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tarjapearce · 9 months

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El Charro Negro

Charro Negro AU! Miguel x Reader

Requested Here by @arrozleche ♥️✨

Inspired in this artwork by Kattromz

WARNINGS: angst at the beginning, bit of light horror, a bit of fluff, spanish dialogue and serenades, Mexican urban legend, a bit of possessiveness If you squint. Hope I got it right :')

Summary: Don't make deals with the devil, people.

The song Miguel sings to reader ⬇️⬇️

May the day he was born forever cursed. May the day his parents decided to have him, cursed. May the humble and tattered home he lived in, damned.

Oh how he longed to have what other men had. A good hat, food on his table every day, not having to worry if he'd sleep with an empty stomach, a more comfortable bed and not the paltry and smelly rags he had for a bed; the good and clean clothes instead of his patched up pants and holed shirts. His parents loved him dearly. But it wasn't enough, even if they worked as hard as he was, it wasn't enough.

It was never enough for him.

He wanted more. He wanted to be admired instead of shunned and treated like an outcast for not having enough.

"Ya verán..." (They'll see.)

He'd prove all those that mocked him for being less, that he would be better. Better than all of them. When his Patrón would pay him what he is owed, he'd buy decent clothing. He'd have his Charro suit his heart yearned so much, and just then, he would laugh in the faces of those that wronged him.

But, Oh the misfortune his name carried since birth, followed him like a lost, mangy puppy, looking for solace in his tragedy. His parents died within a mine. buried and forgotten. El patrón didn't even bother himself into try and getting them and some other workers out.

Unbeknown to his parents, they had been digging their grave long ago.

He had to steal a bottle from the foreman's reserve so he could at least have the respect to knock his senses with good alcohol. Mezcal was his favorite. No money, no parents, poor and sick of everything was his current mood. A perpetual will of someone bigger than him, that had cursed him to live on scraps all his life.

"¡¿Feliz?! ¡¿Qué quieres de mí?!" (Happy?! What do you want from me?!)

He hiccuped as he entered his empty and tattered home, blaspheming at heavens as he cut a bit of his palm and attempted to draw a circle with it.

"¡Lo he dado todo y nunca fue suficiente!" (Gave it all and still it wasn't enough.)

He weeped and growled. The mezcal numbing his senses slowly. Sluggish footsteps finally tripped over a termite chewed chair, and he hissed at the stung from the cut in his hand.

"Daría cualquier cosa..." (I'd give anything)

His eyes felt heavy, the tip of his fingertips tingled with spreading numbness. A chill ran down his spine while his face pressed against the dusty floor. It vibrated. He groaned and took another swig from the bottle.

Black mist crept around him, the temperature suddenly feeling cold. He shuddered and scrunched his nose at the simmering fear that was below the surface.

"¿Lo que sea?" (Anything?)

A gravel like, yet sultry voice echoed from the darkest part of the room. His breath hitched as his vision blurred for a second to then focus on the bright, fiery red eyes that stared at him with keen interest.

His voice made all the mezcal to evaporate from his body. Wide, fearful eyes stared at the entity.

"Lo que sea." (Anything)

Miguel breathed with a nod. The being smirked, revealing a pair of sharp canines adorning his perfect and malicious smirk.

"¿Te apetece un trato?" (Fancy a deal?)

-------

The women made lines just to get a glimpse of him, Clad in a perfectly tailored suit just for him with the finest fabrics available. Tall, broad and muscular body not many had the luck of tasting, a horse that seemed brought from foreign lands due it's sheer size and color. Jet black with beady amber eyes. Wide brim hat, with a lace bow hugging his neck.

Even though many knew him, his money was the talk of town. Where would he get larges amount of money to invite everyone in the cantina a round of shots? his suits? his horse? his properties? The women?.

"Les dije que sería mejor que todos ustedes." (Told you I'd be better than you lot.)

He mumbled as he threw a woman over his shoulder with a smirk, she squealed in excitement as he took a long swig of his bottle. He'd throw the most outrageous parties in his estate almost every week.

The fiery eyes just watched him from afar, his smirk widening.

-------

Despite having more than fifty people before him, and women throwing themselves at him, his heart had said enough. Enough of the madness, enough of the parties, enough of fake loves that only seeked him for pleasure or money. Enough. He had enough.

He threw everyone out of a rage fit. He was sick of them. Even thought their faces were familiar, he knew shit about them all. He wanted, needed, to be alone.

"¿Ya te has cansado de esta vida, Miguel?" (Have you grown tired of this life?)

Miguel stumbled on the floor as panic rose within his heart.

"Y yo que creía que te estabas divirtiendo" (And me here thinking you were having fun.)

"¿Q-Qué estás haciendo aquí?" (What are you doing here?)

"He venido por lo que me corresponde por derecho, Miguel." (I've came for what's rightfully mine.)

"Tu alma" (Your soul)

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

Even though his attempts in running away from the devil worked for him for a bit, in the end, he was found and not only that, but cursed to be the devil's personal debt collector. He and his horse.

He was everywhere, yet nowhere. He'd travel in a cloud of black mist that moved with him, almost like the darkness itself had life of its own. Red and glowing eyes adorning his Adonis-like features. He was tall, broad, clad in black and dangerous.

He'd travel with his faithful horse, a jet black stallion that only responded to him. As far as the legend went, he'd go town to town searching for the debtors, to claim their souls by luring them with money and other riches.

His eyes settled for a hidden little town, a few souls would fulfill his hunger, but he had to be careful. He could see some of the stony white houses donned with a cross on their front doors. He sneered at them, his horse gave a disapproving neigh.

"And they're the ones who sin the most" He mumbled under his breath and scanned the zone, It was 3 am, none was on sight. The soft noise of his saddle and his horse's steps echoed through the houses. Some dogs barked, howled even, other just growled at him and his in fear.

He stopped in his tracks when he saw you, clad with a black shawl, tears in your eyes as you left the town's cemetery. He chuckled at your stupid yet brave action. None would venture alone at that time, in such a sacred place, unless you worked with magic.

His mind was settled. He'd stay here. But first, he'd have to earn the trust of those whose souls would be claimed later.

He vanished into thin air.

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

Your day always started at 4 am, sometimes even earlier than that, you had gone and clean your parents tomb in the cemetery, always giving them fresh flowers. They had died of sickness, little could be done to save them. Their hearts just gave up.

Then, you would go to the town's cantina and help prepare for the day, washing glasses, making sure the mezcal was ready to be served, cleaning up in general and of course, having to withstand the leering glances from the men around as you brought their drinks and food.

Town was 'everyone knows everyone here' type of little. It had a few stores of antique things, a hospital, a bar, some boutiques, a school among other basic needs stuff. It was small, but pretty. Colonial-style and traditional sort of pretty.

It wasn't around midday that he showed up. A man so tall you had to look up to meet his amber colored eyes, sharp and handsome features, shoulders so broad you were sure it would take a toll on your back to hug him, A small waist adorned by a strange belt buckle, if you looked closer it was a small skull like spider, surrounded by a subtle pentagram.

His heavy steps made the place to go silent for a moment as everyone stared at the new face. He was wearing a pale blue Charro outfit, he removed his hat, revealing silky and shiny ravenous locks. He smiled gently and took a seat in one of the lone seats over the bar.

"Buenos días, señorita. By any chance do you a place where I could stay?"

Your coworker flushed by the mere tone of his voice, you rolled your eyes at the display. She'd do that with every handsome man that would come closer. Visitors weren't as regular as people would think, even though the town had it's charm, it was away from other main cities. The perfect target for Miguel.

"¿Señorita?" It was enough, you called her and his eyes snapped your way. He blinked at recognizing you from before.

"Go tell Rodrigo we need to refill one barrel of mezcal." She obeyed while stealing a glance in Miguel's direction before disappearing.

"Sorry for that. There is a hotel at the end of this street. Se llama Posada Buenaventura" (It's name is Buenaventura Hostal)

He bowed his head, grateful. Soon he stood and left.

--------

You had noticed the Charro that had appeared our of nowhere being a social yet secretive man. He'd laugh with the elders, he'd listen to his stories that many ignored, would help people around by making small favors. And the women adored him, he'd of course entertain them by smiling or singing a bit for them. He was nice. But too perfect. Your eyes squinted at him.

"Don't look at him like that, he's really good. Man, I'd sell my soul to have a man like him." Your coworker spoke in between dreamy sighs. It had been only a couple of days since he came and everyone seemed to love him.

Suspicious.

Even more when he showed up in such fancy quality suits many would only long for. You had learned that his name was Miguel. It suited him, but still, something was wrong. Something in your mind told you to run away whenever he was around and his stare lingered a bit too long on you.

"Stop being a hornball and go tend the clients. It's a busy day today." You waved her off as you began cleaning the bar. He sat before you and regarded you with an intense gaze, hinting the challenge you stared back at him, arching your brow, unamused.

"Will you order something or you'll keep the staring contest?"

He smirked, and held his hands in defense.

"A breakfast shall do fine." you sighed

"Coffee?"

"Si. No sugar, please." You nodded and disappeared behind the doors, a man, his prey, approached him with a sympathetic look.

"Every man in town knows that trying to get (Name)'s attention is pointless. Mostly of us have given up on her. She's hard to get at."

"Is that so?"

"If you're wise, you'll rather to spend the time with Emelina. She's a sweetheart."

Miguel just nodded and looked at your form approaching with his food and steaming coffee. Your beauty was sure a sight, but your temper was something he couldn't help but feel intrigued for, specially when you were throwing a guy out of the cantina that got too hammered a bit too soon.

You wouldn't fall that easily, and he loved challenges.

He winked at you and you just rolled your eyes.

You'd totally be worth it.

------

Emelina hopped into his horse, the lucky girl, and snugged him from behind. They'd gallop through the town together, parading and showing his horse taming skills. Girls around would watch with envy, as you glanced at them briefly with a smirk, tumbling some clothes to dry under the sun.

Not that you were hard to get. You simply feared of being fooled again, everyone in town had known that your fiancé had left a day before your wedding to never show up again. He had ran away from town and from you.

Miguel and Emelina galloped away from town, her excited shrieks could be heard as they headed out of town.

But after a while, the landscapes seemed neverending, repetitive and boring.

"We have to go back. Around five I must feed my chickens." Emelina's voice announced behind him. But Miguel didn't stop. The horse just galloped faster, she held tightly onto him, a small wave of fear washing over her.

"I-I wanna go back, Miguel." Her voice meek, her breath hitching in her throat upon realizing what was going on.

"Let me go!" She cried but he only smirked, black mist surrounded them both as darkness engulfed Emelina . the last thing she could see was Miguel. No. El Charro Negro, a demon, looking at her. Her screams vanished into nothingness.

-----

After closing the cantina, you headed home, and saw Emelina giving a small court to Miguel, to then disappear into her home. An illusion really, but who could tell? His eyes wandered over your form.

"Need help?"

"No."

Even though you actually did struggle with the wooden box full of spices.

He gently pried the box from your small form. You sighed and rolled your eyes with a tiny smirk.

"Te gusta molestarme." (You like annoying me."

"Kinda. If that's what it takes to see that little scrunch in your nose when you get angry, then yes. I do."

You didn't want to admit that he had his charm, but the thought was quickly batted away when he spoke again.

"Fear."

"Hm?"

"You are scared." He mumbled as he walked next to you.

"I'm not-"

"You hide your pain behind a brave mask. What happened?"

You frowned at his words. He pried too soon into your healing wounds.

"Not your business, certainly." you stopped at your home, and took the box from his hands. Pain bloomed into your chest and he knitted his eyebrows together, sensing your discomfit.

"I'm sorry" He'd mumble as you looked away.

"Entiendo ese sentimiento de no ser lo suficiente para alguien muy bien, hermosa." (I know the feeling of not being good enough for someone, beautiful)

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you pushed them aside, and sighed

"His loss, really."

"Buena noche." (Goodnight), he mumbled and watched you go. It came to his attention that you lived on your own.

As much as he was the devil's personal collector, his past was always haunting him, reminding him of his mistakes. He couldn't help but find a bit of solace in the fact that there was someone that could relate to his pain. And for what he could gather through the towners, he knew about your wedding fiasco.

The initial challenge to have your soul slowly changed into something more meaningful, a bit selfish if he came to think about it. He'd conquer you, even if it meant to harvest the life of every person in town.

---------

People talked about the sudden leaving of Emelina, and his prey, Rodrigo. Apparently they both had ran together, and started a new life elsewhere. His task in town was almost done. He just needed two more souls to leave.

But every time you'd serve him his usual breakfast with the bitter coffee, the demon inside him subsided. He had tried everything, leaving roses in your door, only to find them stored in jars later, He'd send letters that you would only read with a wistful and pained expression, he'd gift you with jewels, but you never wore them.

You were hard to get. But it was thrilling for him. To do such thing after spending years traveling, collecting and vanishing from town to town. You had made his dead heart to beat again, but yours ached for someone that had been long gone. He'd never forgive him. He collected his soul.

-----

Every gift your not so subtle fan gave you, had warned your heart a little bit more. You knew it was Miguel. The outrageous gifts screamed his name all over the place. He'd send you roses, which you stored in a glass container to make things out of them, his letters full of poems about you; made the ice on your heart to melt, bit by bit.

And the jewelry, the most intricate and beautiful thing you could lay your hands on. Gold looked good on you. It was like he knew your heart desires by heart despite you shooing him away in hopes he'd gave up before it ended up in another heartbreak for you.

But he was determined to make you his. You noted much. You had to give props to the man that against all odds, was getting a spot in your heart. But for now, you needed sleep.

The sultry and baritone voice sang through your window.

No hace falta que salga la luna

Pa' venirte a cantar mi canción

Ni hace falta que el cielo esté lindo

Pa' venirte a entregarte mi amor

You opened the window and your eyes turned bashful as his voice kept echoing, a few more men behind him, playing instruments. His voice serenading you.

Solo Dios, que me vio en mi amargura

Supo darme consuelo en tu amor

Y mando para mí, tú ternura

Y así con tus besos borro mi dolor.

Your heart couldn't help but flutter. You had tamed a demon.

He was about to sing another verse when your neighbor's angry voice chided in, disrupting the moment.

"It's bed time! Sing to her in the morning!" His words only made him want to vanish and give him a lesson, but your giggles only made him sigh.

"Buena noche, chula."

"Goodnight, Miguel." you kissed his cheek. A chill ran down your spine. He was cold, but your heart was sure warm.

He totally gave the man a good scare in his dreams.

---------

"It's concerning that people have been leaving town lately without much explanation." You heard one of the elders speak, and sure enough, the town looked emptier than usual.

"Don't you think it's weird? Ever since... that guy, ese Charro, came here, weird things have been happening." Your ears perked up at the information. Of course you had been too enraptured in your blooming feelings for Miguel to actually pay attention to what was happening around you.

Your workplace was less and less crowded, Emelina and Ricardo ran away together. Then, another man you barely spoke to was next, and then another woman also left. Four people in total. And given how small the town was, the number was alarming.

Dread settled on you once more. You didn't know what Miguel did during the day, but he always seemed to have enough money to buy everyone's house twice. He was always impeccable, well dressed and his charisma had earned the trust of the people. You felt dumb.

You had lowered your guard down enough to let another man in.

What was his game? You certainly refused to be his plaything.

-----

Your sudden change of attitude concerned him, of course, people would talk, and they were growing suspicious. He had his fill of souls, but his dead heart ached for you. You'd refuse to look at him in the eye, your voice so distant and cold. You had also grown suspicious of him. He knew he had to leave.

