avis ノ reader is completely wrapped around Avis’ fingers ノwe are pussy besotted ノ yearning ノ alludes to eating out ノalludes to face sitting — we are Avis’ throne, folks ノ descriptions of body worshipping ノmajor sexualized and non sexualized devotion

⟢˚ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 1.2k+

˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹ ⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹ ⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚

── “PLEASE …”

Your complexion, kissed by warmth, lathered with a sheen of perspiration, glistening as though painted with the adhesive sweetness of unrelenting ecstasy. Every inch of you shivered with the maddening weight of desire, raw and unrestrained.

The ambiance pulsated with something primal, something beyond mere want. It was the ache of devotion turned carnal, the raw, blistering need to devour and be devoured.

Avis’ gaze remained obdurate, steadfast in its dominion, holding you captive beneath her without even uttering a single word. You mollified within the hearth of her palms as they slid down the pillar of your throat, tracing a course of flames to the delicate line of your clavicle to the exposed curves of your breasts, each touch branding you as her belonging.

“Please, Avis.”

What a display. It was pathetic. So fucking pathetic.

The way you beseeched, the way your body writhed, the way she buried you alive beneath those rich earthen hues of hers. How the murkiness of your heartache slithered down your spine and to the hollow descend of your ribcage like ivy, entangling tighter with every passing second. Every breath felt stolen, every thought clouded, your vision fractured, splintering into a kaleidoscope of burnt sienna and ember-soaked eyes, a blazing labyrinth where clarity disintegrated with every jolt of longing.

It was not just a longing in your chest; it was a desire, clawing and despairing, winding its path within every nerve and muscle. It gnawed at the edges of your restraint, piercing its honed teeth into your sanity, requiring that you take her, claim her, feel her in ways so visceral they would leave you undone.

She was your air, your gravity, your torment, your ruin, the sole thing grounding you as you rested over plush pillows and mattress while she was perched above you, legs twined in delicate lace beneath the coral robes pooling along her silhouette, your cheek flush against the velvet flesh of her inner thigh that hoisted over your shoulder.

She had been pleasuring herself for — how long had it been? Minutes? Hours? — you did not know, time became meaningless, disoriented and fogged in the haze she conjured, manicured fingers moving with practiced ease, replacing what she exhilaratingly perceived you could have given her. You had been made to watch, to witness every moan, every gasp that escaped her lips, the very sounds you would sell your soul to hear. That was her power — her cruel, intoxicating power — to wait until you unraveled completely.

The torment was exquisite, the way she waited until you unraveled completely. And oh, how marvelous it was to witness it awakening to life.

Your hands slid up her calves, digits trembling as they climbed the contours of the taut muscle there, halting only when they reached and tugged the delicate straps of her garters, as if seeking permission to go further.

“Please, Avis. ‘m begging you, my love.”

Her tongue softly clicked against the roof of her mouth, a pitying sigh blowing past her lips as her hand reached for you, thumb lovingly brushing your sweat-drenched temple.

“I know, baby,” she crooned, velvet and smoke and breathless, two fingers canting your chin up to look at her once more. “I know.”

Her brow rose flawlessly, the fine lines around her mouth accentuating as she queried, “You need me?”

“More than I need fucking oxygen,” you murmured, fervently kissing the oozing hollow between her thighs. You audibly moaned at the feel of ripened flesh beneath your grazing mouth, soon entrapping your lower lip between your teeth.

“How are you even real, Avis?” you whispered in bursting wonder and molten warmth that deliquesced over her entire being, her heart, her soul. And her irises, the depths of those ember shades shadowed into shards of endless slow burning.

To you, the sound of her voice was a symphony of flames and usquebaugh, a searing sweetness that scorched through your veins and lingered like an intoxicating constraint. It was the kind of sensation you would etch into your very being — burn it into the marrow of your bones, carve it into the fragile walls of your frenzied mind, and brand it across the chambers of your aching heart — over and over again, a thousand times, if only she would grant you the mercy of having her. Even if it was just once. Just once. Please, please, fucking please, at least allow for it be once.

“One chance. That is all I ask,” you slightly turned your head to press sweet kisses into her linen palms. She skimmed the pad of her thumb down the apple of your flushed cheek.

The candlelight bathed her in liquid honey, outlining every curve, every contour, every delicate line time had inscribed upon her. She was not merely a woman— she was a testament, a hymn, and you damned yourself, and anyone, who ever doubted or ever believed she was not a fragment of what was considered everything.

“I see you everywhere, love. In every room, in the sky, the streets … in my dreams, in every corner and space, my heart, my head — fuck, you never fucking leave my being —” You were panting now, practically quivering from head to toe as the more perceptible confession tore itself free. “Loving you might kill me one day.”

A hum reverberated from her heaving chest. God, you had no idea what you were getting yourself into “Oh really, doll? You’d allow it?”

“I’d more than welcome it.”

Her laughter was low, chocolate rich and brittle, and entirely aware. “You’d die for me, my sweet girl?” Her voice dipped, the edges of her pigmented mouth curling a bit more upward with every syllable. “You’d die for momma?”

“God, I’m already living for you,” you exhaled, your pupils absorbing the fullness of your hues. “What difference does it make?”

She stilled at that moment, the merriment in her gaze transforming into something softer, darker. Your hands mapped up the dips of her hips, marking out every line, every crevice, every speck within the assemblage of freckles kissing like winking stars, committing her entirety to your memory until those stars flared brighter and seared your bare mind. When your fingers curled around her wrist, drawing her palm to your swollen mouth once more, you pushed a soft kiss there, your words a reverent murmur against her skin.

“You hold my entire existence in the palm of your hand, Avis. How could you for one second think I wouldn’t leave this world for you?”

A flicker of mirth danced in those eyes she was persistently treasured, worshiped and loved entirely with. “Though,” you softly added, a small smile of your own playing at your lips, “I’d rather not leave it without making love to you first … that is if momma allows it.”

"It's alright,"  She was immediate with her response, a quivering timbre you felt within your bones as she shifted herself lower to kiss the crown of your head. "I allow it."

And as the buckles of her garters slowly from their secured confines and she allowed those nimble fingers of yours to unveil her, eager mouth of yours to tease her, to sinfully exhilarate her, she was damn certain you saw constellations — spasms of brilliant cosmos — bursting and illuminating behind her eyelids.

── ⟢˚ᥫ᭡ 𓂃