#so i wanted to make a sad ink drawing

[larapaulussen]

#was feeling sad the other day #so i wanted to make a sad ink drawing #currently playing around with traditional media #as thats something AI cant do #ink #painting

[keeps-ache]

hmn i wanna play with some white inks ',:1

#just me hi #i doodled my sona and used the sketch for the inks and i still think abt it #like it looked good! i liked the whole [gestures] thing #also i've been wanting to draw Shye recently so. i'm gonna do that lol :) #gotta make something soon or i'll turn into toxic sludge </3 #this is tragically the state of the world it seems. so sad #or Is It? #//anyway. i leave you with a thought: cupcake frog :)

[kookslastbutton]

Too Late to Dream ༓ jjk (m) || ch.I

✑ Summary: You did it. You married your college professor. You even bought a house together. Against all odds, everything had fallen into place. But after two years of marriage, you begin feeling something was missing. You want a baby but your husband can’t say the same.

Pairing: economics professor!jungkook x fem!artist!reader

AU/Genre: angst, smut, fluff, marriage au, age gap, series

Rating: M, 18+

Word Count: 4,187

Warnings: 8-year age gap, mentions of professor-student relationship (oc was a Masters student), flirty banter, fighting, jk has a bit of a temper, pent-up issues/desires, jk has daddy issues

Now Playing: Make It Right, Tryna Be, Infinity, Heaven+

A/N: Okay I have been having such baby fever for last few years no joke. I wanna be mom or aunty but my sister won’t have kids yet! So i write this lame series to cope even though it's lowkey sad? lmao. Enjoy!! 🥰

༓ ch. II >> | series masterlist

You’re not exactly sure when it happened but one minute you’re crouched over, sketching in your journal and the next, a child with big brown eyes comes up beside you to watch over your shoulder. He’s a cute little fella, you note. Can't be more than four years old. His hair is ink-black and on the longer side. He’s got on a pair of black and white checkered pants, navy blue sweatshirt, and a toy snug under one arm. At first glance, you struggle to make out the toy but it looks like an elephant.

“Hi…” His hand reaches for you. It tugs the edge of your dress sleeve before reaching down to latch onto a few fingers. You smile up at the child, warmth immediately beaming through your heart.

“Hi sweetheart,” you say. “What’s your name?” You wait for the boy to answer but he doesn’t. Instead, he shuffles down next to you on the grass and points to your drawing. His delicate eyebrows knit together in an inquisitive manner. “What is this?” he asks.

You look down at your drawing, examining it from various angles. It's unfinished but you're working on a sketch of the pond nearby. You've managed to capture the sun-kissed water but the sky needs more work. Being the weekend, you couldn't give up the rare opportunity to indulge in your favorite hobby. “It’s the pond with all the colorful leaves,” you reply.

Blank face, the child thinks before speaking again. “Who taught you?”

Now that's an interesting question. Drawing had always been in your blood since a child. You fell in love with the ability to let your imagination run wild on paper whether it be on the back of your homework or even cardboard. To you, drawing was freedom and discovery. It allowed you to express emotion, memories, abstract thoughts, and to recreate the real world. You typically preferred sketching with drawing pencils but occasionally dabbled with watercolors. You had a gift for it–a natural gift.

By the time high school rolled around, you tended to hole up in the art room, sketching for as long as you could. Your art teacher suggested you go to school for it come senior year which gave you enough push to bring it up to your parents. Determined, you spoke to your parents about it but it was null–art could only be a hobby, it couldn’t support your future. They suggested you go to school for economics or finance instead. You nearly hurled at the idea but you eventually agreed, knowing they’d never pay for you to go to art school. Drawing, as you found out, had to be on the side.

"I had a teacher once in school," you say. "But I mostly learned myself."

The child tilts his head to the side, a puzzled look on his face. “You?”, he says.

You nod your head in affirmation.

“No way! Even I have art teacher.”

You chuckle lightly and move to stand up from the grass, needing to stretch due to your crouched position. He follows suit, still clinging to your hand. “Where you going, Eomma?”

Eomma...That's a name you don't get called often. You're not used to being seen as the mom type. In fact, when you tied the knot with Jungkook, the two of you agreed that having a family was a grey area. You both liked kids, sure, but being parents? That was a subject neither of you seriously considered. “I’m sorry sweetheart,” you coo. “I’m not your Eomma. But, let’s find her together, okay?”

The child shakes his head, refusing to budge. "Mm no," he says, clinging to your leg. "Wanna stay with you." Your heart skips a beat. Children don't typically take to you like this. It causes something inside of you to want to lunge down and pick up the child in a tight embrace. But you nip that thought in the bud when you catch sight of a woman roughly your age jogging toward you. She looks like the child’s mother.

“Si-woo!” She gives a wave. "Si-woo come here!"

“Eomma!” The child’s cheeks rise into a big grin as he watches his mom approach nearer. He lets go of your leg but his hand remains locked in your own. You end up squeezing Si-woo’s tiny hand but then, like a bitter aftertaste, you remember– he doesn’t belong to you. You loosen your grip and allow him to run back to his mom.

“It was nice meeting you Si-woo!” There’s a hint of sadness in your tone but you do your best to brush it off. You only knew Si-woo for a short while and now he’s back with his real mom. You should be happy but when Si-woo’s mom lifts her son, she gives you a scowl. She doesn’t even come up to say anything to you but turns around and carries her son back to their picnic area. You frown realizing you were merely a stranger who little kids are told not to talk to.

You sigh and glance at your unfinished drawing. Suddenly, you don’t feel like drawing anymore. You pack up your belongings in your bag and head to your car, the event replaying in your mind.

You can’t blame Si-woo’s mom for being a little rigid, you think. You’d share a similar reaction with your own kids if you had any–if you had any. You repeat the phrase unexpectedly. Were you warming up to the idea? Your marriage did recently surpass the two-year mark, perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to consider having…no, you mentally stop yourself. Yes, Si-woo was cute but it likely wouldn't happen. You toss your bag of art supplies in the back seat and drive home.

“Jungkook! You here?” You step into your shared apartment and drop your bag on the kitchen counter. The smell of burnt wax mixed with vanilla bean hits you as soon as you walk into the living room. “Jungkook you better be home or these candles are going in the trash!” You really didn’t mind the candles but your husband had a nasty habit of keeping them lit even when you were both out of the house. He didn’t do it on purpose, of course, it was accidental but it was too much of a fire hazard to ignore.

“Kook!” you holler again, but no reply. These damn candles. You snuff them out one by one before venturing into the bedroom. Thankfully none were lit in there. You reach behind your back and unzip your dress, letting it pile around your feet. It's a beautiful dress but you were dying to get into a pair of sweat shorts and a t-shirt.

“Hey honey,” Jungkook says, emerging from the bathroom with damp hair and a towel tied around his waist. You let out a yelp before making eye contact. You've always been easily startled. “How was the park?”

Mentally, you bite your lip. This man was getting sexier every day, especially with that gold band wrapped around his fourth finger. You toss a t-shirt over your head. “Absolutely wonderful. Been a while since I’ve been able to really focus and draw. I loved every second." Should you mention the child? You pause, briefly contemplating the thought. Why not? "A really cute kid came up to watch me draw too…’til his mother took him away.” You don't notice but you nearly spat the last part.

Jungkook lets out a small snort, amused by your sudden irritation. There were many things he knew you could put up with, a resilient woman you were. But whoever this kid’s mother was must have gotten under your skin in the most unusual way. “It’s great you had a good time but you sound borderline offended about whoever this kid’s mother is.”

“It’s nothing really.” You shrug. “The kid came up to me and grabbed my hand. We had a nice talk but then his mom showed up. She didn’t even say hi to me. She just picked up her son and scowled at me like I took him or something. Believe me, I get it. But I didn’t do anything!”

“Don’t think about it too much __. She was probably just worried about getting her son back. I’m sure she did mean anything.”

“I guess. But do I really look that harmful?” You face your husband, hands perfectly poised on your hips.

Jungkook strides over to you and strokes down your arms until your hands relax to your sides. He gives you a quick peck on the lips. “Yes.”

Surprised, your mouth falls open. How dare he?! You give a pout, one that Jungkook finds especially irresistible. “Then you can keep your hands and lips off me for the rest of the night, Mr. Jeon.” You wiggle out of his grasp.

“That’s what I’ve been telling you for the past four years Ms. y/l/n. But you couldn’t stay away, could you? Just had to marry your hot professor, you naughty girl.” Jungkook grabs you again, pressing himself against your torso. You squeal at the contact. Married for two years and you’re still a blushing mess, get it together __!

“I wasn’t the one who was grabbing my student’s ass after class halfway through the first semester,” you quip, gripping his biceps. “I’m innocent.”

“Oh honey, nonono. You don’t get to play the role of a shy little angel who got eaten by her big bad wolf of a professor day one of university. You were already a master's student when we met. You knew what you were getting into when you started wearing tight little skirts to my class.”

You roll your eyes. “C’mon I had leggings underneath and I wore sweaters. If you’re accusing me of seducing you through my wardrobe then you have a very odd way of getting turned on.”

“Honey, how long have you known me? Sure tits and ass are cool and I won’t say no if you wanna show me.” You give a light shove on his shoulder at that, Jungkook chuckles. “But I have a doctorate in economics. Nothing catches my interest more than a studious individual like yourself studying all the angles of supply and demand. Plus, I liked your sweaters. Made me curious what you were hiding.”

“Oh stop it!” You end up giggling at your husband’s beyond-cheesy explanations. “How am I supposed to know my economics professor was ogling my teddy bear sweater for fuck sake?”

Jungkook throws his head back, feigning frustration. “It wasn’t a teddy bear sweatshirt. It was a bunny and it was very cute!”

“Whatever. Point is, I’m not the one to blame. I was a good student getting her master’s like her parents wanted until she found out her professor was sculpted from the gods themselves. Your shirts were barely fitting you. I swore they were going to bust one of those class periods.” You imagine the horrified look your peers would give. Not you though, you'd probably start drawing him. Shameless, really.

“As I recall that shirt-busting happened many times by your claws. I had to replace a dozen shirts in a month from how many you destroyed.” A pair of manly hands sensually trace down your sides. Jungkook leans forward, lips near your ear. “Seems like you had a lot of pent-up energy.” He nips your ear before peppering small kisses down your neck.

“You have no idea.“ You close your eyes, a moan escaping from you. "Professor–"

Jungkook grunts, suddenly suckling on the sensitive skin. “Mmm you haven’t called me that in a while. Kinda missed it”, he says, backing you up against the dresser. You were about to hop on top when your ass hit the edge but a rude, obnoxious ringing pulled Jungkook off you.

“Hey man!” Your husband answers the phone, a little too joyous in your opinion. You knew exactly who it was on the phone–Park Jimin. You bite your cheek, doing your best to keep down a sour face.

“Yeah let me ask __. Hold on.” Jungkook looks at you. “Honey, Jimin wants us to go out to dinner with the guys. You wanna go or stay in?”

Maybe, you think. You love Jimin but his dinners are usually quite elaborate. He always makes reservations to the fanciest restaurants in Seoul, and he required everyone to be dressed to the hills. It was fun now and then but did you have the energy for that tonight? Eh. What the hell. “Sure. What time?”

Jungkook passes on your inquiry before looking at you again. “6 p.m.” You nod in consent and walk to your closet, rummaging through your clothes for something Jimin-worthy. “Alright man, we’ll see you there. Yeah got it, k bye.” Jungkook hangs up the phone and watches you pull out dress shirts, pants, blazers, literally all your work clothes. “Found anything?” he pipes up.

You pull out a dark green dress, above knee-length, and gorgeously hemmed. “I’m pretty sure I wore this last time but–“

“Next," Jungkook interrupts. "Jimin will notice and you know how he gets when people wear the same outfit twice in a row.” your husband fiddles with through his own dresser drawers, yanking out an oversized t-shirt. You groan knowing all too well how tight Jimin ran this operation. One time Namjoon came in the same maroon dress shirt as before causing Jimin to have an absolute fit. He even made the man go home and change. Dinner was late that night.

“Yeah, you’re right.” You rummage through your closet again hoping to find something tucked in the back. There’s bound to be something. “Damnit, I thought I had more than this,” you grunt, finding nothing.

“Do we need to go on a last-minute shopping trip?” Jungkook throws on a pair of cargo pants.

You groan internally. Shopping isn't your favorite activity. It always took so long, and nothing was to your liking. You prefer online shopping but with only three hours until dinner and apparently nothing in your wardrobe, you suppose it's inescapable.

“Come on, honey.” Jungkook combs through his hair with a few fingers and grabs his wallet from the nightstand. “This is for Jimin."

"Alright, let me put some jeans on.” Jimin, you bougie little punk.

You view yourself in the dressing room mirror, a plum-colored dress adorning your body. This is the tenth dress you've tried on and to be honest, you feel pretty good in it. Nothing feels itchy, too snug, or out of place. The dress was a simple, strapless sheath dress and it fit you like a glove.

"__." Jungkook taps on the door. "You're not gonna like what I have to say but it's inevitable…there's been a change of plans."

"Okay," you reply with strain. "What is it?" You unlock the door to find your husband glancing down at his phone. It's a text from Jimin, you notice.

"Sorry for this but we're not going out for dinner tonight. Seokjin's daughter isn't feeling well so they're going to stay home. Yoongi also hasn't been able to get much time with his kids and wife lately so he's not coming either." Jungkook continues reading Jimin's text aloud. "I don't think we should go out without the whole party so I'm thinking about canceling our reservations."

Damn.

"You look beautiful," he says, catching your half-disappointed expression. "I'm sorry."

"It's no big deal," you sigh. "We'll eat in." From Jungkook's point of view, you were upset about wasting an hour and a half on shopping. He knew you'd much rather be back with your drawing pencils or watching a drama. He felt bad. The real reason, the one you think best to keep to yourself, however, is that hearing Jimin's text reminded you of Si-woo again. Further, it reminded you that nearly everyone in your friend group had at least one kid except you and Jungkook. Normally it didn't affect you though, so why did it today? Had the little kid from earlier really stuck with you that much?

"__? Everything alright?," Jungkook says. "I know we had plans and we've been shopping for a while but if you like the dress you should still get it. Jimin will have his dinner again and there will be other times you'll need it."

It takes you a moment but you reply, forcing a fake smile the best you can. "Oh yeah, yeah I'm good. I dazed off for a second there. I'll–I'll put the dress back actually."

Seeing through your facade, Jungkook lightly grips your arms. "If there's something you're not telling me I'd like to know, please?"

His endearing facial expression both soothes you and creates coils of nervousness in the pit of your stomach. You want to tell him what's up. You also want to pop the question that you've both been sweeping under the rug for the last two years. But how? Maybe you shouldn't. Maybe you're just in a mood today.

"Have–" You start but the rest of the words don't come out.

Jungkook waits for you to finish the sentence. "Have you thought of any ideas for dinner?" You stutter out. "'Cause I was thinking it’d be easier to order takeout tonight."

Eyes narrowing, your husband stares into your eyes. He's searching for any hint that you're bluffing–shifty eyes and such. You think he's caught onto you until his shoulders relax and eyebrows soften. "I was thinking the same thing. But also, I'm buying you this dress even if you don't. It's gorgeous on you and I know you want it. Now take it off and let's go find something to eat."

You manage to chuckle a "thank you" and slip back into the stall to change into your normal clothes. You feel a slight pang of guilt in your gut for not coming clean to him but you weren't sure if you were ready to tell him the truth no more than he'd be ready to hear it.

“Seriously honey.” Jungkook’s voice carries over the stall. “Are you really alright? Do you need anything?” You swallow hard at his persistence.

“I’m perfectly fine,” you reply. “Maybe a little hungry.” One day at a time __, you think.

You end up placing a dinner order at a local favorite nearby. You and Jungkook take it back to the apartment, curl up on the couch, and put a movie on. You nearly fall asleep after the first forty minutes because the plot is so utterly dry and quite frankly, boring. Jungkook seems to be enjoying it though so the movie plays the entire way through.

Still hardly paying attention, your mind drifts off to other affairs. You think about your upcoming work week, what to get for your best friend's birthday in the following few weeks, and the cute dog you saw yesterday, and of course, you loop back to the same lingering topic–your brief afternoon with Si-woo. Part of you wanted to take him home but Jungkook would have a fit, as well as you know...Si-woo's mother. You snort at how interested you've become in entertaining thoughts about children and taking care of them. As you've covered before, you aren't the mom type.

Si-woo and his mother looked very similar though. They shared the same hair color, eyes, and face shape. You wonder what his father looked. Did he have long hair too? Did he share the same lips? Before you can stop yourself from going further you wonder how identical your own child might be to you and Jungkook. Would your child love the arts like you or the social sciences like your husband? You suppose it could be a blend since you technically have a master's in economics yourself. You'd much rather be owning and operating an art museum or being a studio art professor but that's beside the point. Your child would be free to venture down their own path. That is if you have any.