But he didn't, as a new pact was signed within town. His duty called.

-------

Just as darkness followed him, it had engulfed the man and vanished him into nothingness. He smirked, satisfied.

"It's... you..." You voice snapped his glowy red eyes at you. Your skin crawled as the hairs on your back stood in alarm. Your mind told you to run away. You approached instead, clarity coming to your mind like a cold bucket of water.

The glow of his eyes vanished, a solemn look on his face.

"It all makes sense now" You mumbled. You weren't scared, your hands cupped his cheek. he was no longer cold.

"I need to go."

You shook your head.

"Everything you did, for me, was true?"

"All of it." His large hand caressed yours while his eyes regarded you wistfully.

"Then, take me with you." You'd mumble and his eyes widened.

The sounds of many other horses along some people, angry and demanding for Miguel, approached.

"I couldn't... No."

"Then, I'll make a pact with the devil if that means for you to come for me and see you again."

His heart leaped in his chest. You wanted him as he was.The mob approached.

"I'm yours" You kissed his hand and you were swooped off your feet, his lips pressed into yours and with a whip on his horse, you two ran away, never to be seen again.

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #astv fanfic #spiderman 2099 x reader #el charro negro #t writes✨#Mexican urban legend #Spotify

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cereovo · 8 months

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A set of very conceptual notes I drafted a while back for someone asking for advice on learning to draw humans. I'm entirely self-taught so this is less of a tutorial and more of a very rambling set of general principles I follow and ideas that helped while I was learning. I figured I'd post it in case anyone else could get use out of it!

I also recommend checking out:

Drawing East Asian Faces by Chuwenjie

How to Think When you Draw (lots of good tutorials in this series)

Pose reference sites such as Adorkastock

Transcript and some elaboration under the cut:

Img 1 - Drawing a face

The two most important elements (at least for me) when drawing a face are the outline of the cheek/jaw and the nose*. I often start with a circle to indicate the round part of the skull, then add a straight like and a 'V' to one side [to create the side of the face and the jaw]. The nose creates an easy template for the rest of the face's features to follow (eyebrows at the top of the nose bridge, eyes towards the center of the bridge, ear lines up to eye) and the placement/direction and overlap with other features is a very simple way to indicate dimension. [A sketch of a face that has been adjusted by moving its parts to create 3 different angles. The following text is underneath:] -Different 3/4th views can be created just by adjusting the position of and amount of overlap between the facial features. - The top of the ear usually lines up with the corner of the eye. Think of how glasses are designed [specifically, how the arms run from the eyeline to the ear] [I go on a tangent in these next few paragraphs] *One thing I see many artists do - not just beginners - is learn how to draw A Person. As in, one singular person with one set of bodily proportions and one set of facial features. It's an issue that runs a bit deeper than 'same face syndrome' because sometimes these artists can draw more than one face, they're just not very representative of [the diversity present across] real people. Part of the reason I'm talking more about how to think about approaches to drawing - rather than showing specific how-to's - is because there is no one correct or right way to draw a person. The sooner you allow yourself to explore variety - fat people, old people, people of color, people with [conventionally] 'unattractive' features - the easier it'll be! Artists often draw their own features honestly and without [harmful] caricature, so it's always a good idea to look at art made by the kinds of people you're trying to draw if you're ever unsure about how to handle something. In general, it's far more important to learn how to interpret a variety of forms than to learn how to replicate the Platonic Ideal of the Human Body.

Img 2 - Stuff that helped me

Jumping into drawing humans (faces or otherwise) straight from photo reference can be overwhelming. The trick is to simplify forms into shapes - but even this concept is sort of abstract and it may be hard to know where to begin. Good news - Thousands of other artists have already figured it out. [When starting out] I needed to learn from photo reference AND artists I admired in order to improve. [When looking at stylization you are inspired by] ask yourself: WHY does this simplification work? How can I translate it into a different pose? Instead of copying what you see in a photo reference exactly, try to focus on the general forms first. My two biggest style inspirations for humans while learning to draw them were Steven Universe and Sabrina Cotugno's art. SU gets a lot of hate [in this instance I was specifically referring to a time on tumblr when the art was knocked for 'losing quality'] but its style does a great job of simplifying anatomy in a way that still portrays a diversity of bodies + features. [Extremely simplified drawings of Lapis, Steven, and Amethyst] SU characters are still identifiable- and still read as 'human' - even when reduced to just a few lines!

Img 3 - Things I keep in mind while drawing side profiles

- Eyebrows + eyes close to the 'edge' of the face - Forehead needs enough room for a brain - Eye is > shaped from the sides - Mouth kinda halfway [between the nose and the chin] but closer to the nose - Skin/fat exists under the jaw [and connects to the neck] - neck is about one half the width of the whole head - the back of the skull always sticks out a bit further than you might expect - Sometimes less is more - contours exist on every face, but drawing them in may make your character seem much older than they're supposed to be. However, it's a good idea to use them when you *want* your character to look old! These are very general notes- every face is different and has different proportions [and playing around with them creates unique and interesting character designs]

#2023 #may 2023 #i realized this is pretty nonsensical while transcribing it LOL #feel free to send asks if anything is unclear #but again im not any sort of professional

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sabertoothwalrus · 2 years

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How did you get so good at drawing such expressive bodies/faces??? tell me your secrets!! (But srsly your skills are amazing)

AAAA THANK YOU!!

I think my initial inspiration was about 10-11 years ago watching Adventure Time and finding Rebecca Sugar’s boards. Sometimes I get a little frustrated because she gets so much more notoriety than the other very very amazing AT boarders, but….. her expressions man…. she was always able to convey so much with SO LITTLE. (SU’s expressions are on another level of course, but I think AT’s are just so impressive to me because they’re dot eyes)

But the thing is!! I’m also a fan of deadpan. Which AT also does very well. It’s tempting to want to do BIG, extreme expressions at every moment, especially in comedic comics, but you really don’t need to. I find that characters often feel more expressive if you reel it in more often. That way, when you DO have bigger expressions, they FEEL bigger!

for example, a panel where the contrast between big and subtle expressions sells the contrast:

I don’t really,,,, know exactly what I do that works, ?? I kind of just like, think of the emotion I wanna convey, make the expression, think about what my face feels feels like, and try to convey that. Using a mirror helps!! You’ll feel a little stupid but it’s funny.

some misc expression tips:

Definitely prioritize eyebrows, eyes, and mouths!

Noses aren’t as important BUT flared nostril can totally sell an expression, so it depends!

Remember that your upper jaw is stationary, and your lower jaw can move, and then your lips and cheeks can move all around that!

Just subtly changing the placement of eyelids and location/size of irises can completely change an expression

Don’t be afraid to make your characters look weird or stupid.

Don’t reinvent the wheel! Take reference from different media you like that stylize expressions in different ways, and find what works for you. I take a lot of inspiration from AtLA

Again, NUANCE! Like, when most people are sad, they do their very best to try NOT to cry. People hold things in. Sometimes what characters don’t say can speak louder than what they do.

some expressions I’ve done that have varying levels of nuance:

Also framing!! You can use the composition to help project how the character feels:

As for body language!

Having a better sense of three-dimensional form and anatomy isn’t necessary, but it sure helps a lot

Hands!! I have adhd and my family is italian so I use my hands a lot when I talk. But even still, most people don’t just leave their hands hanging loosely by their sides. People cross their arms and fidget with their zippers and put their hands in pockets.

Head, neck, and shoulders. If you can master the foreshortening of these overlapping shapes at most angles, you will be very powerful

Hips & feet!!!!! People RARELY stand straight with both feet flat on the ground with even balance. Most people will shift their weight to one hip, leaving one leg looser and at an angle. It also helps to practice perspective, because people also rarely stand with their heels lined up side by side. One leg may get kicked foreward or loosely bent backwards. I sometimes cross my legs when I stand.

Ultimately, if you want more lifelike expressions and poses, study from life!! Don’t worry about your drawing being “good” or “bad”, instead think about what can make it successful. Ask yourself, “is this conveying the expression I want to convey?” and if it’s not, figure out what you need to change to get it there.

#gsgshdjf I hope this helps sometimes I don’t know what to say other than ‘idk I just do it’#my art #photos #art help

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kristinhateslife · 13 days

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Okay so last night I was having an "art style panic"? I guess you could call it that? But I was feeling really bad, so i started drawing other peoples art styles and picking points and peaces out of it!

I did this last night when I was really tired and i used a pen so the drawings may not be how i usually do my drawings haha

Ok so first up we have @emjoyzhos-ej !! I recently just found your account but you have a very cool style!!

•Your skull shape is very unique, very rectangle

•your lines are very sketchy (most people I follow have this trait in their art..)

•when you color it looks like you mayy have rook inspiration from itsxroxannex? Idk i wrote that down, maybe it's not true but I guess i thought that last night

But I love your style! Your art is so cool and I had fun trying to replicate it!

Next we have @milkybnnuy ! Omg so I really like you!! Your art is sooo good

•You draw a lot of fell, so i made the drawing of killer like how you made that one fell killer drawing

•when you color you have a very paintly-style and that's cool!!

•your skull shape reminds me of an egg (i guess thats why i said "egg head" last night)

Up in the top I wrote "I did not replicate your art properly enough," and that's true! Your art is so unique and different from what i usually drew so i had a hard time replicating it! But nonetheless, i had a fun time trying and hope you ain't disappointed lol

Btw- I really like the way you draw your fuzz on hoods!! So satisfying to look at!

And now we go onto @voidzphere !

I've followed you for a while, and you're cool to be around and I like when you post! Though i had a hard time finding the art hidden around, I still was able to replicate it (luckily i chose to draw killer for this haha)

•so I see that you usually draw/post doodles, unless i just didn't scroll down far enough haha (plz tell me if you have drawn something big i wanna see)

•I noticed you have more pointy and thicker lines

•you have a certain way you draw your Skulls, I can't really put a shape or object here to describe it

Even though I couldn't find more drawings, I still tried! I hope you like it, friend, cause u cool

Here is @cherrio-krispz ! I just started following you last night, like seriously I had to search you up just now to figure out who you were cuz I forgot, but when i saw your art I immediately recognized you

•you have a very recognizable style!

•again, i did not replicate well.

•very painty-like when color

•sketchy lines, seems like you don't do line art?

•I like ur skulls, they look like skulls

OMG I'VE BEEN WAITING TO TALK ABOUT YOU. YOU. YOUUU. @somegrumpynerd OMG YOUUUUUU. I REALLY LIKE YOUR ARTTT.

•I LIKE IT

•very cartoonish

• noticable art style

•thick lineart

I LOVE seeing posts when they come out!!! They're really really cool and make me feel so happy when I see them! Keep going because you're so cool!

@spookeri haiiii

You're here tooo

i like ur art :)))))) a LOT . Same as the last guy, I get very excited when you post. Your DTIYS were fun, and yeye... Yeah

•Very flat colors

•flat lines

•cool looking skulls

•you have an "air-brush" shading style (i guess you could call it), which isn't a bad thing! Do what you want to do! But maybe try out cell-shading? Idk you don't have to, but idk i feel like cell-shading fits your art style

Also if you look in the bottom you can see a scratched out drawing, that was my first attempt haha

You can see it in the drawing below

@wyllaztopia !! I like your art :)) you have a very noticeable style and when you post I get excited as well!

•clean lines

•you make skulls longer than how other people make their skulls in this last

•I liked replicating it

Idk what else to say ... Its just all really cool!!

And last but not the worst

My art style!

My art style is

•cool

•easy to draw

•and funny lookin'

What did i learn from this whole thing i did? That everyone has a unique style, that even if they try to change it it still stays theirs and it's still unique

I also found out that everyone, small artists and big artists, has flaws! It's comforting to know that everyone has flaws so I know I'm just learning and getting better everyday

Another thing I got from this is that everyone's styles are always changing and warping. But thats fine! Because everyone's moving and changing, and the worlds always moving and changing!

So, don't be so hard on yourself if you're struggling to draw or find an art style, how you draw is unique to you and you'll like it one day

Just keep drawing everyday and you'll get there.

I suggest doing this challenge, on paper or digital, wether you color it or not, or post ot or not!

It's great to try out.

#art #sans au #kristinhateslife #kris007 #killertale #killer sans

182 notes · View notes

morallyinept · 6 months

Text

BROADCASTING LIVE TONIGHT - A Dieter Bravo One Shot

Summary: Dieter Bravo hosts SNL and you're assigned as his personal make-up artist, which means you'll be getting up very close and very personal to him...

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 7.9k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️ “It's the emergence, of.”

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Explicit - Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/fingering/oral M & F receiving/substance abuse/Dieter being an absolute menace.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ. ☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

Author’s Note: With all the SNL hype recently, how could I not? This man is a menace. Inspired by THAT blazer.

@wildemaven has created a fantastic mood board of Dieter hosting SNL, which has inspired some of this fic. Shoutout to @pedroshotwifey for drawing my attention to this mood board, which has resulted in me getting absolutely no sleep due to writing this. 🥴🖤

MASTERLIST | DIETER BRAVO MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

The commotion outside Studio 8H, at NBC's headquarters in the Comcast Building, has reached a fever pitch.

Crowds have gathered, for most of the day, some rocking up early to get in line, to catch a glimpse of notorious, bad boy-turned-Emmy nominee, Dieter Bravo, who is tonight hosting Saturday Night Live.

A move, which most critics speculate, is to start laying the foundations in the re-cementing of his fragile career.

There have been sightings of him all over the Big Apple for the last two days, walking down Broadway sipping on green juice, hanging outside the dispensary on East 30th Street like a shifty pervert, and spotted rollicking in a café in Hell's Kitchen with, what is reported, as his current on-off partner, Ricky Santos.

Although, sources are yet to be confirmed from the turbulent press pictures and fan theories. Dieter himself snorts at this each time he reads that they're "getting serious." They mostly just hang, and suck each other off when high. Serious? Pffft.

Dieter's PR team have his personal life heavily locked up ever since he checked out of Wonderland, clean and fresh faced, some eight months ago. Dieter has mostly stayed out of the headlines and off of pap scoop websites for bawdy, offensive behaviour.

And he finds this new squeaky clean image he's been threatened with, boring, if not suffocating. His fingers are constantly itchy, both figuratively and literally. There's an unyielding yearning for some anarchy left swilling in his veins.

So he takes a crowbar to that lock and flips the birdie when it breaks open.

He's been confirmed staying at The Bowery on the Lower East Side, and paparazzi and the odd cluster of hardcore fans and autograph floggers, have accosted him each time he comes and goes.

He simply ignores them and doesn't sign their merch with his face plastered on, or takes selfies, no matter how much they try to invade his personal space like malignant cancer.

He makes no attempt to remain incognito either, simply appearing out in public in lazily dressed attire of stained grey sweatpants and crocs, or a floral kimono teamed with sliders and shorts. It's usually what he finds strewn over the floor in the aftermath of his hotel room. He's pretty sure this kimono isn't even his. But it fits nice.

Eyes hidden behind giant, dark sunglasses and hair an untamed mess, Dieter roams New York unperturbed and off leash. His dishevelled appearance sparks rumours that he may be back to his partying ways on the sly after he's papped coming out of a strip-club at 4AM.

And they would be right about that.

He masks the shakes well, the bloodshot eyes he keeps hidden behind the Ray Bans. He's only had about four hours sleep since he touched down in this feculent city.

God he loathes New York. The stench of hotdog vendors and trash piles uncollected for days, turns his stomach.

