#Eye Shadow pencil crayon

[offthepages]

And so, the stars aligned. Pt. 2

Azriel x Archeron!Sister reader

Summary: Azriel knew you can't read. And he knows you would never admit it. So he tricks you into taking reading lessons.

Warnings: Slight mentions of nightmares.

part one part three, Part Four Masterlist Requests are open!!

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You had come into your room to grab something. And had lost every train of thought as you saw the note neatly placed on top of the book you carted around for show- not quite sloppy hand writing but it was clearly male and in a rush. A...stick figure drawing of you? Clearly Feyre had not drawn this. But there is an attention to detail, your hair is colored correctly, and your eyes also the right shade- or as close as you could get in crayon. Truthfully, it could have been anyone female but since it was in your room, it was safe to assume. And then a book- the library? Is that where this mystery would be solved. You were far too curious now to just not go.

And so, you folded the note up and put in into one of your pockets. Heading down there quickly. The only sound as you enter is the clicking of your shoes. Looking around you, and making your way over to Clotho's desk. The priest doesn’t look up at you but quickly writes, 'Ah, y/n to what do we owe the pleasure?'

You smile and pull out the note to show it to her. "It seems- I was summoned." Clotho's amusement oozes off her and she simple writes.

'Go down to level five and you should find what you're looking for.' Squinting suspiciously at her for just a second you debate listening. But that is your inner Nesta speaking, and as much as you loved your oldest sister you didn't want to be completely like her. So, complying with a general order wouldn’t be an issue.

Thanking Clotho quickly you make your way down to the fifth level. And you could have throttled Azriel as he looked over at you with a set of children's books, letter sheets and pencils. He was leisurely sitting there, legs crossed, his ankle resting on his thigh. Arms crossed as he looked at you. And knowing him, while his face remained neutral- he had a feline smirk just like Rhys’s on the inside. Stomping over, crossing your arms and glaring down at the Illyrian man you hiss, "What are you doing?"

"Teaching you how to read." He answers simply, not even slightly phased by your intense gaze. The shadows that normally linger around him aren’t there, instead- as if to mock how little of a threat you are- they pool at his feet like a dog. You'd have to talk to Nesta about getting that icy glare down pat.

"You're still on about that?" You scuff, turning on your heel to leave him with his silly ideas. But before you can get far, a gentle but rough hand grabs your elbow.

"If you can read, then I'll accept I was wrong and even buy you dinner." Azriel compromises. But he knew better, he saw the way your eyes glazed over when they looked at your book and there was no rhyme or reason as to when you flipped the page. Normally people had consistency when they were reading, You had none. Even when Nesta was reading smut there was consistency to it- albeit the page turns got faster but it was still consistent.

You were convinced you could do this. You didn't need him to know this about you. Not even your sisters knew- sure Nesta and Elain probably had inklings to it but you were just six when poverty struck. They were just kids too, it wasn't there job to teach you. Sitting down at the table you looked at the page. It was easy- just trace the letters. You could do that. So you picked up the pencil and started. And once you were done you slid it over to him. "See?"

He nods, taking the sheet and looking it over. Nodding as he examines the work. Then he sets it down and meets your intense eyes, but he doesn't shy away. He takes the first book off the stack. It was a young child's book- it should be a breeze for someone of your age. Prick. You think as he slides it over and folds his hands on the table. Watching the way your eyes widen. Your breathing hitches and there's a slight tremble to your hands as you take the book. He knows that look in your eyes- it's the one Feyre gets when she's calculating a plan. And he couldn't deny that he was slightly excited to see what you'd come up with.

Flipping open the book you know what he's probably looking for is some sortive consistency, so you'd let your eyes look at each word and then flip the page. And so, that's what you did. Finding it hard to keep up your little deception with his eyes focused so intensely on you. But you got to the end of the book and closed it with a triumphant smack. Looking back up at him- before you can open your mouth to speak, Azriel looks at you and asks. "What was it about?"

Shit. Fuck. You didn't look at the pictures! You quickly look down at the book and see a dog and a young boy on the cover. "Its about a dog and his owner." You say as evenly as you can manage for how fast your heart was beating. Azriel raises an eyebrow. Silently waiting for more. "When did you get so expressive?" You ask to quickly change the subject.

"I don't have to be on guard here. There is no one else around. And the priestess won't judge me for showing an emotion." He addresses your question simply, smoothly. Damn him and his stupid sliver tongue. He was the Shadowsinger! Of course he knew how to evade topics and questions to redirect to what he wanted! He taps the book in between the two of you again. And you look at his hands, scars running all along them, and of course you had know that. But it was the first time that you saw them this clearly. And as much as you wanted to get out of this situation- you knew that question was out of the question. "What is this about?" His voice remains gentle, but slightly stern.