You shift your eyes to Jungkook who's concentrating heavily on the movie. He's a wonderful husband, you sigh, full of love. No doubt he'd make a great father but did he want to? Jungkook never really mentioned it before and neither did you. When you first start dating you had a brief talk about children and building a family but you were still in school then and Jungkook was swamped with his teaching responsibilities. Children weren't something that either of you felt like you could handle at the time. After you'd gotten married there was an opportunity to discuss it again but you were both quite comfortable with it being just the two of you. Today is the first day you've shown any serious aversion to your comfortable lifestyle–you want a baby.

Once the credit scenes appear Jungkook feels your eyes burn through him from your lounged position. "You're making that face again," he says.

"There's no face."

"Yes there is."

"I don't think so."

Patience running thin, the tone in your husband's voice gets firmer. He's not angry but it's clear his temper is rising. You and Jungkook haven't had a spat in a while and you really don't want to start now. "I can see that there's something on your mind. It's the same one you had from the dressing room and I'm pretty sure it isn't about food this time."

"I don't know what you want me to say," you mumble tiredly. You sit up straight. "My face is my face."

"Honey, I know there's something going on that you're not telling me. Is this about that kid's mother from earlier? Because I'm certain it wasn't personal."

"No, it's not about that at all. It's just been a long week and I'm exhausted," you lie, yawning as if on queue. Jungkook grips the couch arm in agitation. He isn't sure what's going on but he isn't letting you go to bed without getting to the bottom of it.

"You're not having second thoughts about our marriage are you?" He throws the idea out there, hoping its obvious inaccuracy will push you to tell him the truth. You grimace at the guess.

"That's ridiculous!" You sneer. "How could you think that?"

"Well maybe because you're not telling me anything else?" Jungkook tosses his hands up. "I mean who knows, it could be anything. Was it the movie? Shopping? Are you horny? What the fuck is it?!" You jump at his sudden outburst.

"No it's none of those–"

"Look," Jungkook cuts shortly. "Will you just tell me so we can deal with it?!" You throw him a nasty look.

"Just deal with it? Like it's some kind of nuisance of an issue that needs treatment?" You jump up from the couch and head to your bedroom in a fury, your husband hot on your trail.

"I don't mean to be pissing you off, sweetheart but I know something's up." He follows you into the bathroom, watching you reach for your toothbrush. "Can you please slow down and talk to me?" He grabs the toothpaste before you can, forcing you to stop in your tracks. You feel your body starting to shake, eyes tearing up. You friggin' hate fighting and you hate being so unsure about telling him the truth–that you want a family. You're scared of his response most. What if he says no?

Realizing your nervous state, Jungkook takes a deep breath and softens his tone. He hates seeing you cry and he hates it even more when he's the one causing it. "I'm sorry honey." He steps towards you but you flinch away. You're not ready to be touched yet.

"I–I want...I want to be a mom. I want a baby." You wait for your husband's reaction and when it comes you instantly start bawling.

"A baby? What do you mean you want a baby?" Jungkook feels everything inside of him panicking. There's a reason he teaches economics to college students and not high schoolers or below. He doesn't do children, he isn't cut out for it. He'll babysit of his hyung's kids from time to time but at the end of the day, they aren't coming back home with him. Jungkook was sure his wife felt the same way but now? Now she's tearing up in front of him, scared to tell him she wants a child–one that will be his.

Jungkook takes you into his arms, his thumb wipes off some of your tears. "Honey, I'm sorry I didn't know. When you came home from the park I didn't realize that little boy meant so much to you." You try blinking back your tears but they keep running down your face. He's being gentle with you and you appreciate that but his choice of words tells you his answer is no. It's quiet, subtle, and cuts like a knife.

You break away from him to splash cold water on your face. The coolness calms your nerves. “He didn’t. Never–never mind what I said, sorry. I’m tired and I’m probably not thinking straight.” You leave the bathroom, leaving Jungkook scrambling for his thoughts.

A/N: Lmk what you think, tysm for stopping by 💞

Masterlist

no reposting, copying, or translating my work– © kookslastbutton

#btshoneyhive #bangtanbathhouse #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader #jungkook angst #bts smut #bts x reader #bts imagines #bts fanfic #bts au #fic:toolatetodream #kookslastbutton

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 64

part 1 | part 63 | tumblr masterlist | ao3

cw: angst, big gooey feelings

—

When Steve gets back to the boathouse, Eddie’s shaking like a leaf; has to touch Steve like a blind man, pat his hands all over his face and down his arms and across his chest. “Know I’ve— got no right to a-ask this of you,” he says through chattering teeth, “but… would you—?”

…Goddammit.

“Get over here,” Steve says. He draws Eddie into him; squeezes as hard as he can, one arm around Eddie’s waist, the other cupping the back of his neck — skin to skin beneath a mess of matted hair.

He says nothing.

There are things he could say; probably should say right now — things like ‘you tried to kill me’ or ‘I almost let you,’ or ‘you just left without saying anything, Eddie, how could you do that?’ — but it feels like treating a wasp sting when someone else needs a tourniquet.

Eventually, the shivering stops.

Eddie pulls back with a bashful expression. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

They move to sit down on the floor — side by side, shoulders touching, toes over the edge of the hole in the floorboards. The water moves like ink beneath them, and Eddie looks so beautiful it makes Steve want to die. His hands twitch at his sides, the small, lovesick part of him begging to know why they stopped touching; wants so desperately to press his fingers to the dark circles under Eddie’s eyes. To sink them into his hair and never let go again.

Even though Eddie doesn’t want that.

Even though he left.

Pain zips behind Steve’s eyelids like lightning, leaves the taste of copper on the back of his scorched tongue. He reaches up and pulls his hair — sharp at the root; needs the distraction. Can’t let himself think about his stupid heart right now.

Whatever, or whoever, this Vecna thing is, Steve knows it feeds on grief. Feasts on it; scents sadness in the water like a shark chasing blood. He can’t just swim into the ocean and cut himself for sport. Not unless he wants to end up like Chrissy.

Eddie opens his mouth and offers Steve another knife. “You can say it, you know.”

His tone is gentle; probing — eyes earnest, chin tucked.

“Say what?”

“Ohh, y’know.” Eddie puts his chin in his hand; clucks his tongue. “Whatever’s got you all, uh…” He furrows his brow and pokes his tongue into his cheek, licking back and forth over the smooth skin inside. “I can take it.”

Steve schools his expression. “What if I don’t want to say anything to you?” It’s quiet. Level. Less heat than he intended.

Eddie’s hand comes up to his heart. Chin dipping lower, psychic damage sincerity in his ridiculous Bambi eyes, he locks Steve into his gaze.

Holds him there.

Holds him; nearly makes him squirm.

“Then I’d say I deserve that, too.”

The faintest flicker of a smile; a spark of flint in a pitch black room.

Steve can’t help but catch the flame.

His lips land on Eddie’s with all the delicacy he can manage, hummingbird wings beating away inside his chest. The kiss is soft. Almost timid. Fucking perfect when Eddie starts kissing him back; just feels right; memory slotting into place after weeks of amnesia. Fervent noises, pressing harder, every movement like an oath, Steve pours himself into Eddie — gets his hands back under his hair, tangles his fingers behind his neck and nestles his thumbs in the hollows behind Eddie’s ears. Lets himself come home.

Eddie pulls back enough to whisper, “Jesus Christ, I missed you.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

They both feel it — the bubble bursting. The prolonged whine of a balloon deflating to the floor.

Steve slips from the embrace, hugging his arms around his legs, listening to their harsh breaths in the stale hush that follows.

Eddie mirrors his pose. Taps his fist against the top of his other hand, rings clacking. “Shit, Steve,” he sighs. “I’m sorry. I’m— I’m so fucking sorry. For all of it. For everything.”

“It’s fine,” Steve lies.

It isn’t.

Nothing ever is, these days.

—

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

#trailer park steve au #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #my writing #my fic

[uva124]

THE MOMENT WE WERE ALL WAITING FOR, FINALLY FINISHED THE DESIGN OF ASTER YESSSSSS ✨✨✨✨✨✨❤❤

This design belongs to the Wish rewrite called "The kingdom of wishes" (Written by @annymation and soon illustrated by @emillyverse and me)

Sorry for the delay, but this guy had so many things to draw and I also had a thousand ideas that it took me a while to capture them all (4 drawings wow, even I'm surprised lol)

Now after this introduction I will tell you the procedure of its design :]

2D MODEL:

-Maybe some don't notice it, but for the 2D drawing of Aster I didn't add many shadows, because in the classic Disney movies the animation doesn't have many shadows if we look closely, this is for several reasons (at that time they had to inking FRAME BY FRAME, can you imagine how much longer it would have taken to add detailed shadows? I really have respect for the animators)

(Here are some examples of what I'm trying to explain)

-As I said before, I didn't detach myself much from the concept art of the movie, I just added some other details that occurred to me, Anny and Emy.

-We decided that his cape would have the constellations of the signs of the zodiac (It was Emy's idea), which in the final result are on the cape, the constellations are noticeable more or less depending on Aster's mood.

-In the Wish rewrite it is mentioned that Aster's hair is like a candle (Reference to Hades) so I decided not to add the lineart in that part

His hair changes depending on his emotions, but not only that, but also his lineart, the calmer he is, the cleaner his animation will be, however with strong emotions (anger, sadness, nervousness) his details will be more neglected, especially when He is REALLY angry, by the way I made his hair look like a flame to give more drama to his design and also make a reference to Ember from Elemental

And as a final detail, the star-shaped gem that she has as a brooch changes color, just like her earrings.

3D MODEL:

-When Aster disguises himself as a human, his details on his clothes would disappear and the shape of his accessories would change to ones without a star shape, also the tone of yellow would look duller, you know so as not to draw attention (although he is dressed like a prince with a giant cape, the boy doesn't know how to hide the truth very well lmao)

-In general, it's just that the design becomes simpler, the only thing that changes is her hair that is no longer a flame, her freckles that are no longer little stars, her clothes no longer have so many details and her mark on her eye disappears(￣▽￣) .

By the way, I wanted to thank @the-autistic-idiot for giving us the great idea of ​​Aster having a star-shaped mark on his eye :D.

-Also, I think that those who have seen my other Wish redesigns are wondering why it seems like I had spit a rainbow at Aster's 3D drawings, what happened is that when I was painting my neurons said ✨Change your coloring✨ and well, The drawing in the end came out like this, although I honestly like it better, it better represents how I draw in a traditional way

Yes, basically the coloring of my drawings is as if a unicorn had spit on them lol

FINAL COMMENTS:

-It was very fun to draw Aster! The boy really has a lot of changes, but thanks to him I already discovered my digital drawing style so I am satisfied.

-Again sorry for the delay, I know that for many Aster must be their favorite character so I hope your wait was worth it :]

See you next time!✨✨

#disney wish #wish 2023 #disney #wish movie #sketch #wish #art #artists on tumblr #artwork #drawing #star wish #starboy #human star #wish star #starsha #star redesing #the kingdom of wishes #the kingdom of wishes fandom #the kingdom of wishes au #starboy wish #starboy x asha #asha and starboy #wish concept art #asha x star #wish asha #wish disney #disney fanart #disney movies #disney animation #walt disney animation studios

[meanbossart]

Another much overdue ask compilation! Some short-ish lore asks (Gale, Gort, DU drow relationships and pet-companion preferences) and a couple of art/advice ones sprinkled in. THIS IS BY NO MEANS ALL OF MY ASKS so as usual I appreciate everyone's patience!

I actually think he'd give them a pass entirely as soon as he noticed. Correct me if I'm mistaken but half-drow get No love from underdark drow and are usually surface babies right? So that fruit is miles away from the tree lol. I think he generally has a bit of a soft spot for mixed kinds since he himself feels like an amalgamation of sorts.

Thank you! They're kind of a pain in the ass to draw at times for that very reason but man I do like the look 😩if other people like it too then that makes it all worth it!

THAT'S TRICKY TO ANSWER BECAUSE OFTEN TIMES I'M NOT... REALLY TRYING. I've draw a ton of horror comics for mine and my partner's series' SAD SACK and SORTIE, so I think it just comes naturally to me 😅 also I do genuinely find expressive and, uh, rugged faces more attractive? (I think they look rugged, again that's what people tell me at least.)

I think the secret might be adding bits of realism in there. I get a lot of comments about the wrinkles and eyelashes I add to my art, as well as the way I draw individual teeth (though I've lately been making an effort to simplify my style in favor of drawing faster, so I haven't done that as much or in as much detail.)

Both symmetry and the lack of it can also add to that effect. I have employed both facial unevenness and almost point-perfect symmetry to achieve something a little frightening or otherworldly in my work. [MORE UNDER THE CUT]

Thank you so much!!! The contrast is very much intentional, that's what DU drow's character is all about ;)

Hahah well I somewhat doubt Bhaal would care that his spawn gets named, but either way he stripped himself of his name as soon as he killed his foster parents and abandoned the Underdark. He had a drow name that I jotted down somewhere but it's completely irrelevant because nobody has used it since he was a child, and he doesn't remember it (even pre-tadpole/having his brain scrambled.) Here's a little write up about his origins that might shed some more light on that: https://meanbossart.tumblr.com/post/739688837431836672/did-drow-ever-have-a-childhood-before-the-temple

And about his original drow-given name and the reason behind it: https://meanbossart.tumblr.com/post/741350986692591616/drow-had-to-have-been-given-a-name-by-his-adoptive

Everyone just referred to him as his supposed race, or as Bhaalspawn or Bhaal's child, and any other similar titles. Orin called him "kin" and "brother" and Gortash likely called him his associate. Post-tadpole the camp grows entirely used to calling him "the drow" and he has no desire to change that or to choose a proper name.

THANK YOU BOTH SO MUCH😭 no reason to be intimidated, I'm just some rando drawing BG3 fan art LOL I've been drawing since I was a child, and started taking it semi-seriously when I was 16 years old, so twelve years ago! That's around the time where I got my first non-display tabled and used that well into my twenties, prior to that I only did stuff on paper and liked to do inks color with pencils. I never really ventured into traditional painting at all except for a little bit of water-coloring in college.

Traditional and Digital art are very much different beasts. Which one you want to start with is, in my opinion, just dependent on what you want to do. Digital art gives you a lot of tools that makes learning easier, but you might find yourself having much steeper of a learning curve if you ever decide to do traditional art instead. If you want to be good at both, you need to practice both, since the skill doesn't entirely translate from one medium to the other.

Naturally you will be able to draw well on either, it's just... Different. I will say though, that I think if you're still learning you should use whatever allows you to look directly at what your hand is doing, so either traditional or display tablet/Ipad. I have no idea what a non-display tablet would do to a beginner, but remembering my experience with it I feel like it might be a huge detriment to developing the skill (feel free to share your experiences in the replies if you disagree, as I would definitely be curious to read them!)

YOU KNOW ME BABY IT WAS MESSY AND COMPLICATED the tldr.: is that they were "buddies", absolutely no romance intended there on either mine or DU drow's part, but due to his nature the friendship was extremely weird.

Here's a couple of replies where I go into more detail about it: https://meanbossart.tumblr.com/post/739191190871818240/i-dont-have-a-particular-question-in-mind-sorry

https://meanbossart.tumblr.com/post/744952815768764416/so-not-sure-if-youve-covered-this-but-i-thought

That's definitely reserved for the vamp LOL DU drow very much enjoys when Astarion teases and fusses over him, and while Astarion probably got a kick out of acting that way around such a big and scary looking guy at first, I think by "now" (later and post-game) he's pretty much immune to DU drow's looks and just enjoys doing it in earnest.

He's not at all averse to being touched (even rather intimately) by close friends, but he wouldn't be quite THAT vulnerable with anyone else.

HE REALLY DISLIKED GALE... He irked him out by seemingly fostering a rather persistent romantic interest in him for at least half the time they spent together (very much based on my interpretation of their in-game interactions at the time, though my Gale might have been a little bugged.)

But also they had a... Fairly in depth relationship still? Gale was a staple in my party, and even though I antagonized him constantly by the end of the game it still felt like they had so much weight in each other's lives, if that makes sense. I might need to do a bit of an "update" on the DU Drow/Gale lore sometime, I feel like I've had some thoughts since that warrant more exploration of their dynamic (you can find a lot of old asks about it if you just search the Gale Dekarios tag in my blog though).

The gist of it is that DU drow found him arrogant and duplicitous, his constant optimist irritated him to no end and felt like it veiled a stream of self-pity (two things DU drow despises) Gale's attempts to get through to him only added insult to injury. By the end of the game he decided to pursue the crown of Karsus and this only lost him even more respect in Drow's eyes, seeing as he doesn't value godly power at all.

I was pretty overwhelmed by the game at the start so I actually missed a lot LOL including Scratch. I did get the owlbear cub though, which DU drow gladly welcomed into camp since it was injured - but I think he would have wished for it to remain a wild animal and to return back to it's home after it had grown up a bit. He didn't really make a "pet" out of it more than he just looked after the little guy in the way it's mother might have, probably with Shadowheart's help.

He wouldn't be opposed to proper pets though if one were to stumble into his life. He'd definitely be more of a cat guy because of their independence and strong little attitudes.