He throws up on the sidewalk as he stumbles back to The Bowery and sleeps until his agent is hammering on the door and dragging him off in a covert car towards the NBC building.

He wishes his head was thunking around under the wheels; his skull feels like it is already, as he slumps down on the leather upholstery and questions what the fuck he is doing here.

Tonight, his styling team have lined up a single breasted blazer from Homme Plissé Issey Miyake, with clashing pants from the same designer. The same soft corduroy ribs pleasantly against the pads of his fingers as he runs them back and forth over this thigh during the final fitting.

He looks in the mirror, turning this way and that. Sucks in his stomach and hacks loudly when he breathes out, startling everyone.

He runs his ringed fingers around his grey scruff and scratches under his chin as he takes himself in. Yeah, he can work with it. Dieter doesn't care much for blending in anyway.

It's a look that only Dieter Bravo can pull off with such style and garish aplomb. Even if the lurid yellow gives him a headache to look at its neon hue for too long. It physically makes him squint.

The sunglasses stay firmly on as Dieter wishes more than anything he could have a tab right now as he glances himself in the mirror.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You’ve prepared the dressing room as usual; the lights switched on around the mirror and the chair positioned in front of it ready.

An array of cosmetics and creams line the vanity and your make-up belt is loaded up with an arsenal of spare brushes, wipes and cotton pads ready to attach on set.

Spritzing mists, anti-shine sprays and all manners of skin-coloured bottles are on hand and ready to make Dieter Bravo look his best self.

You're mixing foundations together on the back of your hand, and chatting idly with the hair stylist you're tag-teamed with, when the door swings open, and an animated foofaraw can be heard barraging through it.

You look up to see two crew members stride in, flanked by another two burlier guys, all herding into the small dressing room and practically filling it to the brim with braying masculinity.

You notice how hot it's suddenly gotten in the room; the warm prickles felt at the back of your neck as you take him in.

Wardrobe has done a number on him; a weird, mis-matched ensemble with clashing colours, which strangely works. But the deep V on his chest revealing caramel tanned skin, that looks as though it's been waxed, is an intimidating thought that slowly swamps your brain in quicksand the longer you stare at it.

You've never really rated his work. You'd attempted to watch the Cliff Beasts saga, just like anyone without a functioning or sane mind, but gave up after enduring the first thirty minutes of the first film in the franchise, and then promptly cancelled your Netflix subscription in dire protest. They'll fucking make anything these days.

You'd heard through friends, and through working here on the show, that Dieter has been recently nominated for something, an Emmy, maybe even a Golden Globe, but for what exactly, you're not sure and don't really care either. You're just not that invested in Dieter Bravo.

Sure, he's a little attractive in a scummy sort of way the more you observe him right now; he has that cocaine chic about him as the tabloids confirm, but his reputation precedes him.

You don't need to be an avid fan of his to have heard about the debauchery of it. The guy is probably riddled with Hepatitis A through Z.

You notice his fingers tightly clutching onto his phone inside them, almost frantically. He taps his wily digits against the back of it, clacking those silver rings against the plastic. His face is swamped in a massive pair of sunglasses.

A lively melange of voices fills the dressing room. Various outfits are hung up for the live skits and monologues as other people pass in and out.

A busy hive of instructions are passed back and forth between the crew members and the men who accompany him - his security entourage you assume - about timings and cues.

They speak as though he isn't there at all sometimes, you note. Dieter this and Dieter that, as he stands gauchely in between the fracas engulfing him; glancing back and forth between them all before he turns away and taps listlessly on his iPhone.

You try in earnest not to stare, but it's a futile task. Drawn to him like driving slowly past a wreck on the interstate to get a better look at the carnage and dead bodies thrown through the windshield. You know you shouldn't, but you do; pulled to it like a magpie, ooh shiny.

He stares back at you; an unreadable face partially hidden, that seems as disinterested as he looks about being here.

You mentally chastise yourself for being a little starstruck. Eh, it happens. In this line of work you’re around them constantly, “stars.”

Dieter Bravo isn’t an exception, except his star is a little scuffed around the edges and has lost some of its polish through years of tarnishing.

The stylist sets him down in the chair and goes to work on taming the chocolatey grey fluff that sits on his crown like he’s had an abundance of dandelion seeds blown at him.

You’re introduced to him officially by one of the crew members after a few minutes of them talking shop. And this is Dieter Bravo reaches out for your hand, which seems tiny when engulfed inside of his own.

You’re mindful not to offer him the one covered in concealer swatches - it’s a bitch to wash out.

His hand is warm, almost abnormally; his palm seemingly just as clammy as yours as you shake it politely.

"Wow. How are you?" He greets, face unchanging and you can see your own features mirrored in his shades, as the room begins to quieten down and shrink in its size around you.

His brows raise over his Ray Bans at you. You smile as you regale him with the tantalising tale of how you're simply just fine, thanks.

After more talk is passed between the bodies, scripts waved under his nose which he tosses on the floor at his feet almost immediately, and cues and timings rehashed, the two crew members exit the room, flanked by the brutes in tow.

The door closes and seals the three of you inside with an awkward silence, which seems to birth and grow its full life cycle before eventually dying slowly with a choked gurgle as you step over it and crack on.

"May I?" You ask, handing out your palm for his sunglasses. He reluctantly takes them off, almost shoving them into your hand like a petulant child. He rubs manically at his face for a second or two.

The first thing you notice about Dieter’s face is those deep, purple trenches under his eyes, and you auto-reach for the concealers. The second thing is how puffy and tired his eyes are.

You can work with it, you have some cooling orbs that you hand to him from the small fridge in the dressing room, and instruct him to run them around his eyes gently.

You try not to look directly at him. It feels forbidden somehow. As though you’re in a museum gawking at a rare exhibit in wonderment and realise that's exactly how you must look to him because he smirks crookedly at you; rousing you from your thought process, which pretty much consists of a lone, dribbling chimp scratching its own butt idly.

You turn your back to Dieter as he makes himself comfy in the chair as his locks are tamed; pink hair slides are fixed into his hair in sections as he runs the orbs around his sockets.

He tosses his phone onto the sofa, and you glance at him in the mirror making no attempt to hide the fact that he is staring quite intently at your ass.

His head slowly cocks as his thought process drains out of his ear onto his shoulder in a wet schollop.

Bemused, you smirk as his eyes flash up to yours and he holds your gaze darkly in the mirror.

You wipe off the make-up from the back of your hand and turn to face him, throwing him your best, yet less than enthused, smile.

He’s staring straight back at you expectantly.

"Look this way for me, Dieter." You instruct, your voice cracking like a teenage boy who has just started to grow pubes. And a stark warning for him to stop gawking at your behind.

“Sure. Sure, honey.” He says, looking fully at your face.

You clear your throat, as you step towards him, treating him no differently to how you would any other celebrity sitting in front of you.

There had been bigger names sat in that chair - legends, those with long renowned titles of Hollywood royalty. The same spiel, the same routine; inspect their skin, ask about allergies, do their make-up and send them on their way on stage.

Touch them up during commercial break and/or if they were sweating under the stage lights. Take home a paycheck. Repeat the process, chronically exhausted, until you die. They say that the Hollywood industry is glamorous. You must've missed that fucking memo.

But yet, you’re sweating; feeling it simmer up under your armpits and down the middle of your cleavage inside your t-shirt. Your body betrays you as you get closer to him and you feel it zap in between your legs.

"Do you mind?" You ask as you raise your hands towards his face and he shakes his head, plopping the orbs in his lap.

“Go ahead. You have my consent to touch me,” he says.

You can see the stylist pinning sections of his hair as she gets to grips with trying to tame those unruly curls with knitted eyebrows and hands sticky of styling putty.

Placing your fingers lightly on the side of his face, you inspect his complexion over in the light and are forced to inhale the tonka bean and neroli wafts of his aftershave that attacks your nostrils with delicious, sinful notes.

There's an underlying tone of something else that bites on the back of your tongue, something metallic in it's flirty chemistry.

Dieter has an almost perfect canvas of unspoiled skin, despite his years and the crinkles nesting around his eyes. Some large, open pores are dotted over his aquiline nose with black roots and flaky, dried out nostrils. A few broken capillaries snake around in his sockets like tiny parasites.

His beard is patchy, smattered with grey whiskers that's groomed neatly, despite it's chaos. You start there, taming it with oil and a soft brush. Preparing the canvas before you paint life back into it.

"We're not going to need much, your skin is pretty good," you compliment.

“Must be the years of sobriety.” Dieter clucks, monotone.

The stylist snorts behind him and he smirks. At least someone got the joke.

"I like your scent," he says to you, inhaling and it’s like you’re back in gym class in high school and someone has thrown the ball and it's leather slap bounces right off your face. “Your perfume. Smells like oranges. I like oranges. Do you want an orange?”

“Urm-”

“Hey, sweetheart? Can you get them to get me an orange?” Dieter says, tilting his head back to the stylist. “Maybe four… and some water, please. Oh, and a Don Julio. No, fuck it. Just bring the bottle. Thank you. Your eyes are incredible.” He compliments her and you watch, amazed, as she instantly melts into a pile of goo on the floor.

He could have asked her for a blow job and you're pretty convinced she'd be on her knees right now giving it to him if he had.

“Sure,” the stylist heads towards the door and opens it as she turns every shade of pink.

You step back from him shaking your head with derision, taking the orbs, and turn to the dresser. Your fingers are still burning from touching his face.

"I'll do some concealer, some powder, maybe a little colour correction under your eyes." You reply all business-like.

"Whatever you think." Dieter replies casually; his voice grizzly, yet airy.

You pick out a few bottles of skin coloured liquids and mix a few together, matching his skin tone. He has a slight tan to his already golden face; a subtle shimmer that dances across his forehead and nose.

"You don't like me. I can sense it." He announces as few seconds later.

"I'm sorry?" You baulk.

"Like animals. Pheromones or some shit, they can smell it. I don't know. Predator. Prey. But you don't like me." Dieter rambles.

You shake your head again smirking into the palette, stunned, but equally impressed by his arrogant gall. "I don't know you."

"So get to know me." He challenges.

"If it's all the same, I'd rather just do your make-up." You reply a little more sour.

He rests his chin on his fist, crossing one leg over the other and studying you carefully.

"You're a professional." He yawns around his words. On purpose, you're not sure. You can see dark fillings in the back of his molars.

"I am." You assure, teeth clenching. It offends you that he thinks you'll cave so easily. Who does he think he is?

Your pussy tries to convince you that actually, you probably would as it pulses at his smirk. You clench that smack talk away and concentrate on the task at hand.

"That's cool. I like a challenge." Dieter retorts and you roll your eyes.

You offer him a few wipes to cleanse with. Once he’s done and his face glows a little pink from running them all over his skin, you wheel your stool forward and perch on it in front of him.

He reaches forward and pulls it closer with a yank under the lip between your legs.

He opens up his own legs so you can slot in between, and you try to look anywhere else aside from the obvious package nestled between them in banana slug yellow. Jesus.

"I like the way you smell." Dieter explains as your eyes question his gumption.

"Is this you flirting with me?" You query, your professionalism hanging on by a single finger as you bite back.

It's not the first time some sleazy actor or hack has tried their luck with you. Why is it always the sleazy ones?

"Is it working?" Dieter questions. He genuinely looks interested in your reply.

"No."

"Liar."

You scoff at his defined, roguish face and begin prepping it with a silky primer. His eyelids drop towards your lap, your centre, and his long eyelashes flutter as he blinks.

It’s hushed between you as you dab at the skin under his eyes delicately with the pad of your third finger; a tiny little bouncing notion as he looks upwards towards the ceiling at your instruction.

But those damned brown peepers keep wandering back to yours to pull you into sedition.

You run your fingers with the product over his cheeks and forehead. Smoothing your thumbs under his fuzzy chin; feeling the soft, silken scratch of his facial scruff under them. You glide across the bridge of his large, wide nose up to his T-zone and between his eyebrows.

You can feel the heat of his breath on your wrist as it passes directly across his face.

Dieter then throws a grenade over your fence as your brain conjures up despicable images of that breath felt on your cunt as he licks it.

You reach for some tissues and hand them to him, remembering to breathe. He tucks them inside the flaps over the lapels of his blazer at your suggestion as you reach for the concealer.

"Want me to just take it off? This blazer is over a thousand dollars." He offers, mixing innocence with practicality into a shaker and pouring you out a glass of beguilement, topped with extra cherries and a sugary rim. Delicious.

You lick your lips.

He follows your eyes down his clavicle, to the sun-kissed, smooth skin that the jacket exposes. To the nipple, that if you just twist your head, you're certain you'll see waving at you under the dark confines of the blue corduroy where it's lifted ever so as he sits.

Skin that you want to taste. You want to know what Dieter Bravo fucking tastes like, and the echo of that thought prods at your wanting with menace.

"I don't make a mess." You assure, feeling your mouth run dry. You lick around your teeth.

"I bet you do." He simmers.

"Just stop." You warn firmly. "This, what you're doing. It's not appropriate, and I'm not interested, okay?" Yeah. Best shut that shit down.

He lets out a small slip of a chuckle. Kind of like a subtle huh in restrained astonishment.

"What?" You question, as he continues to stare at you whilst you paint his skin. You're serious. Your mouth is pulled tight into a scowl.

“Sorry, sorry.” He says, dropping his eyes. He gets it; he overstepped the mark and retreats hastily back to safe territory, dick between his legs.

The stylist returns with a crew member who has a handful of fresh oranges, Fiji water and a bottle of tequila. Dieter necks back a mouthful of the tequila directly from the bottle in a deep gulp, much to your surprise, and reaches out for the fruit, peeling the waxy skin.

You hand him another tissue to collect the peel in. The zesty scent fills your nose and you feel the subtle mist of it on your face, tasting it when you lick your lips.

He offers out a segment that drips sticky over his fingers to you. You're Eve, he's the Serpent. It's a fucking orange instead of an apple, but it slaps all the same.

“I’m fine, thank you.” You deny it.

“Sweet enough, aren’t you, babe?” Dieter mutters, chewing as the juice bursts around his teeth and watches you keenly.

You catch the glance of the stylist who rolls her eyes at you smiling with some webbed pity.

You have to stand to reach him without your arms aching after some time, and as you stand up from the stool, you topple forward as the wheel throws you off balance.

He steadies you inside his large hands, either side of your waist and squeezes tightly to support your body weight before you head butt him. The orange is smooshed into your hip before it plops onto the floor.

"Don't fall for me" Dieter smirks, smiling as wide as his eyes are now.

You decide to heed his advice and squeeze away all those macabre thoughts of illicit wanting starting to brew.

You’re kinda on pause for a few, clumsy moments; him holding onto you and your face inches away from smacking into his.

"I'm so sorry." You stand upright and still feel the searing brand of his hands on your hips as he lets you go, orange now completely discarded on the floor in it's wet, pithy death in exchange for needless heroism.

"It's alright." He muses, smiling as you become more and more flustered. Oh, real smooth.

Dieter asks for another orange, and you give it to him, almost throwing it at him, and continue to prep his face without further incident.

The steam continues to billow out of your ears, however. Alongside the steady dripping, like a leaky faucet, of your cunt into your panties.

A while later, when you’re both finished up with him, and he's as preened and prepped as he's going to get without staying still, he asks to be left alone for some privacy to re-run through his lines.

You both leave the room, feeling grateful for the reprieve. The cool air in the corridor smacks you in the face and you welcome it.