Azriel watches you for any signs. He had seen many of them- you were a bad liar. Your emotions written all over your face. Your eyes, they showed everything. How no one else saw it astonished him. And for a second, as he watches how you look down at the book with apprehension and sorrow, that you quickly wash away once your gazes meet again...he sees your resolve break.

"Fine." You say quietly. "I can't read." Your cheeks heat at the confession- it felt so...so...mortifying that you were now twenty, an immortal High Fae and had no idea how to read. "Please don't tell the others." The last thing you wanted was for your sisters to look at you with that pitiful look they always seemed to give you when you mentioned something. Let alone, how awful it make you feel if Nesta fell back into her vices. Granted you knew Cassian wouldn’t let that happen.

He thinks his heart might just burst for a moment. Seeing you so somber. Azriel had watched you from the second you were dumped out of that Cauldron. Shaking, crying, gasping for air. The first thing you did was try and push it over so your sisters wouldn’t bare the same fate. And for the first few weeks after, when he heard your screams in the middle of the night. He'd make sure you were alright, given you the space to talk to him if needed. You rarely took the opportunity. Pushing him away despite him reaching out. Keeping him at an arms length for reasons he didn’t understand. Time, though. Everyone kept telling him with time, you’d come around. But you pushed him right into Elain. Not that he hated your older sister. No, far from it. They were good friends, they could talk for hours about anything and everything. But she wasn't you. She wasn't his. She had her mate, and Rhys has made it clear to him that despite his feelings toward her- they could never be. Lucian wouldn't accept it until she flat out rejected him, and even then they had no idea what the other male would do. Rhys didn't want to loose his brother over a girl. And while Azriel grumbled and snarled at him, deep down. He knew that he was right.

But watching you, moving through the Night Court with a smile that didn't reach your eyes and a grace that rivaled Elain's...Hearing your laugh in a crowed room and smiling into his drink. He knew that you made yourself seem happy, chipper, played the part of the sweet younger sister for everyone. So looking at you now, as your cheeks burn red and tears threaten to spill out of your eyes. He'd do anything he could to make sure you'd never look like that again. Azriel gently takes your hand, letting his thumb swipe over your knuckles as you look up at him. "I won't tell a soul."

And you believe him. The sincerity in his eyes, he's got no reason to lie to you. But you can't help the smile that creeps up. "Thank you."

And a comfortable silence falls as you both continue to look at each other and let your thoughts run free. Before Azriel clears his throat- and you were about 87% sure that there was a blush creeping in. "I can continue to teach you, if you'd like."

Looking down at the book in between you, where your hand was still in his. Tracing the lines of his scars gently, you nodded. "I think i'd like that."

Azriel didn't bother to hide his smile.

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a/n: This got very long, very fast. But I hope you all like it! Let me know if there is anything else you guys wanna see! And if y’all wanna be added to the tag list, let me know! :3

tag list: @sidthedollface2 @cat-or-kitten @impossibelle @brunette-barbie1220 @scatteredstardustt @sammanna @cherry-cin @tele86 @judig92

#azriel x reader #acotar series #acotar fanart #acotar #azriel spymaster #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #feyre x rhysand #feyre archeron #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron #pro nesta #nesta acotar #elain x lucien #elain archeron #pro elain

[cerisep0urrie]

skin care and makeup in french

aka how to have your own vogue beauty secrets moment en français 🧼

(doing this mainly for myself and a very niche audience)

face - le visage, la figure

skin - la peau

skin care - soin visage

eyes - les yeux

lips - les lèvres

cheeks - les joues

eyebrows - les sourcils

eyelashes - les cils

water - l’eau

cleanser - le nettoyant

makeup remover - le démaquillant

toner - le tonique, la lotion tonique

serum - le sérum

face oil - l’huile

lip balm - le baume à lèvres

moisturizer - la crème, la crème hydratante

exfoliant - l’exfoliante

massage - le massage

face mask - le masque

foundation - fond de teint

concealer - l’anti-cerne, l’anti-tache

powder - la poudre

bronzer - la poudre de soleil

highlighter - l’highlighter, l’illuminateur

lipstick - le rouge à lèvres

lipgloss - le brillant à lèvres, le gloss (à lèvres)

eye shadow - le fard à paupière

mascara - le mascara

eyebrow pencil - le crayon à sourcil

eyebrow gel - le gel à sourcil

makeup brush - le pinceau de maquillage

eye liner - l’eye-liner, l’eye-liner liquide

blush - le blush, le fard à joues

to put on makeup - se maquiller

to wash - se laver

to take off makeup - se démaquiller

to do skincare routine - faire des soins de la peau

to massage- masser

to apply - appliquer

#vogue #vogue paris #vogue beauty #french culture #translation #language #lingblr #translator #study french #frenchblr #francais #france #foreign languages #french langblr #langblr #learning french #french language

[oreosmama]

Look Me in the Eyes (Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: During naval training, your jet crashed and burned, taking your memories with it. But the lieutenant who saved you seems to know you better than he lets on. The only issue is that he refuses to tell you his name.