It is very hard to build proper rapport with him. He will be "friendly" to most people who have a good sense of humor about them, but friendSHIP is another thing entirely.

I think it's kind of circumstantial. He's very economical in his relationships and doesn't really seek them out at all - so a situation where he's forced to be in someone's company might be the only way to develop a bond with him, as he doesn't appreciate insistence either and that's more likely to push him away. He doesn't value status or titles either (kind of looks down on them really) so that won't help.

I think he just likes people who are true to themselves and their nature, sometimes even if the nature is one he disagrees with at it's core. This is why he liked Gortash, why he and Shadowheart got along so well, and why him and Astarion fit together so seamlessly despite seeming so different. Likewise I think it's why he didn't jive with people like Gale or Wyll, because they seemed to be rather... Dishonest with themselves and their own end-goals.

#ask compilation #DU drow lore #ask

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 12 all chapters

- Lunch is a lovely affair in a quaint little trattoria that has been making world class dishes since the turn of the previous century. It seems like every inch of this city is steeped in history. The prices on the menu would blow your whole daily budget on one meal. But the scampi alla Veneziana is out of this world, and you force yourself to eat slowly, and not just inhale the perfectly prepared shrimp and noodles with a delicate lemon olive oil dressing.

John's friend, Julius, is a kind and utterly elegant older man who accepts your presence at the table with kingly grace. They speak in a mixture of Italian and English, the latter you think is for your benefit. John very generously includes you in the conversation, telling Signor Castellari that you are an artist, talking you up to what you feel is an exaggerated degree. Julius asks to see your work, and you let him flip through your new sketch book. Your drawings are a mixture of studies and whimsical travelogue, and it feels like you’re baring a piece of your soul, but he’s so gracious you feel you can’t say no. 

There is more than one sketch of Mr. Wick in those pages you did from memory with an aching heart, but the old man is kind enough not to call you out on it, or even draw John’s attention to it. You think if he did, you would simply crawl under the table and die of embarrassment.  

He exclaims over an ink and watercolor pencil plein air you did in Rome of a sunset over St. Peters with the Sant’Angelo bridge in the foreground, saying it reminds him of a special day when he was a much younger man. You offer to let him keep it, and he seems truly delighted. 

You watch with some surprise as John produces what looks like a razor-sharp knife from seemingly nowhere to carefully cut the page from your book. Julius accepts it like a precious treasure, and you are flattered to your toes.

Then John and Julius chat about older books, and Julius produces a very old looking volume, handing it over for the younger man’s perusal. As he runs his hands over the leather cover John’s eyes shine with an almost childish delight—its utterly adorable.

While they are gushing over the antique tome two intimidating men in dark suits approach the table, fixing John with a hard look. One of them has a gnarly scar bisecting his brow. They say something that sounds none too friendly. You catch the name d’Antonio—but John waves them off with a glare, insisting, “Sono ritrirato.”

You’re pretty sure that means I’m retired.

Julius watches the exchange with a sadness in his eyes you don’t understand.

Finally after some grumbling the tough men go away. John watches them with eyes sharp as a hawk’s, and something in the back of your brain titters a little warning. But you’re having too lovely of a time with Signor Castellari, so you ignore it.

When you part ways Julius kisses your cheeks and takes your hands in his. “Be good to him, bella,” he says with a glance to John. “No one I know deserves happiness more than him.” 

You don't want to contradict him about your actual relationship with John, so you just nod.

Later you ask, “Did you tell him we're...”

“No, but even if I told him we weren't, he wouldn't have believed me. Sorry. I hope that didn't make you uncomfortable...”

“It's fine,” you say, not offended in the least.

It’s more than fine.

It's incredibly flattering, really, that he thought the two of you could be a match. You're fairly sure you look like an unsophisticated street urchin next to Mr. John Wick.

“Where would you like to go now?” John asks with a little smile, as though he knows you've been hopelessly turned around for the past two days. You’ve managed to find the big landmarks, like the Piazza San Marco and the Doge’s Palace. It’s the smaller sights that have escaped you.

“Let’s go for a walk,” you suggest, wanting to see the city, and knowing you will finally get to do it unmolested with the forbidding figure of John towering at your side.

You are standing on a bridge, watching gondolas go by, when he asks you, “If I told you I have a reservation at Casa Nova, would you have dinner with me?” 

You press your lips nervously. Lunch is one thing, you know, and dinner something else entirely. Two people alone together in an intimate setting, sharing a meal over candlelight with good wine...the thought sends a thrill to the tips of your fingers that’s so intense it’s almost painful.

 “I don't have anything to wear to a place like that,” you admit. You read about it in a Condé Nast magazine on the plane, and you’re pretty sure it has at least one Michelin star. “I'm backpacking. My dresses are literally all rolled up in a bundle.” 

He chuckles at that, a low sound that tugs at your abdomen. He leans a little closer on the railing, and not for the first time this day you just wish he would kiss you.

“What if...I took you shopping?”

You raise an eyebrow to that. “Are you trying to be my sugar daddy, Mr. Wick?” You mean it as a joke, but suddenly there is something electric in the air between you. John's initial embarrassment sharpens to something almost…predatory.

It catches your breath in your throat. 

“Do you want a sugar daddy, y/n?”

You laugh it off nervously, your heart skittering about in your chest. 

“Very funny.”

You have a feeling he wasn’t joking at all.

However, like a gentleman he lets you have the out, but doesn't drop the shopping offer. 

“Let's go to the Calle Larga,” he says, and out of pure curiosity you agree. 

John's idea of shopping is taking you to Gucci.

The impeccable store is filled with beautifully crafted but honestly kind of boring goods, arbitrarily priced at a thousand dollars or more a piece. John fits in perfectly with the smartly dressed clientele, but you? You feel so incredibly out of place amidst the filthy rich people in the shop, and when you look at the price tag on the only dress you vaguely like you think you might break out in hives.

“John...”

You don't recognize it just yet, but you call him John when you're agitated, and Mr. Wick when you're feeling playful. 

He senses the desperation in that one word, and he takes you by the hand, leading you outside. 

“I'm sorry...” you say, because you feel stupid, and not posh enough by half to pull off any of the clothes in that high-end boutique. You are a bonafide gremlin, compared to the unearthly creatures in there. You do not belong, and maybe you’re a coward, but a part of you wishes John would just let you go back to your own plans for the evening. A long solo walk, a cheap slice of pizza, inevitably get lost in the maze of streets and canals, draw a little or read some of your book, before returning to your hard, lumpy hostel bed alone, where you can’t make a fool of yourself.

“Don't be,” he says with an amused little smile that makes your tide of panic recede a little. “I like it that you know this stuff is bullshit,” he soothes you. 

“I just...it’s so out of my wheel house.” You could have paid nearly four months rent for what that dress had cost.

He nods. “It takes some getting used to,” he admits. “I certainly wasn't born into this.” 

You wonder if he’ll ever tell you about his earlier life, but sense this isn’t the time or place to press him.  

“I just don't want you to spend your hard-earned money on stupid things for me.”

“I’m not saying I didn’t work hard for my money…” he offers with a wan little smile. “But it would make me happy to spend it on you. If it would make you happy.” 

You look at him for a long time. He meets your gaze, not flinching. There’s something different about him here. He’s more…open with you, perhaps? It takes some getting used to. He’d never outright admitted his interest in you before, always circling around it, and you wonder what’s changed.

Maybe not even John Wick is immune to the romantic atmosphere of il bel paese.

“Why are you being so good to me?” 

“I like you, y/n. If you haven't noticed.” The corner of his mouth quirks at that. 

It makes you sigh. 

“I like you too, Mr. Wick.”

He makes a small sound in the back of his throat. 

“You can call me John.”

“But do you want me to call you John?” you tease.

He moves a fraction closer, looming over you, and for a heart stopping moment you think maybe now he might finally kiss you?

“Depends,” he admits, his voice gone a little rough, but he doesn't elaborate further.

You feel as though you have a live electric wire sparking under your skin.  

He steps back a little, and again you feel the loss of him like an ache over your heart. You continue to stroll down the street. You are not entirely sure how your hand ends up in his, only that it is there, and you are content. 

None of the high fashion shops really interest you, until you pass by the window of Dolce and Gabbana, and your feet involuntarily slow as you take in the maximalist riot of glitz and color on the mannequin. You've always admired their wildly bedazzled designs, flaming hearts and candy colored jewels with copious gold embroidered trim. Maybe you’re just a crow-brained peasant who’s impressed by shiny things, but they look so fun.

John smiles a little, as though he’s finally answered some question to himself about you. “Aha,” he says teasingly, and you sigh, restraining yourself from pressing your nose to the window like a child outside a candy store.

“Can we just…look?” 

You are trying to be reasonable. 

“We can.” 

As it turns out, you want one of everything in the store.

It's all so over the top, the designs are so artistic and ridiculous and unabashedly joyful, from bejeweled purses to crown-adorned headphones, loud floral dresses and majolica printed silk scarves, and you fight not to betray which pieces catch your eye because you're afraid John might buy them all.

He is drinking in your enjoyment, looking utterly pleased.

Even just the store itself is utterly breathtaking inside, crystal chandeliers, inlaid marble floors and stone pillars. Gilded crown moulding and inlaid wood trim. You could just sit and look at this place like it’s a museum, you reckon.

John is not looking at the building though. He watches you browse with eyes that miss nothing, and it makes you squirm a little. You feel so seen. You’re not sure you like it, like you’ve been caught in the act of enjoying something that you know is absurd.

You feel absolutely silly.

“Try something on,” he urges you. To be practical, you decide to try on a black lace dress. Just in case you might like it. And a pair of black platform wedges printed with crimson red roses…because you can actually walk in them, so it makes sense, you know...

When you exit the dressing room John's gaze darkens, his pupils blown wide with desire, and once again you sense that predatory edge in him. If you had any sense you might have been scared, or at least cautious—but all it does is give you the most exquisite chills, an aching sense of anticipation, and an excess of moisture pooled between your thighs.

“That one,” he confirms, and for the way he looks at you, like you are a bunny in the woods he'd like to eat up whole, the outrageous price of the ensemble seems like a bargain.

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x y/n #john wick x you #keanu reeves x reader #john wick fic #keanu reeves #bittersweet john wick imagine #john wick imagine #i couldn't find julius's last name? #anyone kno? #yandere john wick

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Push the Sky Away - Part Three

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x original female character (Lorra Stark) Chapter warnings: Mild angst. Smut. Word count: ~6.7k

Summary: Aemond writes a letter and makes a thousand mile journey. Series masterlist.

Author's note: For @sapphirehearteyes. I don't have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Lorra,

Since we are parting ways, perhaps forever, I feel I must unburden my heart. You are the fond object of my affection and my desire.  You, and you alone, are the keeper of the key to my heart.  Please don’t be alarmed -– I don’t expect your favour -– but I can’t, in good conscience, not reveal myself.

I do not wish for a betrothal -– nor will I -– unless it is to you. Since the moment I laid eyes upon you, it has always been you. 

With love, Aemond

Aemond casts his eye over the ink as it dries on the parchment, a hot wave of embarrassment flowing through his body and flushing his cheeks. He has never spoken so plainly with regard to his feelings before, though he has never had such strong feelings to express until now. He quickly rolls it up, before he has the opportunity to change his mind and cast it into the fireplace, sealing it with wax and ordering for it to be sent by raven to Winterfell straight away.

The days pass without word from Lorra. Each of Aemond’s visits to the ravens’ tower end in disappointment when he finds no reply from her. Barely contained rage causes him to clench his hands into fists, stalking away from the maester every time he is told that nothing has arrived.

He wonders if his letter arrived in Winterfell before she did, if perhaps the lack of her response is due to her not yet having had a chance to read it. He ponders on whether he had chosen his words carefully enough, if he could have made his feelings clearer. Will she return to him, or grace him with a letter of her own? As the days bleed into a week, and then another week after that, Aemond’s frustrations simmer to despondency as the sad realisation dawns upon him that Lorra has no intent of writing back to him.

“Your mother asked that I give you time, and I feel that we have waited long enough.”

Otto’s voice rouses Aemond’s attention from the flickering flames of the hearth that he has been staring into, lost in thought, and he turns his head watching as his grandsire settles into the seat across from him.

“It has only been a fortnight since Lorra left King’s Landing,” Aemond replies quietly, returning his focus back to the fire.

“Yes, and almost half a year that you have wasted on a failed courtship,” Otto shoots back, his tone sharp. “Time is not on our side, Aemond. You must marry before the King passes, to strengthen Aegon’s claim to the throne. I intend to write to Lord Baratheon to–”

“I do not want a Baratheon girl!” Aemond hisses, head snapping towards Otto, eye wide and nostrils flared in anger.

Otto sighs in frustration, shifting in his chair. “What you want is of little consequence. You will take your dragon, once I have dispatched a raven, and you will fly to Storm’s End.”

Aemond draws in a breath as the realisation of what he should have done two weeks ago dawns upon him. He gives a slight nod, his eye meeting the weary gaze of his grandsire. 

“Yes, I will take Vhagar. But I will fly North to Winterfell.”

“That is reckless.”

“I can win back the favour of the Starks. Without recklessness I would not be the rider of the world’s largest dragon.”

“An impulsive act that cost you dearly.”

“Yes, my impulsivity may have lost me my eye, but I shall not allow my own inaction to lose me the woman I love.”

Aemond rises from his seat, walking towards the door. In his mind the matter is closed.

“And what if you fail?” Otto calls after him.

He stops momentarily, bowing his head as he considers Otto’s words, then turns to look at him over his shoulder. “If I fail then I will accept whoever you choose for me to wed.”

The journey North the following morning is one of the longest that Aemond has ever taken on dragonback. Even wrapped up in riding leathers, he can feel the bite of the cold at his flesh as he leaves behind the temperate climate of the Crownlands, his body shivering as his gloved hands grip tightly to the reins of Vhagar’s saddle.

Usually Aemond leans into the ebb and flow of the weightlessness that he feels while in flight, but all sensations are dulled by the racing of his heart. No journey feels like it is long enough for him to prepare what he intends to say when he eventually faces Lorra. Will she be prepared to see him, or will she simply turn him away? The idea of the latter causes dread to gnaw at the pit of his stomach.

He glides in a slow circle above the fortress of Winterfell, scoping out where best to land his mount. There is no way he can land close to its walls due to Vhagar’s size. It is insult enough to the Starks to arrive uninvited, without the claws of his dragon causing their walls to crumble.

Satisfied that he knows the layout of the land, Aemond brings Vhagar to land on a grassy embankment on the southern facade of the castle, dismounting and making the rest of the journey on foot.

It is early evening as he approaches, and he is met at the gates by several members of Winterfell’s garrison, their man-at-arms demanding he state his business. Unsurprisingly, there are no Starks present to greet him, but his dragon has doubtless been spotted and alerted them to this arrival.

“I am Prince Aemond of House Targaryen. I request an audience with Lady Lorra Stark,” he states simply.

He is escorted to the Great Hall, disappointed at the absence of Lorra as he enters. Her father, Rickon, is seated alone, his gaze stern as he looks upon the Targaryen Prince. Rickon does not stand to greet him, the informality taking him aback as the garrison bustle out of the hall, leaving just the two of them.

“I hope you will forgive the lack of formal greeting,” Rickon says gruffly, “the raven carrying news of your arrival must have been waylaid.”

Aemond swallows thickly, clasping his hands behind his back. He had not expected a warm reception from House Stark, however, this appears to be outright hostility.

“My visit is unplanned, my Lord, and I apologise for the intrusion. I will speak plainly, I have travelled to Winterfell with the intention of resuming my betrothal to your daughter. I had hoped to speak with her.”

Rickon scoffs, his eyebrows raising slightly. “If I could, I would send you back the way you came. However, it is not my intention for the people of the North to fall foul of the Crown, so I am obliged to offer you the hospitality of our House. You will dine with us this evening and leave upon the morrow.”

Aemond’s heart sinks, fearing he has failed before being given the opportunity to redeem himself, and he has not even laid his eye upon Lorra yet, let alone been allowed to speak to her.

He is shown to his bedchamber, changing out of his riding clothes into more appropriate attire for dinner.

As he enters the dining hall, he freezes, feeling his throat run dry as he spots Lorra seated at the table. In their time apart he had forgotten just how beautiful she is and the sight of her is enough to steal away all the air from his lungs.

“Come, sit, eat,” her mother, Gilliane, beckons from her seat beside Lorra.

Cregan and Rickon flank one side of the table, while Lorra and Gilliane are sat at the other, leaving the only available spaces at either end of it, either next to her mother and father, or Lorra and her brother. Aemond opts for the latter of the seating arrangements, hoping it will give him an opportunity to speak to her.

“I hope the food is to your liking. We were unaware we were to have a Royal visitor, otherwise we would have prepared something befitting a Prince.” Gilliane tells him with a tight smile.

Once again, Aemond is reminded of his intrusion, feeling the tips of his ears burn with embarrassment. He forces himself to look at her, keeping his tone polite.