His arrogance does amuse you, admittedly. And the flattery boosts you in equal measure. But to know you'd just be another notch on his seedy bedpost doesn't appeal, even if your pussy is trying to counter-argue otherwise right now.

You try to ignore the damp, throbbing bitch.

You head onto set for a short gathering with the team to talk logistics, scene movements and outfit combos.

You realise you need to stock the make-up caddy with a few essentials as you inspect it carefully, and head back down to the dressing room around twenty minutes later.

You knock on the dressing room door, but don’t hear anything. You knock again and when you don’t hear Dieter welcome you in, or tell you to fuck off, you push open the door gently.

The scent of oranges fills the air and there doesn’t appear to be any sign of him. You set to work on filling your make-up belt with some supplies, and reach for some bottles, when you hear it.

It’s indistinct at first, but you turn your head towards the bathroom where the door is slightly ajar.

“Fuck!” You hear a growl and freeze, heart thrumming in your ears.

You hear a deep, long sniff, some metallic tapping, or scraping, you can't be sure. Another sniff and then a heavy loaded cough that sounds like hacking up.

Your limbs are rendered useless as Dieter comes out of the bathroom wiping at his nose, and stops when he catches sight of you staring back at him.

There's some white powder dusted on his lapel, obviously stark in the blue at what it is, and his face is a little shinier now, despite the job you've done.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think you were in here-” you begin, but he shrugs.

You clutch at the bottles and your belt, and make your way towards the door. You shouldn't be here, you shouldn't have seen this. You shouldn't be tempted.

But why is it kinda hot that you are?

"I don’t have to be on set for half an hour yet, right?” Dieter's eyes look you up and down.

“Yeah, I think so,” you confirm.

"I want to have sex with you." He states.

"Dieter," you sigh. You swallow. Your thighs clench and you feel it pulse in your panties.

"I know you want to have sex with me too. So shall we just cut the shit and skip the part where you act all indignant and offended by it, babe? Because I'd really like to get to the part where you're coming all over my cock." He slips the blazer off of his shoulders and tosses it on the stool brazenly.

Your eyes run the length of his thick neck, over the mountains of his broad shoulders that you want to mark and claw into as you cling onto him. Down the matching, inverted triad tattoos inked on each of his inner arms.

Wandering over the small, pink studs of his nipples and down to the smattering of dark curls beneath his belly button that disappear into that jaunty yellow waistband.

His tummy is a little paunchy; a small spread of middle age catching up with him, but it's actually doing something for you, despite yourself.

Clearly, you've underestimated this cocky fucker.

“Does that door lock?” He enquires, although his current state of undress clearly gives no fucks if it doesn't.

Your gaze drops to his cock and it's apparent in it's hardness, tenting almost. You notice a small wet patch that has appeared staining the yellow darker. Evidence of his obvious arousal for you, and you can only imagine the state of your own panties by how sodden they feel.

You nod, salivating. Fuck, this is really going to happen. Shit.

“Lock it." Dieter juts his chin towards you.

You swallow at his gall. And at your instant reaction to lock it quickly.

“Do you want to have sex with me?” Dieter repeats. You watch as his hand grips his cock over his pants and he hisses, revealing his teeth.

You nod, feeling it flare all over your body as you reach for the lock behind you and twist it round. The click sounds like a shotgun being fired.

"Need to hear it." He coaxes. "Can't have you saying shit after..."

"I want to have sex with you, Dieter." You can already hear your cunt goading you. I told you so...

You confirm to him clearly your consent, which makes you respect him that bit more that he's asking for it, and like you've never wanted anything more in your life.

He nods. "Good.”

You both careen into the dresser; brushes rolling off the top and scattering onto the floor with little plinks and plonks.

He pushes his body weight onto yours, and you reach for him over those terrible yellow pants, feeling how unabashedly hard he is against you.

Feeling that he's not wearing any fucking underwear underneath them either.

The material is thinner than it looks and you can feel all the hard, swollen ridges of him; the fat bulb of his swollen head as you grope and squeeze lavishly.

His kisses become hungry, desperate and gasping as his tongue massages yours and you kiss him back harder. You can taste a faint descry of sweetly saccharine citrus around his teeth as you lick into his mouth.

It's a little sloppy, frantic. You nibble on his bottom lip as his hands claw at your ass prodding bruises into it, and he presses his cock into the middle of your legs and winds his hips upwards.

Dieter's hands are squeezing and kneading; feeling its curves and shape through your jeans. He shoves you up against the wall; running his hands up either side of your body.

It's almost as if he's afraid to let go of you, scared you'll fall out of his grip and you cling onto him just as feverishly.

You pepper kisses over his bare, toned chest as his fingers lift your top off over your head and he pulls down your bra straps, kissing along your shoulders. Trailing his hot, wet tongue down your collarbone and towards your cleavage. He occasionally bites at the skin and it makes you feral.

You gasp out as he pulls down the cup of your bra and takes your nipple inside his mouth. Your hands are running through his hair, twisting and mussing and looking down at him as he suckles on that hard, bud; those full lips of his suctioned around it tightly and pulling wildly.

"Fuck! Your hair," you gasp, giggling at the state of it.

He simply rubs his head all in your chest and tits, messing it up further and snickering as he does it. Dieter Bravo's jar of fucks is definetly empty.

You reach down to his pants, pushing them down his hips and dropping them to the floor where he steps out of the ghastly things, and his shoes; standing there completely naked.

You cup around his balls, plump and firm; squeezing and massaging gently as he pulls your jeans and panties down.

Feeling how thick and heavy he is inside your hands, he gasps around your nipple; moving up to your face to kiss you as your palm runs over the sticky tip of his head that makes him shudder and flinch.

His cock feels amazing, weighty and warm. Thick in it's continual swelling and with a lush, rosy head that matches the hue his lips have become from you chewing and sucking on them.

Dieter's big hands are on the side of your face as he nips at your lips hungrily. Slipping his tongue inside of your mouth so you can taste him some more.

He squeezes both your breasts together inside his giant hands as he kisses you, whining as you jerk him off. Little strained whimpers and shudders flow into your mouth.

"You like that, huh?" You tease watching him melt, pupils blown wide at you.

"Yeah." He places his hand over yours and jerks with you.

He smirks as he runs his other fingers down the underside of your arm lightly; causing you to squirm where it tickles and your skin erupts in goose pimples.

He mouths hungrily over your face. He can taste your hair strands flossing his teeth.

"Fuck, babe," he gasps looking at you both pumping his cock. His hips thrust into your mutual grip. Your wrist is wet from his sticky leakage.

He runs his lips down your chin and chest, stopping over your hard nipples again and sucking them; biting them and making you gasp out. He trails his tongue around your belly button, his cock slipping out of your grip as he settles on his knees.

"I want this pussy coming on my face." He murmurs up to you; his voice possessed by brazen lust. Dieter sinks his face, without hesitation, into your pussy lips and begins licking around your drenched folds voraciously.

Your hands are tugging tighter on his hair now, twisting around the roots as he licks all over your clit making your thighs spasm and jerk around his face.

"Mmm... yes," you moan out, throwing your head back into the hard wall. You see stars for a moment, but they don't dissipate; instead they flood under your eyelids in gold and fluorescent pinks.

He holds onto your hips as he licks and sucks. Arching your back and pulling your pelvis further into his face as he feasts on that buzzing nub sending zaps of electricity through your legs.

"Shit!" You mewl as he begins to intensify the movements of his tongue; looking up at you with those dark, beguiling eyes that could charm even Lucifer himself to walk off a cliff. The Devil? Pah!

He leads you up that hill, tugging you enthusiastically by the arm as you climb higher and higher. Your body tightening, curling inwardly as you feel it build and gather on the end of your clit.

And then it snaps back, flooding your legs with warmth and fanning that fire that has been simmering in your belly since he got all up and personal in your grill.

"Oh fuck, I'm coming!" You writhe on him and squeeze your fists together in his scalp. Closing your eyes and seeing multi-coloured glitter and sparkles behind them as those stars now implode.

After Dieter makes you come on his face, he picks you up, lifting you onto the dresser with an audibly strained groan.

"I'm just an actor and my back is fucking killing me," he whines as he plops you down and you smirk.

He streches, it clicks and your own back is pressed against the mirror. The products that you had previously arranged in neat lines are now tossed aside by the crush of your ass.

Dieter spreads your legs and grabs the back of your neck and presses his mouth against yours; his tongue finding its way around your gums again, and you can taste the tang of your pussy. A sticky, sweet syrup that coats his lips like gloss.

A heinous thought tempts you to send him out on stage like that.

His fingers from his other hand slide all over your slit; finding their way inside the moist, fleshy lips. You let out a deep gasp as he curls two of them inside you, making room for an eventual third, as you buck against them.

They swim deeper, until you can feel the warmth building deep in your core where he's found the magic spot and is stroking it, making you pant under him.

"That feel good, baby?" Dieter croons to you, smirking.

"Uh-huh." You breathe, nodding in wonderment at him.

It really does and you're kinda shocked, because from the moment he walked in, you couldn't imagine that almost an hour or so later, he'd have you foaming at the mouth like this.

You can say a lot about Dieter Bravo - and many do, singing like canaries for the right price - but Dieter is not a selfish lover as he pulls another orgasm out of you within minutes of your first.

And it won't be your last.

"I knew you'd make a mess..." he grins, as your cunt soaks over his digits buried to the hilt in you and stretching you wide.

His lips find your nipple; gently teasing it between his teeth and nipping on it gently until it's fully puckered once more. He sucks on it greedily whilst he drills his digits faster and faster inside your dripping hole.

Squelchy noises can be heard fapping all round the dressing room in their shrill lewdness.

"Oh fuck!"

"Make a mess all over my fingers again," he cajoles.

You whine and reach for his dick, resting on the edge of the vanity you're spread eagle on, and it's dripping onto it. A loud grunt escapes from his mouth as you rub him up and down tightly inside your grip whilst his fingers whorl deeper inside you.

"I wanna suck your cock," you moan to him desperately, as his fingers are making you shudder once more.

"After you come again, baby." He pants.

You grip onto his wrist, pulling his fingers into you as he fingerbangs you faster. He mouths on you, swallowing down those moans and shrieks as they rise in their tempo.

You explode for the third time, creaming all over them. Dieter immediately shoves them into his mouth to suck them clean.

You drop to your knees in front of him; taking his hard length inside your mouth willingly as you open wide for it. You savor his salt, swallow it down as it floods across your taste buds deliciously.

The view inside the mirror is his torso with your head bobbing up and down slowly, and it makes him go nuts to see it.

"Better than porn." He growls, looking down at you with his dick sliding into your mouth.

He tastes meaty, and his cock is smooth, fat with blood; filling your mouth as you suck and tease the head before taking him all the way in deep.

His hand is felt on the back of your head gently and it makes you tingle to feel him fuck your mouth. Controlling the depth and watching you in the mirror as you swallow him down.

Dieter cups and pulls on his balls whilst you take him to the back of your throat. He curses, sending ragged profanities into the air around you as he closes his eyes and licks his lips, enjoying the deep, hypnotic pull on his dick.

"You know, I never do this." You assure him with a drool as he pops out. You still can't believe this is happening, or how exactly it is that this has escalated between you both so fast.

You lather him up with your saliva, shiny, almost crinoline, and suck him back in.

"You look gorgeous when you do this," he smirks.

Dieter can't abnegate himself away from you anymore. He pulls you up on your feet and bends you over the vanity.

Your face is close to the mirror and he arches an eyebrow at you - seeking more consent. You nod at him, staring back at him, as he sinks his cock into your pussy from behind.

Spreading your ass cheeks so he can view that damned fine cunt that he's tasted and now craves more than the coke.

As you become connected, you stare at each other through the looking glass; your breath fogging against it, as though you can't believe he's inside you for a second or two, and neither can he, until he begins pumping in and out of you at a pace that intensifies as he goes with each stroke.

His cock barrages in, packing you out and filling you full of him. You push back, meeting every move as your fuck begins to mutate into relentless drilling.

His thighs slap against the meat of your ass, his breath pelts onto your back. His hands pull on your shoulders wrenching you onto him.

"Fuck Dieter!" You wail.

A knock at the door startles you both to instant stillness. Shit.

"Mr Bravo? Uhh, Dieter?" A voice calls from the other side of the door.

His hand clamps around your mouth as he continues to thrust.

"Yeah?" He calls, smirking down at you.

"Fifteen minutes until live. Are you ready?" The door handle rattles but it remains locked.

"I'll be there!" Dieter yells back as you bite on the thick skin of his thick middle finger as he fucks you harder, quicker.

"Fuck!" You cry out as you contract and spasm around him. "Oh God!"

"You like that? I feel good inside you?" Dieter asks around wheezed pants.

"Ah, fuck yes!" You groan, your breasts jiggling in the mirror as he ploughs into you.

He looks down at the sight of his dick slamming into your pussy; it becoming shiny with your slick soaking all over it as he pulls back each time. Your pert ass cheeks rippling and pressed up against his groin.

He manoeuvres your hips and rams into your harder, making you cry out loudly.

"Your pussy is so fucking tight." He groans out as he fucks you deep and hard; barraging into you and the vanity shaking and creaking with each thrust.

He grunts behind you like an animal possessed.

More products topple onto the floor. You notice one of your more expensive Mehron eyeshadow palettes broken with colorful dust flaked over the carpet.

Shit.

Reality pulls you back as you realise you're both cutting it fine. You glance him in the mirror behind you and Dieter is a sweaty mess - and he's due on set in literal minutes!

''Dieter..."

"Yeah. Say my name, baby." He puffs.

"No, Dieter. We have to stop. You need to be on set." You say pushing yourself up.

"They can wait." He kisses your shoulder as you rise flat against his chest. His arms slip around your waist, his fingers skimming your clit.

"It's live. It can't wait. Stop, come on." You coax. Although you really don't want to stop.

He grunts and pulls out, not before giving you two deep shunts. "Fuck," he whines. "How long we got?"

"Minutes. Get dressed, we need to fix you up."

The next few minutes are spent frantically trying to dress yourself whilst you simultaneously fix his face. Multi-tasking at it's clumsy finest.

He doesn't help of course, slipping his fingers into the front of your jeans and kissing at your face as you try to blot the shine from his.

"You're impossible!" You squirm away, giggling.

"You're delicious." Dieter croons. "What is that perfume?"

He tussles his hair; fluffy, sweat laden curls and you spritz it with some hairspray hoping it will hold, but he looks incredibly windswept.

Fully dressed, Dieter opens the door just as a crew member is about to knock and strides out.

You follow behind him, hoping they don't peek their head in the dressing room and witness the carnage in there. But the thought makes your buzz in all the right places.

Scurrying beside him to powder his face as he walks quickly following the crew member towards the screens and wires that are taped to the floor, you also wipe down his lapel, freeing him of the evidence of the coke as he grins crookedly at you.

"Break a leg." You say. He leaves you with a wink.

The familiar music theme rises up and the crowd roars into applause.

You watch as that fiend, Dieter Bravo, steps through and disappears from your sight. The screams and frantic clapping rises in its tempo, and you hear him begin to start his opening monologue.

You watch him on a monitor. He's confident, brash, breezy. He delivers his lines, steals his cues and has the audience laughing and eating out of the palm of his hand.

A far cry form the dishevelled, tried man he was when he slumped into the make-up chair earlier.

He weaves some kind of voodoo over them all; hot liquid charm and you're pretty certain you've fallen under that spell too.

The stylist finds you a few minutes later as the monitor illuminates your face and whispers to you. "What the hell happened to his hair?"