A/N: pfft half yall don’t read this anyway so imma just say rooster’s hot, oreosmama out *drops mic*

Word count: 3345

It’s not the pervading scent of antiseptic and boredom that has carved its way into your skin, nestling deep into the creases of your brow and your sneering upper lip—

It’s his unflinching gaze.

The lieutenant hovering over you, with a spoonful of green, gelatinous “dinner” posed over your lips, mumbles, “Open the hatch, the F-18 needs to land.” 

He’s a staunchly built man ornamented in the same naval jacket he’d been wearing when you first came-to in the hospital room, his lofty shoulders embellished in unfamiliar patches. Over the last two days, most of which have consisted of him lording himself over you or sitting back in the chair beside your bed, his five o’clock shadow has thickened, and the wrinkles underneath his teasing eyes darkened a shade.

The F-18 bumps against your sneer, and he chortles to himself. 

You know why you’re here. 

Well, sort of.

You know that it must’ve hurt. Like a falling-unconscious-due-to-pain kind of hurt. Black and blue splotches paint your temple and upper left cheek, and each time you force a smile, it aches. The rest of your body looks the same. In the first shower you’d been allowed, you twisted and turned as much as your burning abdomen could handle and had come to the conclusion that you were glad you didn’t remember much of what had happened.

The only real issue was that you didn’t remember much of anything. 

The story you had been told was haphazardly crafted, not unlike if a toddler had drawn a house with crayons and passed it to you, insisting it looked exactly like the one you lived in. 

It goes something like this: you were flying your jet when the engine stalled, and when you ejected, your head smacked against the windshield. You were lucky—you were unconscious when you had crumpled in on yourself, snapping five of your ribs like pencils, and when you’d landed on the ground, face in the dirt—you were so, so lucky. 

But the lieutenant says differently. 

When he found you, you were awake. You were echoing his name into the stagnant desert air, screaming and sobbing in ways that still keep him up at night. 

You know because he sleeps with folded arms on the edge of your mattress, and he rattles the metal skeleton each time he flinches. And the times when he thinks you’re too buried in exhaustion and slumber, his hand finds yours, fingertips light as air against your skin.

These are the only times the lieutenant bares that part of himself to you. 

In the mornings, when you can look him in the eyes and see the guilt buried underneath, he winces a smile onto his lips and asks if you remember anything yet. 

You don't.

And he winces again. “Back to the drawing board, huh?”

The lieutenant is a nice-enough man when he wants to be. The only issue is that he doesn’t seem to want to be. 

“Tell me your name,” you snipe, dangling over the precipice of flinging Jell-O across the room. 

This is a game he never wants to play, despite how often he wins. He has the whole naval base’s hospital staff refer to him as Sir or Lieutenant-no-last-name, and each time you ask, he’ll give you the same response.

“You know my name.” 

You don't. He’s a complete stranger. He can hold you hand and feed you Jell-O and help you hobble to the bathroom; he can brush the hair from your sweat-crusted face in the mornings and, on some rare occasions where he thinks he’s woken up before you, he’ll graze a feather-soft kiss on your bruised temple.

And you still haven't got a clue. 

Because whoever the lieutenant is, the tight grip he has on your heart is completely foreign to you. It’s a grip that says you and him aren’t just something definable—you were a we in this life; the pair of you have formed a way of living in tandem, your own intrinsic tango to which nobody else knows the steps. It’s not just like or a passing fancy. It’s not just hot static running through veins. 

This is fully fledged; this is oxygen now. The rise and fall of your chest is the rise and fall of his. The absence of it must be suffocating. 

So you don't know why he doesn’t like this game. He makes a question-answer into a back-and-forth, and then he winds and winds you up until you’re ready to snap. 

It’s not fair. God, it’s not fair. You deserve to know his name. Doesn’t he know it’s not just a tickle in the back of your mind anymore? If he was the one whose name you were screaming, didn’t you deserve to know what it was?

“Why do you keep doing this?” 

You watch his lips purse, the color bleeding out of them and into pink patches on his neck and cheeks. The spoon rattles against the tray, and the glob of green wavers in its curve. He refuses to hold your gaze like always. Self-inflicted torment disguises itself as burnt-sienna irises. The life you’ve forgotten is bowing his shoulders, and your crash, no matter the fact that he saved you, is eating away at him. 

Then the lieutenant smiles, in the fractured way—the way someone might laugh at a funeral. 

“Because knowing my name wouldn’t help you. You never called me by it, anyway.”

This, oh God—this is the closest you’ve ever gotten, and you’re still wading in the darkness. A name you’d never even call him by, what a wonder that does to your psyche. 