“It is a fine spread, my Lady, you have my thanks.”

He lowers his voice, inclining his head towards Lorra. “The food is of little importance to me, I wished only to see you.”

“And now you have,” she replies simply without looking at him.

Her response is like a dagger to Aemond’s chest, he recoils slightly, opening his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. There are a thousand things he wishes to say to her, but not in the company of her family, and so the rest of the meal passes in slow, uncomfortable silence.

When they retire for the evening, Aemond seizes his opportunity to talk with Lorra alone as she walks back towards her quarters. 

“Wait,” he calls after her, striding ahead of her and standing in front of her to block her way. “Did you get my letter?”

Lorra sighs. The expression upon her face as she looks up at Aemond makes his heart ache. She looks tired and sad, and the guilt he feels at knowing he is the cause seems as though it may swallow him whole.

“I did. Pretty words, though they are empty and expressed far too late.”

Aemond’s stomach drops into free fall. His fingers twitch uselessly at his sides, eager to reach out and stroke the soft skin of her cheek, to comfort her. Though she is standing before him, it feels as though a chasm stretches between them, she has never felt more far away.

“Is it too late?” He asks quietly.

“You are leaving tomorrow.”

“Give me one week. A week is all I ask to win back your affection, to prove to you I am a man worth marrying.”

“I gave you six months!” She cries frustratedly. “I am not prepared to waste anymore of my time on a man who does not know how to love. I have no interest in a match that is purely political.”

“Nor do I, not anymore, and I will prove it to you. One week, please.”

Lorra bows her head, toying with her fingers for a moment as she thinks, before looking back up at him. “I shall give you three days.”

She steps around Aemond, walking away and leaving him alone in the castle corridor.

As hard as he tries, sleep will not take Aemond that night. It is not the chill of the Northern air that robs him of rest, as he had anticipated, the hot springs upon which Winterfell is built keep the castle surprisingly warm. He is exhausted from the long journey, and yet his mind will not quiet long enough to allow sleep to take him.

He has just three days to prove to Lorra that he is worthy of her. His station alone is not enough, a royal title is of obvious no concern to the Starks. Aemond has spent his entire life believing that duty alone is sufficient, that love in a marriage is a fanciful, unnecessary component. Lorra has challenged all of that – for her, it is a requirement – and it terrifies him, not the change in mindset itself, but how readily he is willing to accept it.

Aemond drifts off eventually, awakening to the metallic clash of blades outside his window. He rises slowly, groggy with fatigue and walks towards the sound, watching quietly as Lorra and Cregan spar together in the early morning light of the training yard below.

He smiles softly as he looks upon her, noting how quick she is. She is steady with her blade, yet light upon her feet. Though they had trained side by side many times at the Red Keep, he was always too preoccupied with the movement of his own sword and opponent to appreciate her skills fully. Immense guilt washes over him as he remembers how poorly he had treated her the first time she had asked to spar with him.

Now he has the opportunity to remedy that. Aemond dresses quickly, making his way out into the courtyard.

Cregan and Lorra come to a stop at his approach, eyeing him carefully as they lower their weapons.

Aemond gives a polite nod to the elder Stark, before turning his attention to Lorra. “My Lady, would you care to train?”

“I already am,” she says cooly, earning an amused smirk from her brother.

“With me,” he adds, straightening to disguise his discomfort.

“You wish to spar with me? I thought such things were beneath you.”

“I was misguided, allow me to correct the error of my ways.”

Lorra looks questioningly at Cregan, who gives an easy shrug. “Blades are over there,” he nods towards an assortment of weapons propped against the stone wall of the yard as he walks away.

Aemond snatches up a sword, walking back towards Lorra as she takes up a fighting stance. As he takes in the fire that blazes in her bright blue eyes he wonders if perhaps he has made a grievous error in judgement. Challenging the woman he has wronged to a fight would give her ample opportunity to exorcise her vexation, and he half expects her to simply run him through with her blade.

“I am not a child,” Lorra breathes heavily, the flat of her sword pushing back against Aemond’s as she blocks his attack. “You will not appease me with a disingenuous attempt at feigning interest in me.”

“A thousand mile journey is far from disingenuous,” he retorts, side stepping as she swipes at him. “You took the time to get to know me, and I have the genuine desire to do the same for you, though the time I have puts me at a disadvantage.”

Lorra scoffs, dodging as Aemond strikes forward, meeting the resistance of her blade once more.

“You fight well,” he tells her, stepping closer, his chest heaving with exertion. “Visenya Targaryen was said to be a fearsome warrior queen, I dare say even she would be impressed. A trait I would be proud for my wife to possess.”

She blinks rapidly, lowering her gaze and her sword as she steps back, light pink dusting the pale skin of her cheeks. “Flattery will not work upon me.”

Aemond finds boldness in Lorra’s sudden coyness, dropping his sword hand to his side, he closes the gap between them, crooking the finger of his free hand beneath her chin and tilting her face up to his. “Are you certain of that?”

He smirks when she says nothing, and pulls away to place his sword against the wall.

“Come with me,” he tells her, gently grabbing her arm and pulling her along with him towards the gates of Winterfell.

“Where are we going?” She asks with wide eyes as her steps hurry to keep up with his lengthy strides.

“To do something I should have done months ago,�� he replies, never slowing his pace.

They pass through the gates and around to the south facade, icy wind nips at their skin and Aemond regrets his impulsive decision for a moment, wishing he had given them both the opportunity to don a coat before heading out, but he supposes in a moment it will not matter, not with the warmth of what he is to show her.

Vhagar is exactly where he had left her when he first landed, though she is now curled up in a sleeping position, the vast expanse of her having squashed the long grass around her completely flat.

Lorra slows, hesitating as the hulking frame of the dragon comes into view and Aemond looks back at her, his grasp slipping from her arm to her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Do not be afraid,” he reassures her, “when you are with me, Vhagar is no danger to you.”

Lorra shakes her head, though she does not pull her hand from his, a gesture that causes Aemond’s heart to soar.

“I am not afraid. I just do not understand the meaning of this.”

“I mean to introduce you, something I ought to have done in the first place, but I foolishly refused. Vhagar is the most important thing in the world to me…well, she was, now I find that someone else occupies that place in both my heart and mind.”

Lorra’s face softens, her big, blue eyes filled with uncertainty as she looks between Aemond and the sleeping dragon.

“Come,” Aemond beckons her forward as he resumes walking. “She is most docile when she is sleeping.”

The air turns humid from the heat that radiates from the great, slumbering beast as they approach her, and Aemond rubs a hand across the hardened heat of her scales, earning a gentle rumble from the dragon which gently quakes the ground upon which they stand.

“Does she not get cold? I cannot imagine the North is a suitable climate for such a creature,” Lorra says, staring up in wonder at Vhagar.

“She is fire itself,” Aemond explains softly, “she is not fond of the cold, but she is able to keep herself warm. Here–”

Aemond takes Lorra’s hand, feeling it tremble beneath his own as he presses it gently against the dragon’s scales, encouraging her to stroke them.

Lorra giggles, continuing to run her hand across them, even after he has pulled his away. “She is not as soft as I expected her to feel.”

“Hmm,” Aemond agrees, watching with a faint smile. “She is old and battle hardened.”

“What will you feed her while she is here?”

He grins, a faint chuckle escaping him at her question. Heat spreads rapidly through his chest at the care that Lorra shows for Vhagar, enquiring after her comfort and wellbeing.

“She is large enough to feed herself, too big even to house within the Dragon Pit of King’s Landing. I have never had to feed her, she fends for herself well enough. I daresay whatever sheep happened to be roaming here have met their end at her appetite.”

“My father gave me a direwolf pup when I was a child,” Lorra tells him, as she continues her absentminded stroking. “When he was old enough to fend for himself, I released him into the forest. It did not seem fair to keep such a creature cooped up in the confines of a castle. Direwolves are not like dragons, they cannot be controlled.”

“The idea that we control the dragons is an illusion. They obey because they choose to. My bond with Vhagar is the only reason she listens to me.”

Lorra turns, her eyes meeting his. “Is there anyone that you are bonded with strongly enough that you will listen to them?”

“No,” he whispers, leaning down so that his nose brushes against the tip of hers, “at least not until now.”

She blushes, turning her face away. “We should be getting back, but thank you for this, truly. I shall not forget it.”

Though Lorra had declined to kiss him, Aemond’s hope feels restored as he sits beside her at the supper table that evening, stirring his spoon through a steaming bowl of rabbit stew.

“We should go hunting tomorrow,” Lorra says to him with a bright smile.

“Making the Prince earn his keep?” Cregan asks with a chuckle.

“If luck is on our side, we may be able to serve Aemond’s favourite for supper, he is fond of roasted venison.”

Aemond sips his wine to hide the smile that tugs at his lips that she has remembered such a detail about him.

“Do you hunt?” Cregan asks Aemond, raising an eyebrow.

“I have never needed to,” he responds simply, doing his best to ignore the feeling of shame that washes over him as Lorra’s brother regards him with narrowed eyes.

“You will need more than luck if you hope to fell a deer between the two of then,” Cregan scoffs, returning his attention to his stew.

“We do not have to go, if you do not wish to,” Lorra tells him apologetically.

“No, I want to,” Aemond insists. “Even if we are fruitless in our endeavours, the time spent with you will not be wasted.”

She grins at him. A dazzling, brilliant expression that lights up her entire face, and makes Aemond’s heart squeeze in his chest as he realises just how much he has missed the sight of it.

Aemond walks Lorra back to her chambers later that evening, stopping as they reach the door. 

“Well, I suppose we both ought to get some rest. We have an early start tomorrow, if we are to go hunting,” she tells him.

“It is still early,” he reminds her, “and I have only three days. It would be foolish to cut the first of them short.”

She raises her brows in surprise at this. “What are you suggesting?”

“I thought perhaps you would permit me to come inside so that we can talk for a while? I promise not to overstay my welcome.”

Lorra chews her lip in uncertainty as she considers his offer, before nodding. “Very well.”

Aemond looks around as he walks through Lorra’s chambers, he has never been somewhere that is so personal or intimate to her, and is eager to learn what he can of her from the space. The rooms are decorated with soft furnishings in greys and pale blues, the colours of her house, with ornately carved wolves’ heads and figures upon the shelves that house her books and personal effects. It is clear she is proud of her Stark heritage, just as he is of his Targaryen ancestry.

He casts his eye over her bookshelves, until his attention is drawn to the parchment upon her writing desk. He recognises it as the letter he had sent to her, picking it up as he reads the familiar words he’d written weeks before.

“You kept it…” he utters softly.

“I did,” Lorra confesses, seating herself on the edge of the bed.

Aemond allows the note to flutter back down upon the desk, turning to face her. “Can I ask, what had you planned to do?”

She sighs, fingertips plucking anxiously at the cotton of the bedspread. “Truthfully, I do not know. I wrote back to you countless times, but tore all of my letters up before I sent them. They were filled with hateful, angry words, which I know I would have regretted.”

Aemond nods, though it pains him to know she could ever think such things of him. “And how do you feel about me now?”

“You have made a good effort to redeem yourself, though I would be lying if your rejection of me back in King’s Landing does not still hurt. I am ashamed to admit that I wept most of the journey back to Winterfell. I had not expected you to come all this way just for me, but I am glad you did.”

Cautiously, Aemond steps towards her and, seeing no sign of protestation from Lorra, sits himself beside her on the bed. “It pains me to know you believe your feelings are unrequited. I should never have let you go.”

“Then why did you?”

Aemond presses his lips into a tight line, a wave of unease washing over him. His first instinct is to pull away, to tell her he does not wish to speak of it, yet he knows if he is to have any hope of winning her back he needs to speak openly.

“When I was a child, I watched my father break my mother’s heart more times than I care to count. The irony of it is that theirs was not a marriage borne of love, yet he managed to hurt her just the same. I swore to myself that I would never allow myself to be placed in such a situation, that when the time came I would do my duty, and matters of the heart would not interfere. Then you came along, and you changed my perception of everything that I believed to be true.”

“That is not a bad thing,” Lorra says softly.

“No it is not. But I have lived my life keeping a comfortable distance from others, I always have. I was content in my loneliness, or at least I thought I was. It is disarming to have someone enter your life and feel that you are willing to risk the comfort found in solitude just to keep them at your side. I have never longed for anyone, and yet when you are not near me I find myself looking for you. I did not know what to do with that.”

“And do you now?”

“I am willing to learn.”

Softly, Lorra cups Aemond’s face in her hands. His eye flutters closed, leaning into the warmth of her palms.

“Will you let me in fully?” She whispers. “Let me see all of you?”

He feels her fingertips creep up his left cheek, gently tapping at the leather of his eyepatch, and lurches backwards, heart pounding.

“It would frighten you.”

“I do not scare easily,” she reassures him, placing her hands back upon his face. This time he does not pull away, though he sits rigid as he allows her to lift the patch away from his head, keeping his seeing eye downcast as he holds his breath, fearing her reaction.

Her touch is featherlight as she traces the scar that runs the length of his face, and when he dares to look back up there is warmth in her gaze, where he had anticipated disgust.

“You are beautiful,” she murmurs.

Shock paralyses him momentarily as she leans in, pressing her lips to his, but he is quick to recover. His fingers thread themselves into the silken ebony of her hair as he kisses her fiercely. The soft plushness of her lips feel every bit as divine as they had the first time, his cock stirring in his breeches as their mouths part enough for his tongue to brush against hers.

Lorra presses her forehead to his when they finally break for air, both breathing heavily.

“We really ought to sleep,” she tells him quietly, “tomorrow is an early start.”

“Oh…yes, of course,” he utters, a hint of disappointment in his voice as he rises, preparing to return to his own room.

She grips his arm, stopping him. “No, stay, please.”

Aemond’s pulse races at the suggestion, yet he nods all the same. Stripping down to their undergarments, they lay snuggled together beneath the blankets. It is an odd sensation to hold someone; she lays with her head upon his chest and his arms wrapped around her. Aemond has never done this with anyone before, but he finds that he enjoys the sensation of her flesh against his, her warmth is comforting. Pressing his nose into her hair, his nostrils fill with the familiar scent of rosemary and lavender. Sleep comes much easier to him that night.

As she had promised, Lorra ensures they awaken early the next morning to ready themselves for a day in the forest. They each take a crossbow and a quiver of arrows, though Aemond is uncertain of how much use he will be with his. His disfigurement leaves him at a disadvantage when it comes to the use of ranged weapons.

“I am assuming you can ride a horse?” She asks, as she leads Aemond to the castle’s stables.

“I am not as proficient as I am on dragonback,” he admits, “but yes, I can ride.”

“I have had the stable hand saddle Cregan’s steed for you,” she tells him, stroking a gloved hand over the velvety snout of a large, black horse. “He is more even tempered than any of our other geldings and less likely to throw you off.”

She winks at Aemond as she walks towards her own mount, and he watches with a smirk as she climbs into the saddle of a strikingly white mare.

“Her name is Nymeria,” she tells him proudly. “Cregan’s is named Rhoyne.”

The ride through the forest is peaceful, their horses trotting at a leisurely pace, side by side, beneath a blanket of deep green fir trees so thick that Aemond almost cannot see the sky above them.

“Your Baratheon girl must not be pleased that you are here,” Lorra says eventually, glancing over at Aemond with a demure smile.

“I have no Baratheon girl,” Aemond tells her.

“Oh?”

Aemond tightens his hold on the reins of his horse, his posture stiffening slightly. “It is…regrettable, what you overheard between my grandsire and I. The truth of the matter is that he had intended to send me to Storm’s End to petition Lord Baratheon for the hand of one of his daughters in marriage. I refused.”

Lorra laughs softly. “He cannot have taken that well.”

“He was not pleased, no. I came here instead, on the promise that I would secure an alliance with House Stark.”

She says nothing, averting her gaze towards the trees, and they continue to ride in silence. Aemond glances at her every so often, hoping to catch her eye, but to his disappointment she is always on the lookout for game, or is at least pretending to be. The quiet hangs heavy between them, the only sounds are the gentle hoofbeats of their mounts and the distant chirping of birds.

“I know it is not ideal,” he tells her, no longer able to bear her silence, “to have this obligation hanging over us, but it is my duty. But I need you to know, I am not choosing you out of duty. To have you in my arms as I did last night was no easy thing for me, and it is not something I take lightly.”

“I know,” she says softly.

“Do you think that joining our Houses is even possible? Your father and brother do not seem fond of me.”

“Lords of the North are not quite so tyrannical over their daughters as they are in the South. My father and brother are wary of you because they are aware you have hurt me. But my father will respect my decision and pose no opposition to an alliance with your House, if I choose to marry you.”

“So, you accept?”

Lorra laughs, rolling her eyes. “I said if.”

They lapse back into a more comfortable silence, though there are no deer to be found. Aemond can feel his teeth begin to chatter, despite how warmly he is dressed, he has not acclimated to the chill of the air of the North. It nips at his skin, feeling as though it seeps into the very bones of him.