You simply shrug, feeling the heat burning your face.

They stop filming for commercial break and you reach into your make-up belt, stepping up towards the stage with the stylist in tow and approach him gingerly.

You dab at his face with a tissue blotting natural oils away that have formed on his forehead, and apply another light dusting of powder as he sips from the Fiji water thrust into his hand.

He doesn't look at you, pretends that what happened in the dressing room hasn’t happened, despite carrying a semi in his pants throughout most of the monologue.

That'll do the rounds tomorrow, no doubt. Fans cropping pictures of his crotch to post on their socials with the eggplant emoji.

Before he gives you a chance to lament in any disappointment, you feel his fingers brush the side of your hip ever so gently, every so clandestinely.

The set is full of bodies, the audience twittering away and hot lights are almost blinding you.

But that small slip of affection, of wanting, doesn't go unnoticed, and has you sold that Dieter Bravo hasn't had his fill of you yet.

The feeling is mutual as you smile dipping your brush in for more powder and tapping off the excess.

The stylist is called away and Dieter runs a hand through his hair ruining her handiwork once again in just one second. He sends you a heated smirk and stares you down as you dust his face.

"What are you smirking at?" You mutter covertly.

He leans forward discreetly, his lips barely moving. "I'm thinking about the fact that my fingers smell of your pussy right now...”

You clear your throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure. It's hard, because those words just fucking killed you.

"I'm in the city for a few more days." He breathes out. "I'm staying at The Bowery. The Penthouse Terrace Suite. Fourteenth floor. Ask for Gio at the desk. We can hang out, finish what we started?" He raises his eyebrows in query.

"Maybe we will." You confirm.

"Good. Yes." Dieter smirks darkly, working you up all over again. "Amazing," he says, smiling with relief.

You grin back at him as you practically skip off the set; your face feeling heated and sweaty. Legs feeling like they could give way at any moment.

The music for the show starts up again and you watch as Dieter speaks into the camera like a natural once more.

You don't see Dieter Bravo again that night.

He’s whisked away to the after party as soon as the show wraps and you’re not important enough to be invited along.

You pack up your make-up case after tidying up the dressing room, and wheel it out to the trunk of your car in the lot, waving to the security guard as he lifts the barrier up.

You go home and ride your dildo to excess as you relive the encounter that stays with you all night.

The following day you make good on your word about visiting Dieter at The Bowery. You don’t leave his hotel suite for three days in total. Only coming up for air to snack and smoke blunts with him.

The sex is criminal; you should both be locked up it's so depraved what you do to one another. You lose count of the number of times he makes you come, and how many times you find your fingers slipping inside his ass.

Your friends message you incessantly about your whereabouts, some speculating you've been kidnapped. You dutifully inform them that you've actually been dicknapped instead, but can't say much about said dick in question. Your inner sadist revels in leaving them hanging.

No, Dieter Bravo is your filthy, little secret to keep. Like anyone would believe you anyway...

When you do eventually walk out of The Bowery, squinting into the sunlight with knots in your hair and bruises on your hips, you finally understand what it must feel like to have an addiction.

You know you'll be burned. That this tryst will shrink into the rear view and he’ll not give you a second thought when he's back in LA.

You don’t have expectations, least of all from Dieter Bravo, and he didn’t make you any promises.

He sent you on your way, inherently satisfied and pumped full of his come. Your life is waiting for you and so is his. You chalk it up to a wild experience, one you'll never forget, and one you'll relive on those horny nights alone.

You think that perhaps you'll acquaint yourself with his career after all, it'll come in handy whilst you get off. Some Dieter porn paused on your TV. Yeah.

But for now you leave The Bowery, remaining invisible, past the paparazzi, past the fans that wait for a glimpse of him when he’ll emerge later and revelling in the power of their ignorance. It's fucking bliss.

You carry on into your life accompanied with an aching hunger you won't be able to shake; it weighs heavy in your core, for a little while.

It leaves you lightheaded, giddy.

And you experience that same feeling again later, a month later in fact; the lightheadedness, the giddiness.

You experience it as you stare, eyes fixed like a laser - the heat and panic clouding your senses. The rising bile swimming up the back of your throat at the audacity of that prominent, blue line on the pregnancy test, staring you back in the face, taunting you.

Blue, just like that damned blazer.

Fuck.

Thank you so much for reading this lil' Dieter story of mine. Re-blogs & comments are greatly appreciated.🖤

MASTERLIST | DIETER BRAVO MASTERLIST

Tagging the Dickin' Around With Dieter On Discord Lovelies: @secretelephanttattoo @rhoorl @maggiemayhemnj @trulybetty @for-a-longlongtime @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @goodwithcheese @musings-of-a-rose @avastrasposts @undercoverpena @gemmahale @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @linzels-blog @sin-djarin @beboldbebravethings @legendary-pink-dot @laurfilijames @ladybess-a03

(If you wanna be removed, it's cool.)

🖤

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo the bubble #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #pedro pascal snl #jett's writing #jett's pedro boys

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maxzinn · 27 days

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off topic but also on topic its so clear that the genshin/star rail (saying both cause theres a large overlap) have no capability of thinking.

there are so many fics where *reader* somehow becomes a (sex)slave or is forced to do horrible shit and just general dead dove behavior. the fact that the author used INGAME LORE, CANON BACKSTORY FOR THE CHARACTER proves how braindead so many people are.

like people try to free slaves/captors in media isnt a new thing. theres a lot of art of that angelhusk ship where one gambles for the others freedom (never watched it but its an example)

like having slaves/captors in media isnt new and never has been but the only reason people truely care is because its a hoyoverse game and cant handle anything darker or complex then a PG rating

(sorry anon, I got carried away with this one tee-hee)

YOU'RE SO REAL FOR THIS!!! y'know I was sooo confused when people started screaming for blood when the authors are using his IN-GAME LORE in their fics and then claims that the people who enjoyed writing those have "white-knight syndrome" like cmon sjsadhjg you're giving me a fucking stroke.

I'll say it again, wanting to give slave aventurine or someone a better life DOESN'T mean they have "white-knight syndrome" when they have good intentions!!! We were all were crying for him and his tragic past, we all wanted to comfort him, and we at some point also wished for his salvation and the betterment of his life. These people need to stop throwing these "white-knight syndrome" accusations cuz it's definitely not about that. And like you said, it was his IN-GAME LORE. I already expected some authors to write about reader saving him from his slavery and there's nothing wrong with that! Cuz please, don't tell me you won't help the guy out of his abusive owner, let's be fr here.

Like you also said, many have been writing yandere/heavy dark themes about reader being literally SA'd and R'd by said character (do not tell me you guys haven't read all those fics where Aven was our debt collector and in paying our debt, he noncon or manipulated us into sleeping with him 💀) and now they wanna talk about morals?

And please, don't even try bringing up Romania or irl people in here. IT'S A FICTIONAL RACE IN A FICTIONAL STORY. it may be "inspired" like they said, but it's not directly addressing Romania!!

I get their point alright, I truly do. Like I said in my other post, I do not condone the sex slave! aus about aventurine and the master/slave bdsm cuz his story truly hurt me and I'm uncomfortable sexualizing his slavery when I know about his story and what happened to him as a slave. But I won't go as far as to actually send death threats to those authors and act like a hypocrite💀 people can write what they want to write and I don't have to read those writings if I don't wanna.

Just to say, I'm a yandere/dark-content enjoyer as well, it's just that I draw the line when it comes to aventurine cuz I just wanna cuddle and dote on that man and give him all the love and affection in the world. but like I said, am no hypocrite as well. (sorry if I can't explain it very well but I hope you get the gist of it)

It's just funny and baffling how people are like "eww this person wrote a fic about reader buying slave aventurine so they can be a good owner to him".... this is leaving me speechless how they turned an act with good intentions into something malicious... that poor author doesn't even have bad intentions when writing that fic.

When you apply their logic, it's like saying "this person adopted an abused child so that they can be a good parent to that child, disgusting" do they even realize how stupid they sound??? 😭

#aventurine x reader #I just cannot with this #y'all giving me a headache with this one #funny how they turned a person's good intention into something malicious

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art · 2 years

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Creator Spotlight: @min-play

I’m Min! I’m an animator and storyboard rti t who also posts comics and fan art online. So far, I have worked on the Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and LEGO Monkie Kid. I run on AAA batteries.

Check out our interview with Min below!

How did you get your start in animation and storyboarding?

Fanart! My hyperfixations kept me drawing and posting online since I was around 16. Later I dropped my Computer Science degree to study animation. After graduating, I worked as an In-between Animator, Key Animator, and Storyboard Artist. My fanart of a couple funny skeletons played a big role in getting hired.

What do you wish you knew when you first started out creating content that you know now?

It’s ok to make mistakes. All the flaws in a drawing make it look much more interesting. Also, it’s a lot more fun than spending ages perfecting one line.

Have you ever had an art block? If so, how did you overcome it?

I always get 3 different flavors of art block (that I remember):

Art block from perfectionism

Sometimes there’s this self-enforced pressure that what you make has to be of a certain standard. Gotta loosen up and forgive yourself for not meeting an imaginary quality. Do it for the fun of it. Instead of thinking’ needs to be better,’ think ‘eh good enough lol.’ It’s cool to strive for improvement! Just don’t do it to the point it becomes self-deprecating.

Art block from burnout

Art hibernation! It’s ok to take breaks. Not every waking moment needs to be productive. Treat yourself to something yummy, hang out with people you’re comfortable with, or pick up a new anime series. Take the time to get some well-deserved rest.

Art block while drawing as a full-time job

WELL DANG.

Switch your ‘drive.’ If you’re running off on passion or interest as a motivator for work, that’s great! I do too! But also, it’s finicky. Set up routines for when that high runs out. I have a ‘Do task’ mode where I play a song or a movie I already watched on loop in the background (sometimes for weeks on end). I don’t know why but it helps me concentrate. Last week, it was the movie Cars.

These are personal methods and may not work for everyone, but I hope it helps!

What are 3 things you can’t live without as a creator?

Music + Noise-canceling headphones + Big blanket = Comfort force field

What is a medium that you have always been intrigued by but would never use yourself?

Does blacksmithing count as a medium? I’d like to try it out at least once, though.

How do you want to evolve as a creator?

To connect with other creators more. Especially writers. They are so powerful.

Warm tones or cool tones?

Cool tones! Especially this one particular blend of blue and green.

Who on Tumblr inspires you and why?

So maaaanyy. At the top of my head, though: @northpen. I am obsessed with their vivid-imagery writing style, and immaculate characterizations. Their character banters always have me in a gigglefit. They have this fic I binged in one sitting and left me crying and empty in a good way.

Thank you for such amazing answers, Min! You can check out more of Min’s creations over at @min-play!

#creator spotlight #animators on tumblr #storyboard artist #artists on tumblr #min-play

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wispscribbles · 6 months

Text

Mw3 spoilers (just a long personal ramble)

Hiii. So

As soon as the pre-release came out on, I hunted down spoilers, because I know myself and knew that if someone died and I got that information out of the blue, I wouldn’t take it well. Jokes on me, because I still haven’t been taking it well lol

I won’t talk about how Soap’s death was handled or the quality of the game. Plenty of smarter people are doing so.

I try not to talk a lot about myself and irl stuff on here, but will just say: I am very unwell, mentally. (Cue silence because that’s not surprising at all) Something I am very aware that I do, is that I latch onto fiction with my whole being, usually one specific character. For some reason, I always latch onto the character that ends up dead, usually in a way that make them only exist to further the motivations of other characters. It sucks.

So my hope for Soap has never been great, but for some reason I was still so shocked?? I don’t know, I tricked myself into thinking this time was different. Such an iconic character with so much good setup for great character development. I knew someone would die, but ow. To me, he was the element that made 141 seem more like family than coworkers. Soap’s interactions with the rest just livened up the games so much and made them all shine. Especially Ghost. Their dynamic, man.

Soap was the character that intrigued me enough to jump into the cod rabbit hole. It feels very hollow without him.

I keep telling myself that it’s silly to be so hurt over something fictional, and that I can just treat it as a mcd fanfic and move on, but nope. Brain’s stuck in the bad stuff. It’s a bad habit of mine to let something like this affect me so much, but well. Logic vs feeling and all that.

I really did find so much comfort in Soap this last year, that I severely needed. It feels a little like losing someone I know, someone who helped me through a rough time. I related to something in him and felt inspired. I only started writing after getting into ghostsoap, I started working out and I got back into art after a very long burnout. It may be fiction, but the impact is not.

So that was pretty much the worst case scenario of what mw3 could be to me. I always knew the risk, but, once again, ow. But there also seems to be plenty of good stuff in the game that I enjoy. I’m happy with the Ghost and Soap dialogue, the whole team working together and seeing Laswell and Farah and Alex and Nik. I hope I can be inspired by some of the new content once I’m calmer.

And I was worried they would ignore Ghost and Soap’s relationship after their development in mw2, but they genuinely seem to have gotten real close. It’s nice. I thought the shipping might scare the game devs into never having them appear in a scene together again, so that’s a plus.

Bottom line to all this is: I probably need a little break to get my head sorted. The grief is surprisingly real, it’s triggered some old stuff for me (haven’t been sleeping or eating, been stuck in some old thoughts). I’ll need to calm down and become a bit more normal about this again. Part of the grief isn’t so much about Soap himself, but also just the safe space that this account has been. The very nature of how the fandom is going to interact with Soap and Ghostsoap is going to change now, and man… I liked how it was, y’know? Could’ve used a little longer in that bubble. There’s going to be plenty of new fics and art, lovely stuff as always, but many of them will be tinged with grief, and I’m not in a place where that won’t break me a little.

I will hopefully come back to posting and making stuff once my brain settles down. I have so many drafts for fics and ideas that I hope I can return to. I’ve gotten so used to drawing these lads that I doubt I can stop tbh

The version of Soap that we love is already evolved from the games due to all the time and care the community has put into the character. The games may have killed him, but luckily, he’s fictional. We can do what we want, same as before.

I’m not even saying that I wish they hadn’t killed him. The games are crafting a story that fits their audience. It makes sense.

But I will choose to live in one of the many universes we’ve created for Soap, where he is alive and cared for, with a found family and a spooky lieutenant with a soft spot for him. Good for him.

Hope you’re all taking care of yourselves. RIP canon Soap (again). Thanks to Neil for a wonderful portrayal. And no matter where we go from here, thanks for a wonderful year of creating with you lovely folks. Seriously, some of the kindest people I’ve met in fandom. <3

Lastly: fuck you Kevin O’Reilly, but more importantly, sincerely thank you. (CallMeKevin video about mw2 got me into this mess. Otherwise I was keeping cod at an arm’s length, but he’s my fav youtuber, so I watched it. And here we are!)

#if u don’t wanna read: I’ll be taking a small break for mental health reasons but expect to be back and creating for this fandom again <3 #mw3 #mw3 spoilers #cod mwiii #mwiii spoilers #call of duty mwiii #ghostsoap #wispy update #always feel anxious posting anything emotional but feel like this one deserved a proper update #you’re all wonderful ppl ily #hopefully see you soon !

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viccharine · 8 months

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do you guys ever listen to a band so much that you end up making fake merch for it?

(reblogs greatly appreciated!!!!)

close ups and commentary under the cut!

about the poster itself: do you guys know how hard it is to make art for a band that hasn’t been active in 13 years? the answer is HARD (yes, i probably could done research and looked for old interviews for inspiration but who has time for that)

—> the icons related to “take a vacation!” are inspired by lyrics from the song “take a vacation!” (haha, did you see what I did there?) specifically, the lines “we’ll leave the waves at the ocean” and “we’ll leave the sand in a suitcase”

—> the Jon Walker and Ryan Ross icons are taken directly from the album cover (it took ten years off my life trying to figure out how to get them on here w/ the color palette—graphic design may be my passion but I never said i was GOOD at it)

—> the heart imagery comes from the fact that the band’s called “the young VEINS”—although it annoys me IMMENSELY that i technically drew more arteries than veins in the icons (my anatomy teacher would be so disappointed, but alas, anatomical accuracy had to be sacrificed to make it. yknow. look nice)

—> i did hand-lettering for all the text except for everything that’s in Helvetica (i did THAT in canva). the art program i use has a basically unusable text tool so I was forced to draw all of it, so I choose to believe that the reason why it doesn’t look. the best. is because of the caffeine shakes

some extra commentary: am I the only one who’s genuinely REALLY bad at listening to music? i don’t really get into bands as much as i just find songs that sound nice—to illustrate the extent of this issue: i did NOT know that Brendon Urie was a part of Panic! At the Disco. I’m not even kidding, I thought the artist who made Death of a Bachelor and the artist who made A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out were completely different and just. didn’t bother to check if I was right.

also, I’m not the type of person to be interested in band lore???? I rarely know the names of band members if even I’ve listened to the band for years (I really couldn’t care less in most situations)

case in point, i did not know who the FUCK Ryan Ross was!!! i knew he was in p!atd but that’s literally about it—before a couple of days ago if you asked to me pick out either Ryan Ross or Jon Walker from a line up I would not be able to get even CLOSE

anyway, my friend/manager is really into band lore, so I basically got a crash-course in all things “early to late 2000s emo band” and subsequently found out about the Young Veins (i was also extremely disappointed when I found out they only had one album and hadn’t been active in over a decade) THEN I realized that decade old, inactive bands don’t usually have merch, so I made my own! “merch” used lightly—i don’t think this is actually fit to sell lol

anyway that’s all k thanks byeee :D!! (and go stream the young veins!!)

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slexenskee · 7 months

Text

At Tea Time

Inspired by this lovely little drawing of Fuyumi and Satoru by @lwx-xx

Oneshot [Here]

He keeps reaching up to stop it from tugging at his hair, but never seems to manage much else but more tangles. He doesn’t hate having hair this long, but it sure as hell is tiresome. He has no idea how girls can stand it. It’s not even that long, just enough to graze his shoulders and irritate him every time he turns his head. No matter how much it annoys him though, he refuses to cut it. The look of rage and disgust whenever his father sees him is enough to have him put up with it.

Gojo hides a smirk of amusement. There’s no way that guy doesn’t have decades of smothered homosexual urges, with the way he gets so personally offended whenever his eldest son so much as puts a dress on.

Really, Gojo’s just doing this for his benefit. If Endeavor could just embrace his own gayness and stop with this quirk genomics scheme, they’d all be better off. He snickers into his hand. The thought of Endeavor in a dress was so hideous he almost wanted to make it into reality.

“Nii-chan,” Fuyumi whines, pulling him out of his thoughts. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, Yumi,” he replies easily, picking up his little plastic teacup. “Aren’t you supposed to pour me more tea?”

She gasps in horror at the thought of being a poor fantasy hostess, and hastily leans over to splash more juice into his cup. Gojo didn’t really mind playing tea party whenever Fuyumi asked, including dressing up in whatever outfit Fuyum insisted on for him and procuring various sweets for their game, but he drew the line at using actual tea. A four year-old was more likely to scald them both than pour tea into a cup.

Truth be told, Gojo has no idea what you’re even supposed to do during a game like this. Fuyumi seems to have a plan in mind, so he’s just winging it. Maybe it’s just his adult mentality, but it just seems awfully boring. Fuyumi just pretends to be some old-fashioned Victorian lady asking about the weather and playing at being an adult. Why would anyone want to be an adult? Gojo honestly can’t fathom it.

It’s about as weird as having a sister in general— especially now that she can talk and play games and follow him around ceaselessly. The only reason he’s even here indulging her at all is because she’d cry if he left to fuck around with the neighborhood kids.

“Do you— do you like the tea?” She stutters out, trying and failing so terribly to affect a refined, lady-like voice that he almost falls into laughter again.

“Yeah, it’s great.” He takes a sip and plays along. “Not as good as the cake though.”

He’d gone all the way to the bakery in the next neighborhood over for it. The obaa-san behind the counter had gushed over how cute it was, for a little girl to be running errands for her mother. Gojo hadn’t bothered to correct her.

Fuyumi wrinkles her little nose at him.

Gojo sighs, and affects a very snobbish voice; “Yes, ojou-sama, the cake is really quite delicious. My compliments to the chef.”

Fuyumi bursts into delighted giggles. At four years-old, she has little to no grasp on formal speech, so she instead subjects Gojo to using it at her behest. It occasionally reminds Gojo of his unfortunate true childhood as the young master of an estate, where everyone demurred to him in such a manner, but he can ignore it easily enough when he’s trussed up as a girl playing tea party to appease his little sister.

He sighs again. “May we please cut the cake now? I’m feeling rather famished.”

“Yes, of course!” Fuyumi nods eagerly. Then she stares at the cake with a perplexed expression. Gojo quickly reaches over before his four year-old sister can attempt wielding a knife.

He stops playing tea parties, and all of Fuyumi’s other favorite childish activities deemed too effeminate by his father the year after, when the man decides he’s old enough for ‘real’ training. Fuyumi’s despondent about it for weeks, but there’s really nothing Gojo can do about it. Fighting with his father over it would just cause more tension in their already untenable household, and by then Fuyumi has a willing victim in little Natsuo, who’s finally toddling around on his own.

He’s not sure why he’s remembering it all so fondly now, when at the time he’d found it all quite the chore.

Fuyumi liked all the things little girls liked; playing dress-up as princesses, playing house, making fake tea parties and playing with her assortment of dolls. Gojo had mainly been bemused and distantly fascinated by it all, having never had a little sister before, but still found indulging her to be tedious. He’d done it anyway, mainly out of pity. She’d been such a lonely kid.

“What is this?” Eri asks him curiously, holding up a very familiar teapot.

Earlier, Fuyumi had dropped off the rest of her old clothes and toys that had been squirreled up in the attic, looking rather nostalgic as she’d handed over the plastic bin to him. She’d stayed for dinner and doted endlessly on Eri, who seems to be slowly but surely warming up to her, but with work tomorrow she’d left soon after, before Gojo could even start going through the bin.

“That’s a teapot, Eri-chan. It’s for tea parties.” He crouches down next to her, rummaging through the unsorted mess of toys and clothes. “Have you ever played tea party?”

She blinks at him, brow furrowed. She slowly shakes her head.

He laughs, as he unearths one of the matching teacups from the set. “Is that so? Well, why don’t we play before bed then?”

He uses real, lukewarm chamomile tea in a half-hearted attempt to have Eri in bed at a reasonable time. This promptly proves to be a lost cause, as Eri gets terribly excited over the whole affair as he sets up a fake tea table with flowers and cake and all of Fuyumi’s fake plastic servingware, and dresses them both up in something appropriately frilly. Somehow, wearing an entire fake wig of hair is a lot less uncomfortable than a little bow. They even get the cat involved, dragging him into her room and outfitting him with a generously sized bow he immediately hates. He still has no idea what the hell you’re supposed to talk about during these little fake tea parties, so he instead just teaches her how to sing Anti-Hero. Eri loves singing along with him, even if she has no idea what she’s saying. On the downside, this means she knows far too many curse words and unknowingly sings an awful lot about sex, but on the bright side her English pronunciation is improving by leaps and bounds.

“—at tea time, everybody agrees—”

Gojo glances up as he hears the door open, smirking widely as Hawks catches sight of him and almost face plants into the carpet. It’s been a while since he’s put on his ‘Toru-chan’ look, hasn’t it?

“I stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror,”

Hawks fumbles with the door, but eventually makes it into the room with a dazed expression. He’d told the blonde he didn’t have to ring the doorbell every time he came over and could just let himself inside, yet still Hawks looks a little hesitant about whether or not he’s allowed to intrude.

Gojo winks at him and beckons him over as he finishes up his little sing along. “It must be exhausting, always rooting for the anti-hero~”

Eri’s voice trails off in an offkey warble as she looks up and sees Hawks. She’s still shy about singing in front of others.

“Hi,” he says with a smile, holding out a teacup to the winged hero. “Want some tea?”

Hawks looks a little mystified, settling down on the floor with them. “Uh— sure? What are we doing here?”

“Playing tea party, of course!” Gojo answers, cheerfully.

“Right,” Hawks agrees, taking the cup so Gojo can pour him some tepid and terribly oversteeped tea. “And… what is that, exactly?”

“Eri didn’t know either,” Gojo laments, chuckling. “Let’s just say you learn a lot of interesting things when you have a little sister.”

“Oh. Is this a game you used to play with Fuyumi-san?” Hawks trails an appraising eye down his outfit; the blatant approval in the hero’s gaze almost has him blushing a bit. “I think I like it.” He purrs.

Gojo rolls his eyes, glad the wig is covering his reddening ears. “We’re princesses. You can either join us as a princess or— or you can be the butler, I guess.”

Hawks raises a brow. “No prince charming to come and rescue you from the evil dragon?” He jerks a thumb up at Meow in the corner, the dragon in question, who looks miserable in his bowtie.

Gojo turns his nose up. “We don’t need one of those. We can save ourselves.”

Hawks laughs. “That’s how it is, huh? A butler is fine, then. Devoting my life to making sure you’re always left satisfied… I’m on board with that.”

Gojo coughs weakly into his cup. He definitely doesn’t remember his tea parties with Fuyumi leaving him this flustered.

“Just drink your goddamn tea,” he hisses at the other man, shoving a slice of cake in his direction.

Hawks snickers under his breath, but gamely complies.

lol not a Swiftie and no hate for her at all but I usually don't like her songs at all, but I recently discovered Swiftie rock/punk covers...

#fic may death never stop you #mdnsy oneshots #mdnsy art

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roguelov · 2 years

Text

Mine, Ours

Summary: A mortal, an aspiring artist, captured the heart of a muse, a Greek goddess, and an Endless. Soon these deities became entangled in your life. Their love surrounded you. And you always assumed they were unaware of the other, oh how wrong could you be. Now they wished to show you how much you mean to them.

Word Count: ~7k

Reader: Afab/fem

Warnings: Smut (threesome, oral (fem!receiving and fem!giving and faceridding), unprotected sex, fingering, voyeurism, minor dirty talk, minor praise kink), fluff sprinkled throughout

MINORS DNI/ 18+ ONLY

To create.

To dream.

To inspire.

You called them, and they answered.

You met her first, under the warmth of the guiding sun, by the park near your apartment.

Children laughed. People chattered. Fresh goods, from a bakery across the street, wafted on the gentle breeze. The late summer days still warmed your soul, while the creeping chill in the air nipped at your skin warning of colder days to come.

And here, you sat tucked in your corner, under a changing tree, watching the bustling life - recording it.

A worn sketchbook rested in your lap with a short, dulled pencil behind your ear. Your fingers smudged in graphite. Shavings littered over you and your blanket. New doodles filled the pages: drawings of the elderly couple on the park bench feeding the birds across the way, drawings of the dog zooming around chasing after a chewed up frisbee, drawings of a bird nest directly above you, drawings of kids on a quilt playing with their variety of toys.

Drawing after drawing.

Sketch after sketch.

And you somehow will never have your fill.

Yet, nowadays, you craved something more. Ideas tingled in the back of your mind, desperate to escape. However, they were fleeting and hazy, ones you could never quite grasp to put pencil to paper.

But, they were there. Somewhere.

“What are you doing?”

You languidly glanced up. Immediately, your breath was stolen.

An absolutely stunning woman stood over you. She wore a white floral dress which cascaded down her body, hugging her curves. Her chestnut hair flowed down over her shoulders, framing her exceptionally warm and kind face. It glowed like a fire in the sunlight. Her eyes the color of roots of change, of the earth beneath your feet giving the courage to keep moving forward.

Her rosy lips curled into a dazzling smile.

Her mouth moved.

You blinked, snapping out of your racing thoughts. “I’m sorry, what?”

Her smile widened. “What are you doing? Or I suppose, what are you drawing?”

Your thoughts slipped away. She pointed down at your closed sketchbook in your lap. You perked up. “Oh, oh! Yes, right, I’m sorry,” you cleared your throat trying to ease your rising nerves, “I was just sketching some of the people in the park.”

“How lovely.”

“Yes, well, people are more interesting than a basket of fruit.”

She chuckled.

You smiled. It was such a sweet melody.

“If you don’t mind me asking, and I hope it’s not rude, but may I see them?”

Hesitancy flickered.

But, you nodded.

You started to lift your sketchbook for this wonderful stranger to take when you realized she floated down, sitting next to you on your blanket. Her shoulder bumbled against yours, such a small act sent sparks over your skin. Her eyes focused on your sketchbook in your lip.

You stared, transfixed and in awe. Who was she?

Her eyes trailed up, connecting with yours. She was so close. Her beauty was the type found in centuries old oil paintings, utterly ethereal and needed to be captured. She smiled softly, her eyes crinkled. “May I see them?”

Your eyes widened. “Yes! Sorry.”

You flipped open your sketchbook to your most recent additions. She leaned forward. She tucked her hair behind her ear. Her fingers skimmed over the page, feeling the grooves, the scratched and erased lines.

“These are beautiful,” she commented.

“Oh, thanks,” you blushed, “they’re just random sketches, there’s places where I could improve and -“

“Do not belittle your talent.”

Your mouth closed.

She peered up at you through her dark lashes. “You have a gift, one you are developing. It is perfect now and will be perfect later.”

You tilted your head. A smile tugged on your lips. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

She raised her chin, smiling. A secretive one, full of knowledge you weren’t privy too. Yet. “And I think you will do great things.”

“Thank you.” You glanced away feeling hot under her intense gaze. Questions stirred. Where did she come from? Why did she come to you? But, you supposed you could start with who, who was she? “I’m sorry, I don’t think I ever got your name.”

“Calliope.”

Calliope.

“That’s a beautiful name.”

She dropped her head, smiling to herself. “Thank you, and you?”

“(Y/N).”

Her eyes locked with yours again. “It is lovely to meet you, (Y/N).” A warmth spread over you at the sound of your own name rolling off her tongue. It was if you were hearing for the first time. As if it was poetry and not a word you carried with you all your life. “I hope I am not too forward, but could we meet here again?” She asked.

Your heart skipped. “I would love that.”

“Tomorrow? Same time?”

“Yeah,” you exhaled.

You met him next, under the veil of night, when fears and nightmares overshadowed your dreams.

Your eyes snapped open.

Blood pumped feverishly through your veins. The sporadic uneven pounding drowned the silence. You leapt up, clutching the front of your shirt. Your heart thudded dangerously under your fingertips.

You closed your eyes, exhaling slowly. “It’s was just a nightmare, just a dumb nightmare.”

Opening your eyes, darkness swallowed you.

Your heart rate spiked.

Every shadow crawled with monsters, every object morphed into horrendous, veil faces screaming out in terror.

Fuck.

Throwing back the sheets, you stumbled out of your room. The moonlight, and faded streetlights, offered very little. Even in your bare living room, things moved out of the corner of your eyes. You tugged on the collar of your shirt. Your clothes constricted, suffocating you. The walls loomed over and began to close in.