“I think Cregan had the right of it,” Lorra sighs, “we are to have no luck today. I expect our chatter has likely frightened off any deer we might have hoped to see.”

“Do you wish to turn back?” Aemond asks hopefully.

“You are cold. Fortunately, we are close to one of my favourite places to warm up.”

Aemond’s curiosity is piqued, and despite the cold that stiffens his joints, he continues to ride alongside her, until the trees clear, revealing an opening in the side of the rock face.

Lorra dismounts from Nymeria, securing her reins to a nearby fir tree, and Aemond does the same for Rhoyne.

“In here,” Lorra gestures towards the rock face.

Aemond’s brow furrows, but he follows her in regardless, immediately enveloped in warmth and darkness alike, the furs and leathers he is wrapped up in suddenly feeling much too hot. He picks his steps carefully, walking slowly behind her until light from an opening above them beams daylight down upon a steaming pool of vibrant blue water, nestled within a basin among the craggy stone.

“Hot springs,” Lorra tells him happily, unfastening her cloak and allowing it to drop to the ground. “It is the best defense against the cold while out on a ride.”

She begins to undress and Aemond freezes, his first instinct being to look away, but he finds that as more of her flesh is revealed to him he cannot keep his eye from her. Desire flickers hotly in his lower belly as he looks upon the swell of her breasts, the inwards dip of her waist, and the curve of her hips as she peels her clothes away from her body, dropping them to the floor, before stepping into the water.

He is taken aback by just how brazen she is, unashamed as she turns, once submerged up to her thighs, and looks at him with a grin.

“Are you going to join me, or just stand there gawping?”

Aemond’s eye widens, he opens his mouth to speak, but finds no words will come to him.

Lorra giggles. “Shall I turn away?”

He clears his throat, shaking his head. “N–no…”

His breaths come shakily as he disrobes, wishing to get it over with as quickly as possible. Once fully bare, he steps into the water, his lack of modesty almost forgotten with the sigh of relief that leaves him as the heat of the water soothes the ache of the cold in his joints.

“You forgot this,” Lorra tells him, stepping towards him and reaching for his eyepatch.

“Wait.” He grabs her wrist, stopping her. “I need to know…if you have not decided if you wish to marry me, then why are you doing this? Sleeping in the same bed with me, bathing together. If this is all a game to you, then I can go no further.”

Lorra lowers her gaze, pursing her lips. “I do want to marry you, my feelings have not changed. But I cannot accept that you have changed on words alone. I need to see that you desire me as a husband desires their wife, I need to know it is real.”

Aemond pulls away his eyepatch, discarding it to the side with the rest of his clothing, and pulls her to him by her waist. He inhales sharply as he feels the softness of her dampened skin meet his. “Is this real enough for you?”

The ends of his long, silvery hair are beginning to form loose waves due to the humidity, and her fingers reach up to stroke through them.

“Do you think you could grow to love me?” She whispers.

Aemond’s thumbs trace lazy circles against her sides as he gazes down at her, carefully considering his words. “I am not certain I know what love is. I think of you often, I crave your presence when you are not there. I feel a sensation akin to physical pain when you are sad, and your happiness serves to elevate my own. Perhaps that is love? And if it is, then I believe that I already do.”

Lorra smiles, her blue eyes shining as she looks up at him. Her hands press gently against Aemond’s chest, pushing him back to sit on a ledge, submerged in the hot spring, where the water rises to just above his navel. She sits astride him, the brush of her thighs and womanhood against him making him painfully hard. His breath hitches, as he clings to her waist like a lifeline.

Her fingers caress his jaw gently, and she kisses him softly, their lips meeting slowly and tenderly in an unhurried gesture of affection.

“I would marry you tomorrow, if I could,” he utters against her lips, “wed you beneath the heart tree in your godswood, in the tradition of the Old Gods.”

“Really?” She sighs as Aemond presses his lips to her throat, his hands sliding from her waist to travel up her torso and palm roughly at her breasts.

“If you wish it, once we are married we can return to Winterfell and do just that.”

“Mmm…I would like that.” She tilts her head back as Aemond lowers his mouth to her chest, capturing a hardened peak between his lips and suckling gently.

Aemond has never desired anyone like this before, though he has never cared for anyone in the way that he cares for Lorra. He craves her touch, the need for her making him feel as though he teeters on the very edge of madness.

He removes his mouth from her breast, an appreciative groan rumbling in his chest as she begins to roll her hips against his, and his lips capture hers once more, gripping her hips to urge on her movements against him.

If he had known she would feel this exquisite, he would have barred the doors of the Red Keep and forbade her from ever stepping foot outside of it.

He pulls away, breathless as he stares up at her. “I want to marry you in the tradition of Old Valyria too. Once Aegon is King, and our ancestral seat is returned to us, we will travel to Dragonstone and do just that.”

“What does that involve?” She asks huskily.

“We shall wear the traditional robes of Old Valyria, red and white, and you will have a beautiful headdress.”

He pauses, eye fixated upon her as she raises up slightly on her knees, causing him to hiss through his teeth as she grasps the length of him, positioning him at her entrance. His stones tighten, mind going utterly blank, rendering him speechless, as the tight heat of her sinks down upon him, his fingertips push into the flesh of her hips hard enough to bruise.

She stills once seated fully upon him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Keep going,” she urges, “tell me more.”

“We will use dragon glass–ah, fuck!” He screws his eye shut, hips bucking up to meet hers as she moves against him.

“Use dragon glass to what?” She asks teasingly, her pace never faltering.

Aemond swallows thickly, the pressure building at the base of his spine almost too much to bear. “To…to slice against our palms...the blood that spills is collected in a cup which we will drink from.”

Lorra whimpers softly in pleasure, the rise and fall of her hips becoming more urgent, causing the water to lap in gentle ripples against their bodies. Aemond snarls at the increase in pace, pressing the flat of his palm tightly against her lower back, as he buries his face in the crook of her neck.

“Is that all?”

“No…” Aemond’s voice is strained, struggling to get the words out against the haze of pleasure that overwhelms him. “We will use the same dragon glass to cut our lips, the resulting kiss in addition to the combined blood we have consumed serving to bind us together forever.”

“If that is your wish…”

“Yes…bind yourself to me…”

Lorra gasps, her arms tightening around him as he feels her insides spasm around him in quick, successive pulses, her body trembling against his. He continues to thrust up into her, until the pressure within him gives way, causing his cock to pulsate as he holds her to him, spilling inside of her.

They remain as one, wrapped around each other in the steam of the hot spring as they each struggle for breath, slowly recovering.

Aemond strokes Lorra’s hair away from her face, running his fingers through it as he takes in her blissful, relaxed expression. In this very moment, he has never been more certain that this is love, and to experience what he has just felt makes him feel foolish for having pushed it away for so long. There is no doubt in his mind that there is no one else in the world for him, only her.

“So, will you?” He asks gently, continuing to stroke her hair. “Bind yourself to me?”

She gazes at him softly, a lazy smile upon her lips. “You have barely used two of your three days yet. I am sure there is lots more convincing you could do until they are up.”

Aemond smirks, tugging her against him in a tight embrace. That is an arrangement that he is more than happy to satisfy.

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[revasserium]

octavinelle #1 - cheek kisses

azul.

the first time you do it, it’s all he can do not to dissolve into a puddle of ink and heat and steam; though he makes a gallant show of trying to write it off, clearing his throat, taking a too-deep breath even as he fights the color he knows is rising in his cheeks. “ah — and… pray tell, what was that for?” he asks, pushing up on the bridge of his glasses, looking anywhere but at you though he knows you’re smiling, knows that if he were to turn, he’d be caught like a fish on a hook, by the steely, nearly wicked, look in your eyes as you cocked your head at him and smiled some more. “hm… you’re a smart guy,” you say, leaning back onto the lounge chair with a pleased sort sigh, “why don’t you figure it out?” and then, you make to stand up, but azul is nothing if not quick — and in an instant, he’s pulling you back down, a pout on his lips — childish and incongruous as he stares down at you. he huffs, almost petulant, and it’s it’s this more than anything that makes you laugh, makes your own cheeks tint with color. “don’t laugh at me…” he says, his voice lower now, pulling you close, and then close, “and don’t tease me either… it’ll make me sad…” you shiver at the texture of his voice, the lilt and dip of his words as his glasses flash in the dim light of the mostro lounge. “i’m not teasing — i’m just —” but your breath hitches at the way azul narrows his eyes, at the weight of his fingers, still wrapped around your wrist. “then…” his lips curl into a knowing smirk and you know you’ve lost, “are you going to finish what you started? or… shall i do that for you, hm?”

jade.

the first time you do it, he blinks and turns towards you, his expression implacable and you wonder if you’ve just royally fucked yourself over. it isn’t until he smiles, a sweet, soft, gentle little thing that something inside you bursts and you realize, a moment later, that oh — those things are called hearts. “ahh… now this is a dilemma…” he sighs, propping one arm on top of another as he taps his cheek thoughtfully, looking down at you as you lick your lips, feeling suddenly painfully self-conscious. “w-what do you mean?” you ask, but jade only hums, casting his eyes up towards the ceiling of the empty classroom, “we’re still working on this panorama for our beloved mountain lovers club and —” he slates a glance at the clock on the wall, “it’s due this evening but…” his eyes flicker back towards you and you feel pinned to the spot by the way they flash, his one golden eye gleaming with something that others might mistake for malice but you know quite well is just a deep-seated interest, an insatiable curiosity. and right now, the entire weight and full intensity is directed at you — like a focused beam of sun as he hones in your lips with a widening grin. “h-how is that a dilemma? we have plenty of time to finish —” “ahh… but you see, you’ve gone and done something that makes me want to spend the rest of our time here doing things that won’t be conducive at all to the finishing of this panorama… so…” he cocks his head as he takes a step forward, easily caging you back against a row of empty desks, “what do you propose we do about that…?”

floyd.

the first time you do it, he merely turns with a lopsided grin and leans in to press his lips to your cheek as well, drawing out a squeak as your cheeks promptly go pink. he pulls back with a satisfied smile as you cover your mouth with both your hands, staring up at him but he only shrugs, “whaaaat? isn’t it good manners to a return a favor? or… something like that?” he lets his head fall to one side, watching you with those too-bright eyes of his, and you know that that’s not what he means but you swallow passed the lump in your throat and try to sound steady as you ask, “so, does that mean you’d give anyone a kiss if they kissed you first?” and at this, floyd lets out a sound that’s caught halfway between a sigh and a moan; it sends a cascade of shivers down your spine as he quirks a single eyebrow at you, his smirk going wider and wider and even wider still. “mm… i dunno… i never thought about it like that but…” he leans in, crowding into your space and it’s all you can do to hold yourself still, to let himself press in closer and closer, till there’s barely a breath’s distance between your lips and his. “i do know that if you kissed me again… i wouldn’t mind kissin’ you back — and maybe more than once. what’dya say, hm? wanna try it out?”

#twst #azul ashengrotto #jade leech #floyd leech #twisted wonderland #azul ashengrotto x reader #jade leech x reader #floyd leech x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst fluff #octavinelle #twst scenarios #azul ashengrotto fluff #twst imagines #jade leech fluff #floyd leech fluff #twst x you #daydreams #floofy floof floof #oh look its a dorm other than savanaclaw and heartslabyul sldkfjsoidfjwoaghas i've done it #y'know what's great about writing floyd is that he has such a distinctive voice that i can HEAR his dialogue in my head #anyway -- flustered azul is superior azul i don't make the rules.

[luveline]

can i pls request a hurt/comfort eddie drabble with hugs and reassurance? maybe someone did something that’s been on their mind and upsetting them. thank you!

i love comforting eddie so much and after make up i cant help remebering how good josephs hugs look so we know eddie gives the best ones ever <3

Eddie climbs through your open bedroom window and your heart rockets, startled at his sudden intrusion.

"You really need to start closing it if you're gonna react this bad every time," he says, dropping his beat up jansport by the sill and kicking off his shoes. "Move over." 

His appearance makes you feel much less miserable than you had, though it still lingers as you push your back to the wall. You and Eddie don't fit comfortably on your twin bed but that's never stopped him from trying, crushing in by your side, his arm pressed to yours. 

"Hey, sweetheart," he says finally, lolling his head toward you. 

"Hey, Eddie." 

"What were you doing? Sleeping?" he asks. 

You nod though it's not true, turning on your side to steal back a fraction of space. Eddie has this way of drawing the truth from you and you're not sure you wanna talk about it tonight. 

"You look sad. You wanna hug?" he asks. 

And that's your plan for space gone. It would be more suspicious to say you don't, because you always want a hug from Eddie. He gives the most amazing hugs, all strong armed and caring, his hands rubbing over the plane of your back slowly like he has nowhere else he'd rather be. His hugs are so good that you could believe it; that he loves them just as much as you do. 

You nod and he sits up, arms open and reaching for you. You sit up the same, enough to wrap your arms around his ribs and back. 

"You weren't really sleeping," he says. 

"No." 

"Mm," he hums, working his face into the side of yours, his lips skipping over the shell of your ear. "What's wrong, huh? Tell me." 

"Nothing serious," you confess slowly. 

"But it is something?" And there, his hand rubbing over your back, working away the tense ache. His rings are missing. Usually you can feel their weight, their ridges as they push over your spine. 

"Not really, Eddie." 

He groans quietly, almost good-humoured. Very much, I don't believe you. He's so nice and he smells beautiful, soft and warm, his arms strong as a cage but never that cruel, and his asking, all of it makes you want to cry. 

"Not really. I'm feeling a small chance that it's something. I mean, you don't have to tell me. But I wanna know, so…" 

You're limp to his solid, mild to his fierce. He pats your back a few good times and then holds you at arm's length. 

"Do you have, like, a stomach ache?" 

"No, I'm alright. Just…" 

"Artist block?" he asks. 

Not quite. You shake your head and then change your mind, deciding that artist's block sounds less pathetic than, 'someone saw my sketchbook and rolled their eyes and I've been sad for two days'. And not normal sad. Can't eat, don't want to move, sad. 

"Yeah," you agree, smiling weakly. "Yeah." 

"I noticed…" Eddie says, standing from the bed to retrieve his backpack before returning so fast he half sits on you. "That you haven't been doing your portraits lately." He unzips his bag and pulls out a smaller bag, made from a white paper with blue writing over the sides. "And I remembered how your nice inks all ran out. So, I went out to Indianapolis," his tone shifts, like he's listing something totally boring, "all the way down to that place behind Freeman's Ice Cream with the glass storefront, and the lady was totally pissed with me for getting all this Hawkins dirt," he grins deviously, "on their nice rug." 

He passes you the bag. "Anyway. That's for you, sweetheart." 

"Eddie…" 

"Don't sound too mushy yet. I don't know if they're the right ones." 

His shift from cocky to nervous is endearing. 

You shake the bag's contents into your lap. An assortment of things fall out. A big inky pen for portraits, a refill. Two pencils with blue wood. An eraser. Four markers, four colours. 

You slide your finger over the barrel of a marker. It's a dark red.

"I know you don't use much colour," he starts. "I thought it might help. Well, I asked one of the assistants. About, like, art block. And they said to try something new.

I liked the colours. I don't know if they're useful. But. I don't know. They suit you." 

A dark red, blue, green. A buttery yellow orange. 

"Eddie, you didn't have to." 

"I kind of did. If you think about it." 

You get what he means. The same way you get him a pack of cherry twizzlers everytime you see them, or always have a hair tie on your wrist. 

You cover your face with your hands, wanting to hide how embarrassed you feel. How overcome with affection for him. 

He yanks your wrists. "What?" 

"Nothing." 

"Don't cry. Hey." He scowls at your watery eyes. "Hey, don't. What's wrong? It's only a couple of pens." 

"You don't think I'm awful?" you ask quietly. "At drawing?" 

"No. Of course I don't. I love your art." His scowl softens. "Did someone say something? I can get violent." 

"It's stupid," you say. 

He's quiet. You take the red marker in your hand, turning it over and over and over. He's kept a hold of one of your wrist, his thumb pushing into your pulse then upward, into the meat of your palm. 

"The piece you did for my last campaign? You know how fucking amazing that shit was? All in black and white but everyone could tell how emotional it was. You made it something so dimensional and gory and crazy without any colour at all." He sews your fingers together. You meet his eyes. Brown, edged in a burst of dark, long lashes. "If you can do that shit in graphite I'm genuinely scared of the stuff you could make with colour. And when I say scared I mean I'm salivating. Like a dog." 

You scrunch up your nose and squeeze his fingers. He squeezes back. 

"Not that I'm expecting a thank you, but I am." 

"Yeah?" you ask, sniffing, grinning wide enough to hurt your cheeks. 

"Yep. It involves your hands." Your eyes jump to his and his laugh is golden. "A hug, sweetheart. Why, what were you thinking?" 

"Shut up, jerk." You crawl over the art supplies, paper crinkling under your knees as you hug him tenaciously. 

He rubs your back and says, "That's better." 