Run.

Fueled by the simple thought, you rushed over to the front door. You shoved on shoes and jacket with the collar flicked up, jammed your keys into your pockets, then sprinted out of your claustrophobic apartment. Your footsteps echoed in the quiet hallway, your untie shoelaces clacked against the ground.

Each sound sent a jolt through your scattered mind.

Ripping open the apartment complex door, the bitter air wiggled underneath your coat. You shrugged it closer. Your feet carried you, sticking to the streetlights. Your eyesight locked to the sidewalk.

The shadows still called out to you.

Unknowingly, your feet took you to a place you knew well. A place you knew you could navigate with your eyes closed: the park.

Crossing the empty street, you walked through the park and picked a vacant bench among the many. You sighed, flopping down. You craned your head back, letting the world turn upside down. You inhaled deeply. The crisp air was a shock to your system. A reboot. Your mind and body shifted away from its fears and focused on the ice filling its lungs. You exhaled loudly. The air fogged up.

It will be fall soon.

“What brings you out here?”

You jumped, sitting straight up. Your head snapped up to see a man in a dark coat standing a few feet back. Meeting a stranger, or any, at this hour should have frightened you. And although his initial presence did, once your eyes locked with his you felt oddly at ease.

“Apologies,” he dropped his head slightly, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“No, no,” you adamantly shook your head, “it wasn’t your fault, I was just lost in my thoughts and I didn’t hear you approach.”

His lips twitched.

You cleared your throat, “But, I, uh, couldn’t sleep.”

You skirted around the truth.

He hummed.

“And you? What are you doing out here?”

“Someone called.”

Your eyebrows knitted together at his vague wording. “Like, a friend of yours? Are they okay?”

He nodded, “Yes, and it is all taken care of.”

“Wow, must be an important person if you crawled out of bed this late.”

“You could say that.”

You smiled softly. “That’s good. Your friend is very lucky to have you.” You pointed to yourself, “I’m (Y/N) by the way.”

“(Y/N),” he repeated, trying your name. It was like a gentle song, a steady beat, to lull you to a peaceful slumber. “I’m Morpheus.”

“Morpheus.” You smiled at him, “it’s nice to meet you.”

“And to you.”

Your heart skipped. Under his unwavering gaze, a fuzzy warmth spread over your chest. You looked away, dropping your head. Somehow riddled utterly bashful from a stranger.

“It was a nightmare,” he said. “That is why you’re out here.”

You tensed. It wasn’t a question, but a statement. One with the utmost conviction, as if he knew all along. You chuckled nervously, “Was it really that obvious?”

He shook his head. “An inkling.”

You sighed, “Bit childish, isn’t it? To run away from an idiotic nightmare.”

“No.”

You cocked your head at his quick response. “No?”

“Nightmares make you face your deepest fears, and sometimes you’re simply not ready for them. But In time you will conquer them.”

You blinked, stunned, but then you slowly smiled at him. “How wise.”

A silence fell over you, comfortable and peaceful. Like two old friends enjoying each other’s company.

Morphues shifted his attention up to the starry night.

So, you studied him.

He glowed in this haunting lighting. He was made for the night, molded by it. His hair was elegantly messy, like ruffled raven feathers sticking up at odd ends. His lips, a dusty pink, puckered slightly in thought. His eyes the color of the morning sky uplifting you to wonders above the clouds. And he carried himself like royalty, shoulders back elongating his perfect posture.

A dark prince - no, king. A king of shadows and wonders.

He was captivating, memorizing.

You shook yourself from your wondering thoughts. “I should probably go.”

His eyes fell to you.

You stood up, wrapping your jacket around yourself, and started to walk pass him. He watched your every movement. As you brushed by him, drawn in by his magnetizing presence, he followed your figure.

Your eyes flickered over barely meeting his. “It was nice meeting you, Morphues.”

“That nightmare shouldn’t bother you anymore.”

Your footsteps halted. You peered over your shoulder, confused. “What?”

He turned, facing you, giving you all of his full attention. “Your nightmare won’t bother you anymore.”

You laughed once, cocking your eyebrow. “Really? And how would you know?”

A smile tugged on his lips. “A hunch.”

An idea took hold, one to promise another encounter with your new dark friend.

You smiled. “Well, if that’s true then let’s meet here again at the same time a few nights from now, and we will see who is right.”

He matched your smile and reached his eyes. “Okay.”

“Until then, Morphues.”

“Until then, (Y/N).”

Soon, these two figures became the center of your small world. You enjoyed each of their company greatly. They brought you comfort and newfound joy. They expressed interest in every aspect of your life. Even when you believed you rattled on about everything, your personal life and other mundane topics, to art from who inspired you, your favorite pieces, and your growing knowledge.

They never silenced you. They smiled and encouraged you.

And ever so slightly, you tumbled. You fell wholeheartedly in love with each of them. It almost felt wrong to love two people so deeply, yet your heart had decided. Both Morphues and Calliope. And you would give it over again and again.

You swore to yourself that you would tell them eventually. It didn’t sit right to keep the truth of either of them, even if you might lose one or both in the process. Yet, all of it rid on the notion that neither was aware of the other.

Oh, how wrong you were.

In the distance, you passed through the flow of people. Calliope, hiddened, watched intently as you began to shrink from view. A figure appeared beside her: Morphues. His eyes followed Calliope’s line of sight. He hummed, “So, I see you have laid claim on that mortal.”

Calliope barely turned her head. Her eyes were still on you. “Claim? I do no such thing.”

“Perhaps, but she certainly has caught your eyes,” he pressed. His eyes were also on you, completely transfixed. “A task very few have done.”

You vanished. A sorrowful ache sung in their empty chests.

Calliope faced Morpheus, looking up at him. “Is that a crime, Oneiros?”

“No, it is not.” He said, looking at his former love.

“Then why do you treat it as such?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Because she too has caught my eye.”

Calliope blinked. “And what does that mean?”

“I’m not quite sure yet.”

“If you think I will -“

“I think nothing. I am only sharing since it might interest you.”

Her lips thinned. Her eyes searched for an answer, one that was more clear, but Morphues would not give it. “I will not stop.”

“And neither will I.”

A promise lingered in the air. One that prompted something, something sinful, something sweet.

“Then good day to you, Morphues,” Calliope nodded.

“And to you, Calliope.”

Time blurred.

Time filled with a blossoming love.

You savored their individual time. And in turn, they inspired you. Their beauty was captivating. Your sketchbooks were quickly filled with their faces, and soon their faces haunted your dreams.

But, pencil and paper wasn’t enough.

You wanted to paint them, to give color and life to one of your sketches, to show how their eyes twinkled with love, to show how their lips curled into a heartwarming smile, to show how their hair framed their face down to the strands which could never be tamed, to show how -

To show how much they mean to you. To show them how you see them.

You decided you would ask Calliope first. She seemed she would be more open minded to the idea, and somewhat less intimidating than the king of night, Morphues.

“Calliope?”

The two of you were side by side, leaning against each other underneath the tree where you met. It felt like years ago, like she was always a part of your life.

“Yes, my love?” She answered.

Your heart skipped at the endearing name. No matter how many times it rolled off her tongue, it still gave you butterflies. Clearing your throat, you said, “I was wondering if you could model for me - and! And before you say anything please don’t feel obligated or anything, this is whatever you are comfortable with.”

She twisted, looking directly at you. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity and excitement. “Would it be presumptuous to ask if it’ll be a nude painting?”

“Only if you’re comfortable with that,” you spilled out. “You wear whatever you want, or we can drape sheets over you to keep you covered.”

She cupped your face. “I would be honored.”

Your eyes lit up. “Really?”

“To inspire you is my greatest gift to you, and it would fill my heart with joy to be the muse of your next painting.”

You beamed. You buried your face into your touch, trying to hide your growing excitement and dopey smile. She laughed and brought your face to hers. She picked your lips. Pulling back, she gently held your face for a moment. She thought you looked adorable with your giddy smile, a smile she always wished to see.

“Okay, uh, how about Friday night? I’ll have everything set up and we’ll do it for just a few hours, nothing too long.” You suggested.

“Perfect.”

An idea stirred.

Calliope smiled to herself.

Oh, yes, this could work, she thought. An unspoken promise may be fulfilled.

Days later, right after sunset, you stood in your living room. Chairs and tables were pushed up to the wall. A cream sheet hung precariously from the ceiling, draping across the floor. The couch sat on top with a hand full of sheets for Calliope to cover up or use however she wished. A few dim lamps scattered around pointed at the couch to get the best lighting. Your easel, with a prepped canvas, and a cart, filled with all necessary supplies, was positioned a few paces back.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t a high grade studio, but it was enough.

You adjusted your stool in front of the canvas. You tightened your stained smock. Your heart, however, buzzed. Glancing down, your hands trembled. Fuck. You clenched and unclenched your fists trying to calm the tremor.

Knock! Knock!

You nearly jumped out of your skin.

You rushed over to the front door and flung it open. Almost off the hinges. Unbothered, or unaware, of your nerves, Calliope smiled at you. “Hello, (Y/N).”

“Hi,” you whispered.

“May I come in?”

“Oh! Yes, right.” You moved aside letting her through. Her eyes scanned over your makeshift studio setup. “I hope this is okay.”

“It’s perfect.”

You smiled, calmed a little by her words. “Okay, good, uh, well, please do whatever you want to get comfortable. I’m going to finish my setup, okay?”

She nodded.

You spun around, walking back to your canvas. Behind it, you couldn’t see her move. But, you certainly heard her. Fabrics fluttered. Some fell to the ground with a thud. With each drop, your heart jumped. I can do this. You let out a low shaky breath and began arranging your paints in color order on your palette.

“I’m ready.“

You scrunched up your face. So quickly?

You peered out from behind your canvas.

Draped over the couch, she laid on her side facing you. Naked, bare. An arm propped up her head, while the other rested on her side extenuating her curves. Her legs bent a little to fit onto the couch. Her fingers played with the thin sheet covering her thighs and part of her lower half. Only her lower half. She left her top untouched and exposed.

You tried not to stare.

You visibly swallowed. “Will you, uh, be comfortable to stay in that position for a while?”

“I can manage.”

You nodded. “Okay, um, would you like some music? Or anything?”

“I think I’m good, my love.” Her lips curled into a smirk.

Why did that send a spike of fear through you?

“Okay,” you mumbled. “I just have to finish my paint setup and we can start.”

You squeezed out the last few paints. You capped the tubes and reached for a paintbrush -

“I see you have started without me.” A voice, one you recognized instantly, said from the darkness.

You whipped around, startled.

Calliope, however, was unaffected. “You are late.”

Out of the shadows, Morpheus appeared. Your eyes widened. “Morphues - wh - how -“

“Do not worry yourself.” He calmly stated as he walked forth. His eyes focused solely on you.

You should have been frightened. He appeared out of nowhere, instead confusion settled over you. Your eyebrows knitted together as Calliope’s words tossed around in your head again.

Late?

You looked over your shoulder. Calliope smiled softly at you, trying to ease any worries. “You called him here?” Another thought popped up. “Wait, you two know each other?”

Fingers wrapped around your chin, guiding your attention back to Morphues standing directly in front of you. “We do.”

“But, how and - and what -“

“You have questions, and we can answer as many as needed.”

Sheets rustled. Light footsteps crept closer. A hand lightly touched your back, drawing your attention. Looking over, Calliope smiled at you.

Your heart thrummed.

The air sparked with something sinful with both of them here. You desperately kept your gaze on Calliope’s sweet, warm eyes. She floated over and behind Morphues. Her hands wrapped around his waist. Morphues turned his head, acknowledging her. They touched their foreheads, taking a moment.

Then both of their eyes flickered over to you.

You instantly felt small. Your heart leapt into your throat.

“Do you know of the Greek Muses? Of any mythos?” Calliope began.

You stared blankly, then gave the tiniest nod. You had some understanding of Greek Mythology, but just broad strokes.

“I am one of the nine muses, my love. A Greek Goddess.”

What?

“And Morpheus was once my husband.”

You tensed.

“Careful, you might frighten her,” Morphues said with a slight tease.

“I am only speaking the truth, one she should know if we continue down this path.”

What -

“And - and you?” You asked, finding your voice, and gestured to Morphues.

He smiled, a small tug. “I am no god. I am an Endless. Dream of the Endless, King of Dreams and Nightmares.”

Your hands dangled at your sides. “I’m sorry, a goddess? And - and an Endless?” They simply nodded. “What do you want with me? Why me?”

Calliope saw the fear rising in your eyes. She peeled away from Morphues and placed herself behind you. Her arms circled around you as she pressed a gentle kiss on your shoulder. Her warmth immediately comforted you.

“You needn’t fear us, we don’t wish to cause you any harm,” she whispered into your shoulder.

“Then what?” You glanced at her out of the corner of your eye.

“We want you,” Morphues answered swiftly

Your eyes snapped back to Morpheus. “Me?”

“An artist who dreams of inspiring others to create, or to inspire others to dream of a new world; you called out to us.”

Your cheeks warmed. “Yes, well, I, uh -“

“Do not be embarrassed.” Calliope whispered. “It is endearing and we soon both found ourselves falling in love with the artist who summoned us.”

“I - I don’t know what to say.”

“You needn’t say anything.”

“Right now we only wish to inspire you,” Morphues said. “If you like.”

Your eyes flickered between the two of them. Two of the most beautiful people you’ve ever laid your eyes on. And to think you called them? To know they became infatuated with you in return? It was almost beyond your comprehension. Now, they were both here. They both expressed their desires and love.

So, why say no?

It’s just for a painting.

You nodded, trying to catch your breath.

Morpheus hummed. He stretched his hand out, and Calliope graciously accepted. He led her over, and out of view, to the homemade stage.

You let out a shaky breath.

Breathe. Focus.

Morphues and Calliope each had captured your heart. It was an unfiltered love, it was a rose-hued world, it was constant butterflies in the pit of your stomach.

But, with them both here it called something darker within you. That sinful spark from earlier still lingered in the air. It was an insatiable hunger, it was a red haze fogging your consciousness, it was a wildfire coursing through your veins.

You flopped down on your stool. Closing your eyes, you continued to inhale and exhale in even, steady breaths.

“Are you ready?” Calliope asked.

“Yeah,” you murmured, opening your eyes.

You glanced over your canvas to your two new models. The air was knocked out of your lungs. Both standing, Morphues, now bare, held Calliope in his arms. Calliope, her back pressed into his chest, leaned her head back resting it on Morpheus’s shoulder.

They certainly hid nothing from you.

Your face was hot.

“Will this do?” Morphues asked, teasingly.

“Fuck.” It tumbled out of your lips before you could stop it.

Morphues smirked. He bent his head down, pressing his lips into Calliope’s shoulder trying to hide his growing amusement. Calliope chuckled, smiling widely.

You ripped your gaze away as your ear ignited.

“So? Will this not do?” Morpheus repeated.

“It’s - it’s fine.” You muttered.

“Have you not painted nude models before?” Calliope mused. Her tone was more sweet, but it didn’t hide all of her taunts.

“I have,” you said firmly.

“Then there should be no problem,” she chirped.

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, my love, we are ready when you are.”

You closed your eyes once more and exhaled slowly. Focus, just focus. You’ll be fine. Opening your eyes, you picked up a brush dipping it into a light brown.

Your eyes slid over.

They melded together, like pieces from a forgotten puzzle. Somehow alway meant to be. His arms - muscular and taunt with its harsh lines - circled around her waist and contrasted against her soft, delicate curves. Her hand splayed over his, desperate to have more skin to skin contact. He kissed her shoulder, his messy locks blocked out most of his face and barely brushed against her skin. Her head was turned, staring lovely at him. Her slim fingers caressed the side of his face, drawing him in.

A lovers’ embrace.

Your lips twitched upward.

You leaned back over and began to sketch out basic outlines: the line of action, the curves, the building blocks of anatomy, and a basic, sloppy shading to remind you of your light source. Soon, you forgot who you were painting and fell into the flow. You built up each layer of paint, slowly adding color, and carving out their bodies and background.

You knew it wouldn’t be finished tonight, but you enjoyed the process.

Until, it was broken by giggling.

Your eyes snapped over. Calliopes was laughing while Morphues lifted his head looking directly down at her, directly into her eyes. He smiled as she laughed.

You smiled, genuinely. Although they spoke of their former love, you could still see it. It still lingered. You returned back to your painting feeling lighter. However, you had forgotten who you had invited into your home, neglected their true intentions for this night.

“Shall we?” Morphues whispered into Calliope’s ear.

“Sweet Oneiros, I’ve been waiting for you.”

He chuckled.

You hunched forward, tongue poking out, when a soft hum broke the silence. Curious, you leaned over.

You inhaled sharply.

Morphues’s hands crawled up Calliope’s body. His firm hands cupped her perked breasts, and began to knead and play with them eliciting low sensual noises from the goddess. She sighed, closing her eyes. Morphues, however, looked directly at you. His eyes hooded, filled with desire as his lips curled into a devilish smirk.

You dove back in front of your painting. Your smock was now impossibly tight around your flushed skin.

“Morpheus.”

You flinched in your seat.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t -

Curiosity pulled. You cautiously peered behind your painting. Morphues kissed and nipped at Calliope's neck. Love bites began to cover her skin. His hands gripped - white knuckling - her hips, desperate to keep her in place, to keep her from moving. Her lips fall open, sighing dreamily. She wiggled her hips, rubbing against him. Morpheus groaned. Its deep vibrations echoed throughout the spacious room. He dropped his head onto her shoulder. Calliope glanced over to you. Her eyes half opened, filled with pure lust. You instantly looked away, somehow embarrassed as if you caught them.

“Morpheus, we may have frightened our friend here,” she smirked.

Morpheus looked up to see you hiding behind your canvas. “We may - oh.”

Calliope rubbed against him again making him moan.

You fidgeted. You crossed your legs trying to alleviate some of your growing needs.

“(Y/N),” Calliope cooed.

You swallowed a lump in your throat. “Yes?”

“Look at us, my love.”

Fuck.

Obeying her command, you leaned over. “Oh dear god.”

Morpheus’s fingers slid down Calliope’s chest, down the valley between her breasts, and further and further. Goosebumps followed his delicate touch. Your eyes widened. He slipped two sinful fingers between her folds. Calliope moaned, falling into his touch. His fingers started slowly, stroking her walls. It was pratically pornographic: how his fingers pumped her, the wet sloppy noise, how Calliope mewled and how each sound went straight through you.

“She feels divine,” Morpheus purred.

“Fuck me,” you mumbled, clenching your thighs together.

Morpheus curled his fingers.

“(Y/N),” Calliope moaned, grinding down on his fingers.

Your paintbrush clattered to the ground. Your hands covered your hot face. Your ragged breathing barely drowned out their sounds.

Be professional, be professional - but how can I when they’re acting like this?

“Oh, darling,” Morpheus called out.

You peaked through your fingers. Morpheus slipped his fingers out of Calliope, she whined at the loss of friction. Staring directly at you, Morpheus stuck his fingers in his mouth tasting Calliope. His perfect lips wrapped around his fingers as his eyes fluttered closed, moaning deeply.

“Let me,” Calliope murmured.

She gently removed his fingers from his mouth and cupped his face bringing him down to her. Her tongue slipped between his lips tasting herself on Morpheus’s tongue. She hummed.

“Love,” he murmured against Calliope, “we mustn’t forget someone.”

Calliope pulled away, lips swollen. Their eyes darted over locking onto you.

Your hands fell down.

Calliope moved first. She glided across the room. Standing in front of you as you sat on your stool, she titled your head back. You peered up at her with glassy eyes and parted lips. In seconds, you relinquished all control.

The painting can wait.

Her thumb ran over your bottom lip. Electricity crackled over your needy body. She bent down, and finally kissed you.

You sighed, closing your eyes.

She guided you up onto your feet. Her hands skimmed up and down your sides, learning your curves. She tilted her head, moving her lips deepening the kiss. Your heart skipped. Her tongue begged for entrance. You happily obliged. A moan rumbled in the back of your throat as she explored your mouth. Every touch was a fire across your skin.

Hands, rough and stern, landed on your hips.

You broke away from Calliope. Craning your neck back, Morpheus loomed behind you. He smiled at you. Calliope did not let this deter her. Her lips skimmed over your neck, making you shiver. Morpheus gripped your chin to keep your eyes on him. He leaned in to kiss you. While Calliope was sweet and fire inducing - a dangerous nectar injected into your vines setting your skin ablaze; Morpheus was an icy chill leaving you gasping and clinging - an all consuming blizzard trapping you.

Calliope nipped you, and soothed the pain with her tongue.

You moaned into Morpheus’s mouth.

Their skillful hands wandered over your body. Bit by bit, one article of clothing after the other fell off your body. Their hands skimmed over your hot skin: over the valley of your breasts, curling around your neck, through your hair, and down your sides. They mapped your body. They touched everywhere, except for where you wanted them the most.

Frustration built. A roaring fire in the pit of your stomach.

You groaned and whined.

They chuckled.

You huffed. Taking each of their wrists, you led them to your bedroom. You were done wasting time, done with their teasing.

Letting go of them, you pushed Calliope towards the bed. The back of her knees hit the bed and she flopped backwards with excited giggles. You licked your lips, then slowly sank to your knees at the edge of the bed. You dreamt of this, dreamt of this moment ever since you first laid eyes on her. Your fingers trailed up and down your legs. Taking one of her legs, you hooked it over your shoulder.

Your eyes looked up at her, and kissed her inner thigh.

Calliope hummed, tilting her head back.

You bit her.

She gasped.

Morpheus smiled deviously. He fell into a lone chair in the corner of the room. The perfect position. He slowly stroked himself, watching intently as this unfolded.

Smirking, you started marking her thighs. Marking everywhere, and purposely avoiding where she needed you the most. Your eyes flickered up. Her eyes were closed as her chest heaved heavily in anticipation.

A goddess - a Greek goddess - was turning into a mess because of you. Because of your touch.

You wouldn’t - couldn’t - wait any longer.

You dived into her dripping folds.

Calliope moaned. Her hands immediately latched into your hair, desperate to find grounding in this high.

She tasted, oh so, sweet. Divine. Morpheus was right, she is divine. You ate her as if it was her last meal, worshipping every moment. You hummed. She bucked her hips. You did it again. She moaned, “(Y/N).”

You clenched your thighs together. You were wet and needy. But, you wanted to feel her pleasure more than anything right now. You moved, sucking on her clit. She instinctively yanked on your hair, crying out. You moaned as pain quickly turned into pleasure.

“Morpheus,” she whimpered.

“Yes, darling?” He hummed, absolutely amused.

“She is heavenly.”

Pride swelled within you.

“I have no doubt.”

Calliope buried her face into the bedsheets. “Love, (Y/N), I -“

You groaned.

You wanted nothing more than for her to come in your mouth. You became more feverishly knowing she was at her end. Your tongue swirled around, you hummed and moaned pushing her further and further towards the edge, and your fingers dug into her thighs no doubt bruising her.

She gasped. She yanked on your hair drawing you impossibly close, as she bucked and rid your face.

Her walls fluttered around your tongue.

You eagerly lapped up her juices. She wriggled and squirmed, crying out in pleasure and overstimulation. You pulled away, breathless. But, a hand raked through your hair and forcibly yanked your head back. Morpheus mouth latched onto yours tasting Calliope on your tongue. You whimpered, clinging to him.

When he broke apart, his lips glistened.

His lips stretched into a playful smirk

There you were on your knees with hearts in your eyes. Your swollen lips parted, and your breath erratic and fleeting. His hand slid down, cupping your face. His thumb traced down your cheekbone down to your lips. He dragged his thumb across your bottom lip. Without thinking, you wrapped your lips around his thumb and gently sucked on it.

“Love, come here.”

Popping out Morpheus’s thumb, you glanced over to Calliope who laid out on the bed. She pointed at you, then slowly curled her finger beckoning you forth. You didn’t hesitate. You crawled onto the bed and over top of her.

She drew you down to her. Her lips brushed over yours and murmured softly, “I wish to return the favor.”

Excitement coursed through you. You nodded shyly, biting your lip. You moved to lay down, when she grabbed your wrist. She shook her head. “On top, my love.”

You blinked. Oh!

You smiled sheepishly then moved up.

“Oh, sweet Morpheus,” Calliope cooed.

“I am here,” he chuckled. He knew exactly what to do without being told a word. He hopped onto the bed, and grabbed her hips. His cock poked at her inner thighs.

But, he patiently waited, waited for you.

You situated yourself over Calliope’s face. Your knees on either side of her face, digging into the pillow her head rested on. You laid your hands flat against the wall. You needed something to keep you upright. Your heart skipped as you peered down at her snug between your legs. She simply smirked up at you. Her fingers reached up grabbing your hips, then slowly dragged you down.

You threw your head back as her mouth delved in.

Morpheus smiled, at the sight of you on top of Calliope. He then teased Calliope’s entrance, barely rubbing the tip of his cock between her folds.

She hummed.

“Fuck,” you muttered, squeezing your eyes shut.

Morpheus chuckled then slipped in. Calliope’s grip tightened. Her nails buried into your skin. Her tongue swirled as she moaned into you. Your taste was sweet and tempting like a forbidden fruit. One that should never be consumed, and one two ethereal beings will happily break time and time again.

Morpheus steadily began to rock his hips. Tantalizingly slow and nearly losing himself. The feeling of how Calliope wrapped around him, how he watched his two loves cry out in pleasure, how you squirmed, and how you peered over your shoulder looking back at him with a sweat forming on your forehead.

You leaned forward, your forehead pressed into the cool wall. You opened your eyes, daring to look down. Calliope’s eyes were closed as she worked you. However, feeling your gaze, her eyes flickered open. Her dark eyes, practically black and devoid of anything but lust and pleasure. She moaned into you. The vibrations were dizzying. You whimpered as your first orgasm built in the pit of your stomach.

You unconsciously began to grind down on her. Desperate to reach your end.

Calliope’s walls fluttered.

Morpheus grunted. “Do that again, (Y/N).”

Morpheus lifted Calliope’s hips. He snapped his hips, setting a new fast pace. You grinded down on Calliope. “Calliope,” you moaned.

You rocked your hips. Pleasure built and built.

Calliope hummed, ready for anything.

“Calliope,” you whined, warning her.

She worked you, while Morpheus worked her. The sinful noises filled your ears. The way Morpheus pounded into her, with his soft sweet grunts, the way Calliope sloppily ate you out, the way your strained moans combined with it all.

“Come for her, (Y/N),” Morpheus groaned.

You moaned, throwing your head back as your orgasm crashed through you. Calliope desperately held you in place as she continued to work you through your high. Morpheus moaned, feeling Calliope’s walls clamp around him as they reached their own highs.

You squirmed, and cried out. It was too much, and somehow not enough.

Calliope finally released you.

You fell onto your back, breathless. You glanced over to Calliope. Your juices covered her lips. Her tongue ran over her lips. You squirmed at the sight. She smiled lazily and reached out, stroking your cheek. You hummed. However, someone wasn’t done with you.

Hands yanked on your hips.

You yelped.

You soon found yourself in Morpheus’s lap staring directly into his eyes. Your breath was stolen. He kissed you, gently and sweetly. You exhaled through your nose, and cupped his face. Your fingers curled into his hair. He hummed. Soon he lifted you up, guiding you, and slowly sunk you down on his cock. You moaned into his mouth. He filled you and stretched you in a way you’ve never felt before.

He pulled away peppering kisses down your neck.

You craned your head back, and began to move up and down. Slow and languid movements as you wanted to draw out this moment. Morpheus groaned, as his arms tightened around your waist, desperate to have you closer. And with every movement, Morpheus met you, bucking his hips up. Every movement left you feeling lightheaded in the best way.

Calliope asked, watching the two of you, watching her two loves, “How does he feel, my love?”

“Good,” you breathed out, unable to process any sentences, “Really good.”

She chuckled.

Morpheus nipped at your neck, making you gasp. “Fuck, Morpheus.”

His lips curled over your skin. He lifted his head and pressed his forehead on yours. “You are being so good for us,” he whispered.

Your heart fluttered.

Biting your lip, gaining more and more confidence, you slammed down on him. Faster, more demanding. A vein popped in his neck. He clamped his mouth as a moan rumbled in his throat, and his eyes squeezed close.

An Endless, a cosmic being, was at your mercy.

You bounced up and down, loving how Morpheus’s face twisted in pleasure. “(Y/N),” he moaned.

Your heavy breathing and his filled the close space between you. He opened his eyes, peering up at you through his dark lashes. He bucked his hips, matching your pace. You whimpered, tugging on his hair. Your walls fluttered, warning him. Morpheus groaned. You rolled your hips, sending a new wave of pleasure. Morpheus chuckled, pulling you close. His hands trailed down your back, grabbing your hips. He guided you, helped lift you as you started to stutter in your pace. Your legs burned but you desperately wanted to continue. Your head fell to his shoulder. Your hands traced over his back muscles, feeling as they flexed under your light touch.

“Ah, look at me, darling.”

You lifted your head. Your brain hazy as pleasure built clouding your senses. His everlasting, all consuming, blue filled your vision.

He grounded you.

He bucked his hips, hitting the right spot.

You moaned, and you saw stars.

He smirked to himself repeating the action. Desperate for release, you grinded down. Your breath hitched. Your end was soon.

“Come for him, love.” Calliope hummed.

Your heart rate spiked.

At her simple words, your walls clamped down. Your lips fell open, as you fought to keep your eyes directly on Morpheus. He groaned, seeing you in absolute bliss and bucked his hips once last time, finding his own release. His forehead pressed to yours, kissing you feverishly one last time.

You hummed.

Breaking apart, you smiled at him. Breathless. And now utterly exhausted.

Calliope’s gentle hands guided you backwards into the softness of your bed. You fell back. Instantly, Calliope and Morpheus positioned themselves on either side of you.

“You were lovely,” Morpheus mumbled in your ear.

Calliope caressed your cheek, lulling you. “And so patient with us.”

You laughed once through your nose. “Thanks.”

Inhaling, you yawned. Your eyelids weighed down and thoughts of sleep tugged at the back of your mind.

“Rest,” Morpheus whispered.

You whined quietly. Not wishing for the night to be over.

Calliope laughed. “Rest, we will be here in the morning.”

Yawning once more, you reluctantly agreed.

You turned, snuggling into Morpheus’s side. Your hand splayed over his chest, feeling his calm heartbeat. Your chin propped on his shoulder as your steady breaths blew through your parted lips. Morpheus tilted his head resting it on yours. Calliope looped an arm under your waist, drawing herself close. Her lips pressed between your shoulder blades. She reached over you, and Morpheus intertwined his fingers with hers.

Warm. So warm.

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