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #eddie munson imagine

[somnambulic-thing]

insane

musician!Eddie x afab art student!Reader E 18+ | 4.6k Reader is referred to with she/her pronouns, but I'm an enby bitch and write my readers that way. You decide.

A/N: I wrote this right after finishing Paint It Black while my brain was still stuck in that universe. It is, however, not really what I would call a thought through finished/rounded story, since I lost steam at some point. It stops at the end of a scene without a cliffhanger or anthing like that. It's 1st draft quality, but I thought it would be sad if it withered away in my drafts if there is the chance that at least a few people enjoy it. It should work as a standalone when you're willing to maybe not get a few references. There's some context in the beginning. Again, you decide.

CW |strangers to lovers aka feral love at first sight, light smut: piv, fluff, showering together, intense feelings of falling in love, Corroded Coffin concert, Erica on the bass (guess she's a little older in this universe), Eddie POV, Steve POV in 3rd person, other ST characters, worried, protective but supportive friends, mentions of food, traces of Jonathan/Argyle|

It was like Eddie was going a little insane. It felt unreal that it hadn’t been quite twenty-four hours since he'd seen you for the first time, up in the second row of that life drawing class. Gareth had been working as an exhibition tech for that art school in that fancy old building for two months and was pretty enthusiastic about it. Like he was part of a community now - which was the way Gareth went about things these days - and he needed to support all those artists in becoming by leaving those flyers for life modelling fucking everywhere.

Gareth would be elated to hear how committed Eddie had been on his first job.

He looked at you fast asleep beside him, naked and covered in blue and purple marks his mouth had left all over you and felt a little insane again. There was this urge to move over and press his face into the soft skin of your chest until he was desperate for breath He also never wanted you to wake up and this moment to end. Blue morning light played with your skin while you looked so peaceful despite the traces of debauchery.

A sigh slipped from his mouth and you stirred, brows drawing together slightly and he wanted to kiss the spot in between. Hell, it was like that with everything.

After Eddie had asked you where you wanted to shower off the sweat and black paint, he had taken you home. In the car, you had reached out to the radio and he had to snatch your hand before you could pull it back to kiss the tips of your fingers. When you had kicked off your shoes in his hallway, the tip of your tongue had peeked out of your mouth and he just had to kiss it. Every little detail he learned about the way your body behaved, he wanted to put his praise to it.

You had talked nonstop all the way to Eddie's place, up the stairs, out of your clothes again and into the shower. There was something sublime in the way the paint rinsed off your body. Black flaky streams of water making their way over the hills and valleys of your physique. That too made him feel a little insane and you agreed with him when he'd told you about it. Shit, he wanted to tell you about everything that crossed his mind, wanted to hear your thoughts about the smallest details. Then you had moved behind him, soap coating your palms and washed him until the only black remaining on him was permanent ink.

You had told him, while slathering him in foam and bubbles, that it made you a little crazy how his wet skin reflected the light. Something about undertones you needed to study - Eddie needed to ask about that later in detail - and he had finally calmed down a little. He wasn't going insane alone, you were just as crazy about him.

Jeff had come home while the both of you had spent a little eternity in the bathroom and the intensity with which Eddie wanted to introduce you to his best friend as 'his' was only topped by the urge of getting you into his bed. Maybe it was better for you to get to know his friends when you weren't just wearing a towel and bite marks. Pride had flooded Eddie when Jeff pulled up his eyebrows paired with a smirk and a raised thumb as he rushed you through the hallway into his room.

It had been hard to hold back and let you look around as you wandered so far away from the mattress he was so determined to fuck you through.

"DnD?" you had asked, head stuck in a shelf displaying all kinds of DnD paraphernalia. Eddie loved your voice when it asked questions.

"Uh-hn. Since I was a kid. My uncle bought me a handbook at a yard sale because he thought I’d like the pictures and I've been hooked ever since."

There was adoration in your eyes and excitement in your voice. "So you’re a nerd?"

"Guilty as charged."

You bit your finger with a small smile and he of course wanted to kiss all of it. "Dungeon Master, by any chance?"

Not for the first time today Eddie asked with a stunned face: "How do you know?" Followed by: "Do you play?"

"You have this..." you waved around your beautiful hands while looking for the right words, "this way of taking charge and narrating your thoughts... and I have played before, yes, but not in a long time."

And then Eddie had stolen your towel and went to work on that mental list of places he needed to kiss. His hand found its way between your thighs, slow and soft this time and finally, you found your way into Eddie's bed and under him and he back inside you.

There was no rush, no hard fast urgency - well, he took you hard by the end because you liked it when he shattered you a little. You had told him that between licking into his mouth while he rolled his hips against you, his aching cock sliding against your folds, teasing you just a little before turning you to your side, watching himself slide into you in the mirror across the room.

You had ordered food, that you had shared in bed. You were so fucking funny all the time that he kept dropping shit and a change of sheets was due because there was no way Eddie would spend his first night with you between food-stained covers.

There had been no conversation if you'd stay, you just did. It would have been a waste of time, breath lost that could be used to learn more about you, tell you more about him.

By four in the morning, you both knew a lot and entirely too little. It was ridiculous.

And that brought him here, looking at you asleep and too good to be true. It was a little painful, actually. But just like when you pulled his hair or bit at his neck or hips, Eddie wanted to lean into it.

"You... staring at me, Munson?"

"Studying you." He smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Too bad my drawing skills are so fucking rusty..."

Ah, he made you smile; how addictive that was. "You’re studying me from too far away. Come here."

"Needy?" he asked as he pressed himself against you, burying his face in your neck. It couldn't be a coincidence that he fit in there so perfectly.

"Hmmm, just like you."

"M' bad at hiding that, aren’t I?"

A kiss landed on his hair, nails softly grazed over the curve of his spine. "Why the fuck would you want to do that?"

"Don’t want to scare you away."

You pulled back and squinted one eye at him.

"We're meeting your uncle this afternoon. You think needy will scare me away now?"

Eddie ran his hand up your side and smiled. "Wayne will love you."

"You think?"

"See no reason why he wouldn't."

"You know that this here," you pointed your chin between the both of you, "is a little insane, right?"

Eddie snorted and pressed a kiss to your arm. "Uh-hn, but I can't find it in me to give a shit... S' that bad?"

"I guess then we're bad people."

He softly kissed your lips, feeling tingly and warm. “Bad people in good company.”

—

When Wayne got Eddie alone for a few minutes he asked why he had kept you a secret for so long.

"Old man, we met yesterday. Could't have brought her over earlier without us barging in here naked."

"You're shittin' me?"

"Nope," he grinned.

Wayne's mouth hung open for a moment. "Eddie, ya'll been talking like you've been married for a decade. And happily at that."

"Feels more like two."

Scratching his head, Wayne was looking for words. "That's insane, boy."

"I know," he said with that pride again. "Wait till you hear the full story... well... ahm... maybe not all of it. Shit, actually there's not much I can tell you..."

"Goin' by the looks of her neck I don't doubt it." Wayne had a sip from his mug, eyes crinkling with a smile over the rim.

"You like her?"

"Love her!" Then his features dimmed with a tinge of worry. "I’m happy for you, Eddie. Just don't get your heart broken."

—

Splitting the nights between Eddie’s and your place was another thing that didn’t need discussing. You share a place with your best friend Barb and she gave Eddie a thorough interrogation when he stayed over for the first time.

“You’re a serial killer or something?”

“Only on game nights,” he grinned.

“What are you doing?”

“Talking to you.”

Barb crossed her arms and pulled up her brows. “So you’re a funny one. Are you going to school? Are you working?”

“I’m a studio musician. Sometimes I sub for live gigs too, but that interferes too much with the time for my own band, so I really only do that occasionally when I dig the music.”

Eddie tried not to say something smart when he saw her efforts to suppress some sort of impressed surprise forming on her features.

“And you’re modelling?”

“Nah,” he laughed. “Well, that one time, yeah. Just was trying out something new. We’ll see if I’ll do that again.”

You walked back into the room, naturally drawn over to him like he was a giant magnet, instantly weaving your fingers into the hair at the back of his neck.

“Are you mean to my man, Barbara?”

Eddie shuddered and pushed a hand past the hem of your shirt; he was so hungry for your skin.

“No,” Barb huffed. “We’re just getting to know each other… aaaand—“

“And?” you said flatly.

“Come oooon,” she whined. “You can’t be mad at me that I am worried about you!”

Eddie looked up to you, leaning back a little to catch your eyes. “It’s not unreasonable.”

“Thank you, Eddie.”

“And I don’t mind,” he said. You brushed a thumb over his cheekbone and he chased it with a small kiss before smiling. “I know how to handle myself when I feel unreasonably bullied.”

“You’re so fucking cute,” you sighed and smiled down at him. Barb made a dry heaving sound.

“I am trapped in a rom-com simulation or something.” She took her mug from the table and walked out, calling from around the corner: “Try not to wake me with weird sex stuff, please?”

“She’s usually very sweet,” you told him with a frown when you were alone again. “Sorry about that.”

“Hey, I mean it. It’s okay.” Eddie turned and moved you in between his spread knees, hugging your waist, smiling up at you. “Chances are high that Steve will give you a similar treatment. He’s usually very sweet too, but he’s got this whole mama bear thing going on so… sorry about that.”

—

“Dude… Dude… Edward!”

“Huh?” Eddie’s head snapped back to Steve who looked a little annoyed. “What did you just say?”

Steve rolled his eyes and looked down at his watch. “It’s kinda time for you to head towards the stage.”

“Mhh, gimme me five more minutes, I don’t want to miss her.”

Ever since Steve had heard about that mysterious new spouse not quite three days ago, he hadn’t been able to stop frowning. Eddie was a bag of feral cats on his best days but right now he was a nervous fucking mess. His eyes were glued to the glass door of the venue and he was about to chew off his bottom lip any moment.

“If she comes, she’ll easily find you. You’re hard to miss front-center stage.”

“If?” Eddie looked horrified.

“When… I mean when she comes, Jesus.”

“What if something happened?”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned.

“Hey!” Eddie said, face hard. “Don’t do that!”

“Sorry… I… you’re really intense about this man, I’m getting a little worried.”

Eddie looked back at the door and bounced on his toes. “Well, I’m really intensely in love with her so you better get used to it.”

“In love?” Steve blurted out and braced himself for another burning look but Eddie kept his face directed at the door. “Man, it’s been five days!”

“Don’t know what that has to do with anything. It’s not like I can just turn it off—“

“Eddie?” Jeff called over the noise of the opening act droning in the background. “You coming or what?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he looked away from the door at last. “On my way.”

Steve trudged down the corridor and pushed his way into the concert hall, squinting as the loud music of the opener hit his eardrums. The lights were flickering in tune with the outro of the song as he pushed his way past sweating people to the front where Jonathan and Robin should be. He needed to seriously roll his eyes at someone who wasn’t going to rip his fucking head off for finding this whole thing concerning.

The music stopped right as he put his chin on Robin’s shoulder. On stage, the frontwoman thanked the cheering crowd for a good time.

“And?” Robin asked excitedly. “She here?”

“Nah. Eddie is losing his mind.”

Jonathan joined them, looking a little red around the eyes. “I think it’s cute somehow?”

“Cute?” Steve huffed. “Don’t know about that.”

“Hey, at least wait until you have met her,” Robin rasped. She had definitely had a good time with that first band.

“Did you know he has two drawers at her place? Two. After five days!”

Jonathan shrugged. “You have to put your shit somewhere.”

Steve slapped a hand against his forehead. “Jesus… he’s going to get his heart broken!”

“You don’t know that.”

“Robin! Nothing can hold up like that over time!”

“Maybe it doesn’t have to,” Jonathan said.

“Yeah, if you start at unbelievable falling down to amazing is still amazing.”

“Wow, Rob,” Jonathan gasped. “That was deep.”

“Thanks, Jon.”

Steve leaned over the barrier in front of the stage and rubbed his face in disbelief. “When have you two become such firm believers in overdone romance novel tropes?”

Jonathan shrugged again. “I kinda knew I was in for Argyle after two weeks, man. And it’s been years now.”

“Yeah, alright, but you took a few months to let it grow!”

The lights dimmed down and fog started to creep over the stage floor. Whistles and shouts sounded from the crowd that was waiting for the main show to begin.

Corroded Coffin wasn’t big by business standards, but they had acquired a pretty solid fanbase by now. This was actually the biggest crowd they’d ever played on a solo gig. Gareth’s silhouette emerged from the fog, arms raised, one hand forked in a salute, the other armed with sticks. The crowd cheered, getting louder when Jeff took his place behind his mic, checking his pedals on the floor in what Steve knew to be superstition.

“It’s about to happen,” Robin said next to him, clapping her hands in excitement and right on cue, Erica stormed the stage, swinging her bass like a battle axe. Erica had replaced Grant a few years ago and was by now one of Eddie’s closest friends. Steve needed to pull her over and ask her what she had to say about the whole ordeal sometime soon.

People roared, longtime fans chanting Erica’s name and her grin shone brighter than the fucking spotlights. Last came Eddie. He marched in, radiating with the energy that hinted at the total beast he turned into on stage. Steve was glad to see that this madness didn’t dim him down. Jonathan moved his mouth but it was already hard to hear over the cheers and chants and whistles.

Eddie grabbed his mike and did his thing, luring the crowd in closer, his voice low and rumbling. He laughed diabolically, tongue sticking out as a sea of hands flew in the air and people bounced in anticipation. Erica hit the first notes, her thick heavy bass hitting Steve right in the stomach and he could see Eddie scan the first few rows with a nervous frown, pacing back and forth with squared shoulders. His hand was so firm around the neck of his guitar, Steve was worried he would snap it clean off. Robin threw Steve a glance; she saw it too. For everybody else, Eddie just looked intense, about to give them a show but his friends could see something cracking through.

He didn’t miss his cue though. He rarely ever did.

The first song rolled over them like an avalanche. Eddie and Erica were firm believers in hitting the crowd hard right away, hyping them up till their animal brains were thrumming and out for blood or whatever. It had taken Steve and Robin a while to get used to hard music, but it turned out that there was a lot of variance. The Coffins, as Steve liked to call them, had evolved immensely since their early garage days. More progressive, more melodic, a little doom here and there with clean and harsh vocals alternating during songs. Erica could come up with a blood-curdling scream you wouldn’t think possible upon laying eyes on her.

Steve was sweaty. He had heard this set a dozen times but I still loved it. It was the whole atmosphere. The second song was nearing its end, a quiet part building up into a mean breakdown and Steve received a thump to the shoulder from a tall, broad guy next to him. He looked over, fearing a mosh-pit forming around him - he would never be a fan of that, no thank you - but there just was someone trying to squeeze through to the front row. Steve hated it when the giants refused to let shorter people to the front and he patted the guy on the shoulder and gestured for him to be nice and take a step back.

‘Thank you,’ the newcomer mouthed at him and turned to the stage, eyes wide, sweat streaming from her forehead. She pressed her hands to her chest, mouth hanging open and Steve took a look at the stage, then back at her; her gaze was following Eddie around like he was a god she was here to worship.

“Oh my god!” she shouted into the small space of quiet before the breakdown hit. Steve couldn’t stop staring, this couldn’t be just any fan, right? She had slid her feet in between the bars of the metal barrier separating the crowd from the stage and pushed herself further up, face completely enraptured.

Eddie pushed over his mike stand - that happened all the time - and as the last notes faded out, he hooked one foot under it and flipped it up, catching it with his fret hand, grinning into the crowd as his little trick elicited cheers.

Steve was unsure now if it really was her. He had expected waving and shouting to make herself known but she almost looked petrified, frozen in place, unblinking.

“How are you doing?” Eddie asked and bathed in the rageing response. “Are you sweaty yet?”

Somewhere from the back, a woman shouted: I’m wet for you, Eddie!!!

“Fucking hell, careful at the back everybody, seems like we have a slipping hazard situation.” Eddie kicked at one of his effect pedals and scratched his nose with a grin as laughter and shouts weaved through the crowd. “Very flattering of you tho. Thank you.”

Steve kept glancing at the possible spouse, curious for a reaction.

He was sure he heard a chuckled “charming bastard” leave her mouth and gave Robin a nudge.

“Hey, Rob,” he said while Eddie kept talking to his crowd, “you see her? Yeah, I think she could be… you know.... the one.”

“You think?” Robin put her arm on his chest and pushed him back out of her line of sight. “Pretty.”

A fast rhythmic drum solo announced the next song, one of Steve’s favourites, and she started to move with it, arms raised into the air.

“Why do you think it’s her?” Robin shouted into his ear.

“Dunno, just… watch her watch him— Jesus...” Robin had pushed past him to change places, sending him into the chest of the guy behind him.

Things were wild. People moved with the charging beat of the drums, Erica cornering them with a slapping bass that made her fingers blur before she opened her mouth and screamed like something nightmarish, as Eddie and Jeff hit their strings like madmen.

Steve tried to let it go for a while and allowed himself to be carried away by the force of the sound. Having Robin as a shield helped too and it was three songs later when she reminded him about the matter.

“If that’s not her, I am going to shit. A. Brick.”

Steve prepared to yell a response, just as the flow on stage stumbled, deviating from the familiar sound of this song. Next came sharp reverb and Steve saw that Eddie’s mic-stand was down again. The band stopped as Eddie fumbled with his gear, the cord of the mic had looped around the stand and somehow, his ankle. He kept looking up, smiling like crazy, biting his lip, wiping the sweat out of his eyes with the back of a trembling hand and the no-longer mystery laughed, warm and adoring and totally and utterly smitten with Eddie.

“That’s her, right?” Jonathan said pressing against him and Robin to see something.

“Either that or Eddie is having a serious medical emergency right now,” Robin said.

“Not sure if both aren’t true— Jesus, Munson, just focus for a second.”

She turned, throwing a death stare at him that punched Steve right in the face. Robin and Jonathan waved at her making her frown while on stage, Erica finally had helped Eddie out of his turmoil and his amplified voice drew her attention away from them again.

Robin laughed. “Protective.”

“Sorry about that, folks.” Eddie joked. “Just had an out-of-body experience.” He pushed the mic away from his face, turned to her and mouthed a small "Hi" that was so sweet that Steve felt a little guilty.

“Let’s make sure to give one to every single one of you before you leave this place. Jeff, hit it!”

The rest of the show was a hot, blasting blur. Eddie was on fire and everything around him was catching. For all Steve knew, he had an audience of one and it almost felt surreal how an event with so many people could make him feel like he was intruding on an intimate moment between lovers.

Erica announced the last song and it left everyone breathless and exhausted. Nobody here looked more like a mess than her. It was almost obscene.

The band thanked the crowd while Jeff tormented his guitar with one last long distorted note and then people screamed their lungs out, already demanding an encore.

Eddie put down his guitar, smile wild and blazing and hopped off the stage. Everyone craned their necks as he crossed the small trench and slammed against the barrier into waiting arms. People around them lost it when Eddie took her face in his hands and slid his tongue down her throat without hesitation.

“Holy Shit!” Robin squeaked.

When Eddie finally drew away, he peppered her face with small kisses, muttering inaudible things that were only meant for her ears.

“I gotta go, I gotta go…” Eddie chanted, still coming back for another kiss again and again.

“Go!” she laughed and stopped him from keeping on by pressing her hands on his shoulders.

“One more… just one more, promise.”

“It’s never just one more, Gomez.”

Eddie nodded, turned, made two steps and then spun back around to steal one last kiss from her smiling mouth. He jogged back to the stage, pulled himself up and joined his delighted bandmates to go backstage.

“Excuse me,” Robin said, pushing the giant away like he wasn't three heads taller than her. “Coming through, thank you.”

Jonathan shrugged and followed Robin and so Steve did the same.

Robin said her name very carefully when she approached, but there was nothing hard on her face this time, Steve could only see sweet bliss in those eyes.

“I’m Robin, a friend of Eddie’s.”

“Oh!” she cheered and gave Robin a surprisingly enthusiastic hug. “Great to finally meet you.”

“I’m Jonathan, hi!”

“Ah, the genius with the black and white film. I need to talk to you sometime.”

Jonathan rubbed the back of his head and blushed. “Don’t know about genius, but thank you. And sure, anytime.”

 “You’re Steve, right?”

“Uhm,” he stammered, determined to not make a bad first impression, no matter his feelings. “Yeah, that’s right. Great to meet you.”

“Seen pictures of all of you but it’s not the best lighting in here and I was a little distracted…”

“We noticed,” Jonathan chuckled. “You liked the show?”

She shook her head like someone stuck in a dream, pressed her hands to her hot face and giggled. “Sorry, I feel kinda high. You probably think we’re insane… we know…”

“No, no!” Robin stopped her. “I think it’s pretty adorable.”

“Right! Eddie is a great guy, he deserves his sickly sweet romance,” Jonathan said with a pat to her shoulder.

“Yeah,” Steve added, not all the way there yet but less worried than before. It was hard to stay so sceptical in the face of such intense affection. “He really does.”

—

Eddie downed the contents of a small water bottle while quickly marching down the corridor that led out of the backstage area. He felt some spillage dripping down his chin and to his shirt which was already plenty sweaty. Shit, he was shaking.

This must have been the longest encore he had ever played and he felt a little twinge of guilt in the back of his head to leave the band with packing up their gear but he had to get his hands on you soon or he would probably combust. He’d been worried about different possible scenarios that caused your delay and his heart had almost leapt out of his chest when he finally saw your face in the first row.

It already was like ecstasy, every time he saw you, but seeing you cheer for him, dancing and lost in his music. Shit. He hadn’t lied when he had spoken about an out-of-body-experience.

The big double door in front of him opened and in walked Steve, then Robin and then Jonathan, talking to you. You had already found his people. A weird kind of gravitation was at work here and it pulled at his bones now.

“Sweetheart,” he called out, still too fucking far away.

Your head turned and your eyes widened when you saw him; would he ever get used to that?

“Eddie,” you sighed and he knew you were just as desperate as he was. You rushed past Steve and Robin, taking up speed as he stopped and opened his arms for you.

“C’mere!” he half laughed half groaned and welcomed the slight pain when you smashed into his chest. He wrapped his arms around your shoulders and pressed his face into your hair that smelled like jasmine and sweat and you. “You’re here.”

“M’ s srry,” vibrated against his collarbone and he pulled back a little.

“What was that?”

“I’m so sorry I was so late I—“

Eddie cut you off with a kiss. He needed to taste you and you were here now so words could wait for a little longer. He felt a little tight in his pants and he held on to your face like in fear you could fucking float away. You were spoiling him, nipping at his lip, soothing the pain with a soft lick.

“Oh my fucking god, Eddie…” you whispered, forehead pressed against his and he answered with a soft moan. “I have no words right now, not sure if there are any… you… you’re… just…” You softly thumped your fists to his chest, straining to find something to say that matched your emotions.

“Just show me, hm? Show me how I make you feel?”

You nodded your head still cradled in his hands, eyes shining so bright and all for him. Your arms wrapped around his neck and you kissed him again.

“You think we should leave?” Robin said approximately three galaxies away.

Eddie pulled himself off your lips with every ounce of willpower in his body. “My friends! We meet you at the bar in ten…” he looked back at you, grinning not taking his eyes off of you when he resumed speaking. “In twenty minutes.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut

[awyeahitssam]

Harry giggles. His limbs feel lighter than usual, almost as if bubbles are making them float a bit. He can still control them, but it's a vague, interesting sort of control. Fun.

Harry lets sleep take him. The world whirls around him in sparks of disorienting colours, and Harry watches with a broad smile. It should make him dizzy, but he feels in the middle of something fantastic—a watercolour painting come to life. It's brilliant. Elating.

It stops as suddenly as it starts. Voldemort stares at him from across a desk. "Harry Potter," he sounds almost surprised.

Harry blinks at him. He still feels light, like he is floating, but also distantly sad. "Are you okay?" he asks thoughtlessly.

Confusion masks itself behind anger. Voldemort masks everything behind anger. "Pardon?"

"I’d never felt as good as I did a moment ago," Harry confesses, drawing closer to the Dark Lord. Red eyes track him suspiciously. Harry's chest aches. "But now, looking at you… it makes me so sad."

Thoughtlessly, Harry reaches out, and Voldemort lets him. It’s how Harry knows this can’t be real. That it’s just a silly, drunken dream. Their fingers intertwine, though Voldemort’s hand remains stiff and cold in his gentle grip.

"Aren’t you lonely?" Harry wonders. "Is that yours I feel pressing in, or my own? Even without you," Harry smiles, crooked and small, brushing an irreverent thumb over his scar, "I’m sure it’d be there. People always isolate the freak."

Voldemort’s hand twitches in Harry’s, and he hums, focus dropping from red eyes to trace the long fingers with his own.

"Everybody’s frightened of you. You isolate yourself from friendship, from love, from time itself... don’t you want, Voldemort? I can feel that you do—you’re never satisfied, are you? Will it ever be enough? The world at your feet, no attachments, nobody to challenge you—is that your dream, or your nightmare?"

"You’re speaking nonsense, boy," Voldemort says, but it comes out odd. Stilted. "You presume much."

"Is it presumption when I feel you?" Harry asks genuinely, brows drawing together, hand lifting to press over his heart. Voldemort is dragged with him, pulled a bit over the desk, and Harry blinks in surprise before realizing he still has a grip on the other’s hand. He lets go slowly, and Voldemort pulls back with a scowl.

"You are drunk," the wizard snaps with disgust. "You know nothing of what Lord Voldemort feels."

Harry finds the words… annoying.

"You feel so loudly, though," he returns sharply, moving forward, sliding onto Voldemort’s desk. Ink spills over—Voldemort hisses in annoyance and the stain is gone with a thought—dreams are a magic of their own—Voldemort’s forehead is cold and smooth. Harry bears the man's mark. He presses his scarred head to the smooth. Long, clawed fingers are wrapped around his wrist. His throat.

"Right here, always pressing in," Harry continues, heedless of his position, precarious as it is. "You feel so much it hurts, Voldemort. You hate so much. You’re never just happy. And I was, am, could be. So just take some, won’t you?"

Red eyes are narrow, intent, fascinated as they dart over Harry’s face, trying to gather his meaning. "How do you propose I do that?"

"How does one normally take pleasure?" Harry wonders. Voldemort grimaces, pulling away quickly, and it takes Harry’s bubbling mind a moment to put what he said to context.

"No," he chokes on a laugh, "I’m not asking you to—to snog. To fuck. Just open yourself up. You’re so good at taking, usually, but all you’re doing is giving. Don’t you want to feel like this? Light? Thrilled?"

"You don’t even know what you sound like, do you?" The question is rhetorical. Voldemort’s hand tightens over his throat, until Harry’s breathing grows thinner. "You wish for me to let your happiness pass my Occlumency, as though you have not just slipped through yourself. As if you have no method to make Lord Voldemort feel your pleasure; as if you want to give Lord Voldemort pleasure at all."

Harry touches the hand on his neck, slowly tightening with Voldemort’s rant, and a spark lights his fingers. Voldemort’s hand spasms before it drops. Harry takes a deep breath, glaring balefully. His light-hearted air has faded.

"Perhaps I would give you pleasure so your misery would be all the worse for it," he bites out. The world is fuzzy, but no longer from alcohol. From being choked. Even in his dreams, his life is threatened by this man.

"A pretty plot," says Voldemort. There is something very condescending in his voice; he is clearly looking down on Harry. Doubting him. It’s nothing new, but it makes the sting of anger grow in him. "Very well. If you can conjure happiness as you peer into the face of your death, Harry Potter, then do. Make me feel it, if you can."

Harry’s nails bite into his palm and release. He takes a breath and lets his eyes flutter closed. He focuses.

Happiness. What does it feel like? Like floating, as he was moments ago, or like getting an anticipated hug—not his first, not all the ones he flinched away from, but a hug from Hermione when they’ve almost just died. An arm around Ron’s waist as the boy drapes one around his shoulder. Laughing, hysterical and joyous, by the fireplace. Finding his wand. Finding out he was escaping the Dursleys. Happiness is a brief thing, drenched in the shadows of his life. Happiness is contentment, even if it is a momentary thing. It is the pleasure of a perfectly prepared cuppa; from—nonono, not going there.

Harry wraps the sensations up, one by one, like he’s re-wrapping hard candy, and throws them at Voldemort. Into Voldemort. All but one—his favourite one, his happiest one. That, he grasps, and it’s actual candy in his hand, a sweet that he looks down to, and then unwraps, and he’s moving forward, intent eyes raising, and Voldemort is already gasping, a bit, at the suddenness of it all—of pleasure.

Harry’s lips curl and he pushes the candy into the slightly agape mouth of the Dark Lord a bit cruelly, shoving it deep. He pulls back quickly, before sharp teeth can gnash on his fingers, and watches on as Voldemort experiences pleasure. As Voldemort softens, and sighs, relaxation in every hard line of him, mouth sucking almost greedily around the treasure that Harry has placed within it. Now he’s drunk on it, Harry thinks, horribly pleased to see Voldemort this way.

It’s not real, but still, he hovers on Voldemort’s desk and observes the pink brushing his cheekbones with fascination. He observes the way red eyes roll back a bit, and the way a long, pale throat swallows convulsively down on a slowly dissolving candy until there is nothing left.

Lashless eyes open, dark and suddenly staring. Red barely peeks out from behind the dilation of his pupil, and Harry’s smile is a smug thing.

“There’s your pleasure,” Harry whispers to him, like a secret. “I hope you enjoyed yourself. It can only get worse from here.”

“Worse?” murmurs Voldemort, staring at Harry intently. “You think there is worse you can do, Harry, then give me that and take it back?”

Belonging, thinks Harry, quite suddenly. He’d given Voldemort his favourite thing, the thing that he had been looking for, for a very long time. Longing, and peace, and laughter, and a burgeoning happiness that had very rarely managed to emanate past its conception. He had given Voldemort, too, his desperate hope for things to get better—and then he’d made them get better—and now Voldemort had lost it all.

Suddenly, impossibly, Harry’s eyes are liquid. I’m cruel, thinks Harry, gaze falling from red. There is nothing so cruel as what he has done, and he had done it so carelessly, so happily, so smugly, because he had felt slighted. Had felt wronged by this man who had ceaselessly wronged him.

Slowly, Harry looks back up at Voldemort, who is watching his tears with an expression of keen interest. 

“Has it made you sad to give your enemy your pleasure, Harry Potter?” Voldemort asks, gripping his wrist and drawing him near enough that Harry barely keeps his bottom on the desk rather than Voldemort’s lap.

“It makes me sad to treat you with such cruelty,” Harry corrects, “when I know you will never allow yourself to experience such pleasure again.”

“Would I not?” breathes Voldemort, eyes still dark instead of bright.

“You won’t,” whispers Harry. “It'd require you to trust someone. To have faith in them. And that, I know you’re incapable of, because you are a man but don’t see yourself as one, and gods do not have friends, nor equals.”

“Equals?” Voldemort’s breath brushes Harry’s brow, his stinging scar. “But what if Lord Voldemort were to draw you from the depths, Harry? Raise you from the pale mortality until you, too, are exalted? Then you may give Lord Voldemort what he so deserves; give me pleasure, Harry Potter,” Voldemort enunciates awfully. “Give me it all.”

I wrote this one of the first times I ever drank, and just expanded upon it a bit. I'm honestly really fond of finding these little things I've forgotten.

#drunk Harry #Harry/Voldemort #dream antics #dream mechanics #physical concepts #silly boys #drunken moodswings #this is kinda... #odd

[heartfullofleeches]

ok but creep reader and yan imaginary friend is actually so cute I love them

These two have my entire heart rn - love seeing creep Reader actually happy. Here's a short of Creep Reader practicing expressions with Maisie

-

Before you there are three index cards held by three hands. Three separate situations where you failed to convey the proper emotions suited for the scene you were in. The farthest to your left depicts a drawing of two stick figures standing on either side of a grave. One kneels beside the stone, tears dripping from its eyes and the thin line its lips dragged downward. The other figure stares forward - a question mark scribbled in place of its mouth.

"Your friend has experienced a death in the family and called you over to cheer them up. What is the appropriate face to make when hearing the news?"

Soft crying sounds from the corner of your room just above your bed. Twisting shadows swallowing the sight of your ceiling contort in ways that lay out the piece of the expression you attempted to copy. Drooping eyelids, the slight downward pull of one's lips, slanted inner brows. Your face scrunches awkwardly as you mirror what's shown. Sadness was one of the hardest to fake, thought it would seem you passed with flying colors as the index card is checked off with a red marker and the next is pulled into view - hands falling to your back with a celebratory pat as you granted your facial muscles with a minute's relief.

The next card shows two figures stands on either sides of a fence. One appears to be smiling and trying to communicate to the other while it simply stares forward with that same mark on its face.

"Your neighbor has been trying to talk to you for the past ten minutes when you already told them you have important business elsewhere. They are blocking your escape route and take your passive expression as you needing to open up more. What do you do?"

This one's a little easier since it happened not too long ago, and dealted with feelings you harbored somewhere deep down. Your jaw tenses, brows furrowed and nostrils flaring as your nails sink into the soft flesh of your palms. You receive three marks for that card - and a round of applause from your audience. Onto the last card.

The final card is the toughest to get through, and look at. You shift against your mattress, that familiar itch of discomfort clawing at your back and throat. The hands on your back kneed at the the tension weighting on your muscles as the stress builds. The stick figure sits dead center in a crowd of laughing faces. A few throw odd glances at the lone figure, smiles uneasy.

"You have been dragged to a party. People are telling jokes and a few people notice that you aren't laughing. What do you do?"

Bile rises in your throat - the acidity, and the queezy feeling in your stomach throwing off the shakey upturn of your lips as you fight through the nauseous to keep them upright. You can still feel their eyes on you. Closing around you, singling you out. It makes your skin feel so tight. You scratch and claw at the sore spots, but the itch never goes away. It never goes away until they do. Til all the eyes are off you. They're always around you and never go away. You just want to pluck them out so they'll never look at you again.

The hands move to your shoulders as you pull your legs to your chest. More limbs shoot from the shadows and huddle around you like a protective blanket as your body starts to tremble. Unseen eyes hone in on the smiling faces. A hand lifts the marker and drives it into the eye of the face nearest to the stick figure. The ink bleeds through the thin paper, leaving red streaks in its The hand lifts the card and shows it to you as soft purrs rubble from the corners of your room.

"You're right Maisie.... It would been pretty funny if he had poked his friends eye out with that fire stirrer...."

The hands tear off a corner of the card, ripping one of the faces in two. Your chest feels lighter as a tiny hiccup of laughter bursts from your lips.

"I thought she was about to fall out of that window too. Not the best way to start off a modeling career if you ask me."

Your laughter bounces off the walls as you imagine the faces of everyone standing below the sill as the body hit the hard concrete. Going home and losing their shit further when they find chunks of brain matter stuck to the bottom of their shoe. The cramps in your stomach worsen as you rolling over on your side, giggling like a madman. Hands cup your face, wiping away your hysteria laced tears. They pinch at your cheeks, holding the hazed grin plaguing your features as the flash from your camera blinds you - capturing your perfect expression.

Sighing, you wrap your arms around the wrist of your unseen ally. "Thanks, Maze. Whenever I need to laugh, I'll just imagine you ripping someone's head off - if that's okay with you."

A hand strokes your head, gentle coos signing anything was okay with them as long as you were happy.

#yandere oc #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere scenarios #yandere insert #yandere headcanons #yandere #yandere blurb #Maise my oc #Yandere imagine friend #yandere drabble #yandere teratophilia

[trungles]

Processing Process, and More Processing

I made this post free and publicly readable on Patreon, but I'm reposting the whole thing right here too because, well, it's a free post, and I don't want to make you click away from your dashboard if you don't need to. But also if you want to support my work, here's the link to the post.

It's a little bit about cartooning, a little bit about drawing, and then it turns into a eulogy for a chicken.

I wrote “process” more than once, and now the word looks funny and is beginning to lose its meaning to me.

This post is about a few things, and it’s a little bit on the sad end of things. Nothing dire! No worries. There’s just a little mention of death, just as a heads up.

Before we get to that, though, I’ve been doing some work and had some thoughts.

I’m often asked about how I draw the noodle hair on my characters, and the answer is typically that I draw each and every line with my hand. But there are considerations of movement and volume that go into it beyond its texturally decorative purposes. I love being able to convey shape and motion with it. It’s less evident, I think, in my illustration work, but I think it’s much more obvious when I do sequential work. In the above image, you can see me working out a sequence of Angelica having a series of thoughts. Her head sort of moves, and her eyes follow. You can see I’d planned out the general shape of the hair and how I’d like it to move.

I wound up moving the drawings a little bit so that the readers eyes will actually follow the character’s eyes as it moves gently rightward on the page. The hair is there to accentuate the movement, like so:

It’s a consideration I employ in all my drawings, but especially when I’m drawing hair and fabric. I don’t use a lot of action lines, so this becomes an important way to give the reader the information that someone is moving through a space. Resistance, gravity, and motion are all things I have to keep in the back of my head when I’m doing these little drawings. I think the planning actually takes more time than the inking, which can happen pretty quickly once I map it all out.

In other news, I’m starting to take my extracurricular artistic development a little more seriously in the silliest way possible.

You wouldn’t know it, but I studied painting college—a medium I switched to after the printmaking professor and head of the Art Department at the time told me I probably shouldn’t be an artist (he gave me a hard candy for my trouble). I recently bought a bunch of little dolls, dressed them up, and am returning to my painting roots. It feels really nice to work in big blobs of color instead of lines. It’s an exercise I came up with in response to a common lament from art students.

One of the more aggravating generational tensions described to me by art school students is when professors describe a student’s portfolio as “too anime” without much explanation. I know what the professor means. They’re trying to get at how referencing your favorite anime or cartoons means that your style becomes a simulacrum, an imperfect copy of a copy, and you never learn to develop your own sense of judgment about where a line or a shape needs to go. And we can tell. It’s a way of working that is perfectly fine for cartooning because cartooning is closer to hand-writing than it is to drawing. I always turn to Charles Schulz’s work for an example. Those figures aren’t literally depicting children—with their little chessboard-pawn proportions and bread-loaf feet—but we read them as endearing children because we’ve come to a consensus between us, the readers, and Charles Schulz, the author, that those shapes mean those things. There are no whiskers or paws in the shape of the word “CAT” but you look at those three letters together, and you know the thing to which it refers. That’s an aspect of cartooning, too. Of course, what elevates it from mere writing is, in part, due to the fact that those little figures do not lose their meaning the more you depict them.

To really draw well, though, you have to do those fundamentals. You have to draw from life. There’s no way around it. It helps you develop a stronger sense of where you like to lay down your lines and shapes, no matter how stylized you like to work. It grows your judgment, and every artist’s best tool is their own well-honed sense of artistic discernment about their own work.

But that doesn’t mean you have to surrender the stuff you like or the things that inspire you to make art! I tell students that if they want to hold fast to their anime style AND hone their fundamentals to develop their eye as an artist, they should buy little figurines and toys of their favorite characters, prop those up against a light source, and draw them as still life objects. Like, yes, do the vases and the figure drawings and all those, I still think those are important. But if this is what you need to keep you interested in drawing from life, having some toys around is a great way to do it! Also, bless those sculptors and toy designers. They’re the best.

I think there’s something to be said about remembering to imagine the physicality of the things we draw, in all its dimensions and in the way it catches the light or casts a shadow. It helps sentimentalize things, too. Makes them feel more real, even emotionally.

Edwina died on Tuesday night, after a few final snuggles, surrounded by her favorite treats. She was about five years old, which is old for a chicken, and she had a very comfortable life. We buried her this morning. She was a good hen, J’s personal favorite.

It really feels like the end of an era. She was the last surviving member of our very first flock. After the other hens died, she really seemed to prefer the company of people over other hens. She is survived by Snooki and Nelly, our two other young birds who get along quite well together, actually.

A baby chick costs between three and five American dollars, typically. An egg-laying hen could be between twenty and fifty bucks, depending on the breed. There are roughly 26 billion chickens living in the world today, about 518 million of them here in the United States. They come pretty cheap. And a part of me was moved to cynicism, entertaining the thought that it might be strange to feel sadly over a little animal that, at most, might be roughly equivalent to the price of a fancy lunch and a coffee.

I watched the 1974 musical version of The Little Prince recently, and I remember it mostly because Bob Fosse was in it and scared the crap out of me as a kid—he played the snake that would take the Little Prince back into the sky when his body gets too heavy to take with him. Gene Wilder plays the Fox whom the Little Prince befriends and tames among a garden of roses. The Fox explains that he is like any other fox in the world, but he is changed—made special and particular to the Little Prince—with time, effort, and patience. So, too, is the Prince’s little flower special to him. Out of all the flowers in the universe, she was the one he watered and protected under a little glass jar. And that’s enough.

I knew my little hen would not live that long. It could be very easy to take a broad view of the life expectancy of a hen and distance myself from it by virtue of its mortality and its commonness. People who raise livestock do it all the time. But I also think it’s wonderful that we should all be capable of loving very small, very brief little things. Edwina is not, to my mind, the rough equivalent of a fancy lunch and a coffee. She was our little hen. For her whole life, she was ours. And I’m so happy she was here.

#cartooning #drawing #patreon #cw death #cw pet death #comics #trungles #artists on tumblr

[samieree]

Hoi I was wondering if you could do a hiemdall x reader where the reader has adhd or write head cannons? Please

Oh yes! It can be kinda funny thought, because I feel like Heimdall doesn't have much patience in him 😂

I hope I'll write it well, I found behavior of a person with ADHD on the Internet.

So here we go, Heimdall x reader with ADHD headcanons!

When you first met in Asgard, you quickly become one of the most annoying people for him (not more than Thor of Thrud)

He thought he has much patience, really. But after talking with you he had to rethink that.

Heimdall just can't stand when someone talk over him. He may be an asshole, but still believes in culture of discussion.

Not to mention that in your head is almost always chaos. Because of that he often feels confused around you but also intrigued. It's something new to him, not knowing what exactly going on in someone's head.

When he learned you have ADHD suddenly your actions made sense (and he stopped his sarcastic comments on you habits, like tapping fingers on the table or tapping feet. He used to say "Are you sewing something?" when he saw how you leg moves).

Heimdall started looking at you differently and after few days decided to work on his patience (he really needs that).

He got used to reminding you what you were doing/talking about when you got distracted.

Luckily he was already used to explosiveness (thanks to Thor. Okay, Heimdall likes to annoy him, so it's kinda his fault but you know... "He's only speaking the truth, but in a nasty way")

You know, it even became kinda funny for him when you finished the sentence for him. You weren't always right, but when you guessed what he wanted to say it felt like you were reading his mind and he likes that feeling.

Finding you tapping your fingers on the table, he started tapping his but in the different rhythm and like that you were "playing" some songs (Heimdall sometimes starts to hum to himself or even sing quietly. Most of the time you pretend you don't hear it so you can hear his voice in this rare way).

(When you make him aware of what he's doing, he's gonna stop and say "I didn't, you're delusional" or "No, you were").

Okay, we know he is fit, but he doesn't do much to keep his figure (he's a God after all) but with you... He never walked this much.

One day you made around 20 circles just walking on the Wall.

He never was a fan of running and never will be, but he runs after you (Even when Odin told him that he no longer has to watch over you).

Heimdall found himself feeling pretty good in role of your bestie. He is sitting on standing somewhere and you're just walking around him and speaking about your problems, rumours or anything else. He listens, talks back.

Once you asked him to braid you hair.

He didn't agree :(

You looked so sad that he couldn't bare it and next morning came to your room with a brush and hairbands.

Of course he was a bit annoyed, when you couldn't sit in one place. Once he had to start walking after you ("Thank Gods I'm taller than you", "You're lucky I'm skilled at braiding", "Stop or I'm going to tear your hair out and not even on purpose!")

He found a solution for this problem! :D

He noticed that when you draw you always sit in one place and not fidget too much. So apart from a brush and hairbands, he always brings with him sheets of paper, charcoal, pen, ink, paints…

Heimdall got some habits because of you, like taking you by the hand when he feels you get nervous (no matter if you're alone or someone is around).

(Sometimes he even hugs you. Or he playfully pats your head, turning your attention to him)

After a few months Baldur started to joke, that his brother finally found a girl he likes more than his hair (or Odin).

Of course he denied, saying that he simply cares for people in Asgard in general. But inside he couldn't lie to himself.

He began to hug you more often (and he no longer wanted to gain more attention or appreciation from his father).

Once, when you lost your favourite pair of shoes (they were under wardrobe) and he found them... "You're cute when you run like that, looking for something" No, he didn't say that! He's gonna call you delusional, blush and walk away.

He didn't have problems accepting his feelings, he just... Was afraid that you can reject him.

Things changed when he was braiding you hair and you just draw a big, read heart on the paper. You gave it to him, and found him blushing like no one ever before (this sight will never leave your head, he looked kinda cute. Like a beetroot, but cute beetroot).

Not much changed in your relationship after you became a pair, except that you started kissing during the day (and night) and something more... 😏

Teasing remains (but both of you know he's just joking).

Maybe he's even more protective.

Baldur's gonna make fun of him (but he likes you and is happy for his brother's and yours happiness).

In the end, you teached him something (besides how to love and care for someone) - patience (and running fast without superpowers. He thought he was gonna spit out his lungs).

Children? Nah, he has to think about this... (He was just waiting for you to start thinking about it)(He even has names).

-> general masterlist

-> God of War: Ragnarök masterlist

#god of war ragnarok #heimdall #gow heimdall #god of war heimdall #heimdall god of war #god of war #gow #heimdall gow #heimdall x reader #heimdall headcanons

[transfemarmin]

1610! m. morales x black! masc! reader

a/n: happy birthday to my favorite spiderman :3 this is a letter fanfic too, where the reader is writing a letter to miles for his birthday, and for the song it’s nothing too important just I think this is the song that reader would listen too and think about miles

“ mijo!” came the call of miles’ mother, it was early, and miles wasn’t even up yet, the boy let out a grown before he got up on his own, and shuffled around as he yelled back out to his mom that he was coming

the boy rubbed the tiredness from his eyes and let out a soft sigh, before he made his way from his room to the kitchen where his parents were going through the mail, his mother had a letter in her hand, and her eyebrows were furrowed

miles walked over to stand by his mother, he knew by now that he had to wait until his mother was done reading something before he spoke to her, his eyes blinked a few times, trying to adjust to the light. he had left his phone in his room on the charger so the only thing he had to do was focus on the things around him, his eyes looking down at the open envelope that was on the counter.

his eyes saw the

MILES MORALES

in bold black ink, but he didn’t process it until he had looked someplace else, his neck snapping down to look at the open envelope once again, his eyes were wide, his brain overworking itself trying to figure out who would send him a letter, an obviously handwritten one at that.

his eyes shot back to his mother’s face, and she had the letter in one hand, the other hand was on her hip, and her face was scrunched up in an obvious negative way, but miles couldn’t quite read the emotion

his mami used that face for damn near every negative emotion at this point, how could he tell?

“ what’s this, miles ? you got some secret girlfriend your father and i don’t know about..?” her voice was a mixture of anger and hurt, she wasn’t angry at miles.. she just didn’t know how to carefully pick her tone. she was mostly confused, confused and hurt that her son hadn’t told her any of this

“ what?” his tone was just as confused as rio thought she was making hers.

that’s when rio’s eyebrows furrowed and her grip on the paper tightened as she held it in front of him, letting her son read the letter she had found mailed to him

DEAR MILES MORALES…

happy birthday to my favorite person on earth, im sad I can’t be with you in this time.. because i am traveling now, but i just want you to know I am deeply grateful that I get to see you everyday im in brooklyn. i am grateful you return the love I have for you in your own little way just like I do.

which brings me to your gift!!

TEN THINGS I LOVE ABOUT YOU!

1. i love how you draw those you care about, especially those who you no longer see. ( ex: gwen, uncle aaron, i think i saw that guy who was like our spiderman but not??) and you have drawn me more times than I have the memory space to remember, but I love that about you nonetheless.

2. the way I first saw you, when you were new to visions and you were talking to all those stupid stuck up kids, of course you didn’t know they were like that.. you were new and everything. but seeing you try to talk to them and make dumb jokes kinda showed how you were trying to make friends in a different environment & how outgoing you are and I love that

3. i adore your stupid jokes, your jokes are not only funny by themselves but they are so silly, mostly because you don’t mind yourself getting laughed at because of how awkward you come across, I love it.

4. i love when you speak, your voice is so natural and every time I see you I pray it’s never gonna something sad ( doesn’t mean I’m never here for you if it is!) but I absolutely do love your voice, everything you have to say makes my heart race

5. your smile, it makes my heart race whenever I see it. whether that he when we’re together, or pictures i see. miles I adore it to the moon and back.

6. i love how you don’t give into toxic masculinity like a lot of guys our age, i love seeing it because you don’t see it a lot in black guys, and it makes me feel like I can just be myself around you and around others you give me that confidence to be comfortable in my own masculinity

7. i love how you’re super sweet to be others, even strangers. you’re the nicest boy I have ever met in the entirety of my days on earth, mrs. morales & officer davis raised you marvelously, and I can only hope that if I have kids of my own they are as magical as you

8. I love the way your eyes light up when you look at me, I don’t know if this happens for everyone you care about. but I know you do this for me, and I love it everyday I notice it, how your cheeks get all hot and your pupils dilate and you start cheesin all hard n shit, makes me feel all bubbly n warm inside, I love it!

9. i love how you always have to finish a section of corn before you move on to the next, it reminds me of someone reading a book, you go chapter by chapter and not all over the place, you finish it like.. chomp by chomp in small sections. it’s cute and definitely different ^_^

10. the last thing I love about you is how you don’t repress yourself for anyone, when you are with me and ganke you are so unapologetically yourself and I love that about you. It encourages me to be me, it encourages ganke to be ganke as well. I love it, and I love you

- [name] [last name]

as miles read over the letter, to say he was shocked was the understatement of the century, he felt his face get hot and his head was spinning as he tried to wrap his head around this.. but he was pulled out of his thoughts when he heard his dad speak.

“ miles, who is this young lady you’re running around with? some tomboy? son, she better not be one of those thugs you hung around at your old school!”

“ no! dad.. he-“ miles stopped himself right before he could finish his sentence, he looked like a deer in headlights as his parents stared at him, with a look of pure shock and confusion.

“ this was not how I wanted to come out.” miles thought to himself as he took hold of the letter, his parents were scrambling for answers, but miles just took a deep breath as he skimmed over the letter again

a letter his boyfriend wrote for his birthday

a/n: birthday is in the colors of jeff and rio’s dialogue because they’re his parents and miles wouldn’t be here and we wouldn’t be able to celebrate his birthday without them :3

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