A name was a start; it was a first impression. There was a lot in a name. 

So you’d never called him by his name… so what?

So what, only lovers knew each other by more than a name? So what, he never called you by yours? So what, you didn’t want to ever call him by his name, never felt the urge, but felt it was rather proper considering you didn’t know what to call him at all?

He keeps you doggy-paddling for it.

The hospital room is polluted with silence for the rest of the night. Slowly, you finish the Jell-O as he sits back in his chair, watching, yet not quite seeing you. You missed when his staring felt like a buzzing fly. Now it’s a thunderstorm hanging over you, foggy and dampened, and you’re struck every few seconds with a shiver. 

He doesn’t reach out for your hand when you pretend you’ve fallen asleep. Twenty minutes past lights out, he stands and heads into the bathroom, slowly creaking the door closed and locking it before the shower faucet turns on and stays on for a long, long time. 

Where his hand should be is where he laid his jacket, one sewn patch erroneously rough against your palm. With another glance at the light underneath the bathroom door, you haul the leather jacket up into your lap, tracing the ridges and folds. You trails your fingertips along the jacket, searching for… something. Anything. 

Cold metal, a zipper slips underneath your fingers, and you sit up straighter despite the outcry of pain in your ribs. 

A pocket, and inside is a small plastic card—his ID. 

That, and a small, velvet box. 

No…

No, you won’t open it. 

No, no, because he shouldn’t even have that here. 

Why—dear God—why did he have that here?

It’s not for you. That’s for sure. You don’t even want to open it. No.

It’s not yours. It’s not yours to have, especially since he hasn’t offered it to you, and it’s not yours to wear, and it’s not yours to look at, to watch, iridescent, crystal devotion reflecting the moonlight from the room’s lone window. 

But when you lift the cover and curse the stars that the man whose name you don’t even know knows you so well, knows how beautiful it is in your eyes, and even worse, how well it fits on your finger, you know it’s yours. 

Well, not yours. 

It’s hers. The one before the crash’s. 

That’s her ring on your finger, and that’s her lieutenant grieving in the bathroom. 

This is her life, not yours. All you own anymore is the absence pulsing in your chest. 

You own the spasms in your veins, the brief and lasting panic of who am I, really?, the deficiency of life and past and love; the frail hold on this reality, on that man, on this ring. 

The rest is not yours, so you should let it go. 

Then, ideally, you should be able to float away, free from these junctions to a girl you don’t know. The man who loves her loves your face. He loves your body, and your voice, and each of the words falling from your lips, perhaps in the wrong order, yes, but he’ll rearrange them in his mind so that it matches hers.

Ideally. 

Ideally, it’s not this drowning feeling, a weight like a hand pressing hard against your chest, shoving you deeper and deeper under the current. She’s the one who breathes, not you. You don’t need to breathe. You’re an accident in this world. 

The I.D. slips from your grasp and falls to the floor. 

You’ve read it. You saw the name, the rank, the naval symbol. In the dim moonlight and the single glowing strip underneath the bathroom door, his not-really-a-smile smiles up at you from the vinyl floor. 

And now you see it, chrome duct tape peeling off the jagged stitches of a patch, the one over his heart. Another of his games: his missing call sign. 

It… fits him. Strangely enough. 

Is this what you called him?

The hospital room floods with a subdued yellow light carried out by the steam of the lieutenant’s shower. He emerges with a towel wrapped around his lower body, a sheen of wet on his cheeks you’re not certain was caused by the shower. 

Like you, this is his third shower in this room, but unlike him, he’s not wearing a smirk when he exits, bare feet padding along the cold tiles. He doesn’t spare you a glance while he pilfers through his black duffle bag, the one seated on the only other guest chair in the room—the one that never moves. 

Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t look, because you hadn’t thought to take off the ring. It was a plan as half-baked as when you’d first decided to put it on. Some barbaric, frenzied part of you, the same one that had slipped it on and hugged it close to your heart, refused to yank it off. It was another you—not her nor you, but a new one that had fallen in love with him, Rooster, without memory or qualms, the one that had no issue with him lingering in every corner of your mind; no, in fact, she preferred it.

You don’t listen to her when the lieutenant pivots back to face you, a fresh pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and the rest sourced from the duffel bag in tow, one fist curled into his towel at his waist. His eyes land on yours, and your fingers slicken with the sweat of your palms, tremble like the thumps beneath your ribcage. 

At the worst moment possible, you notice, in the hazy yellow light of 10:07 PM, that Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw’s eyes are achingly akin to whiskey. It’s the dark, thick kind that coats your tongue and hits you five seconds after you sip it like a freight train; heady, terribly intoxicating, and in large doses, coaxes out the worst side of yourself at an even worse moment. 

The ring clinks against the bed’s metal framework before shuddering against the tile floor, and his eyes leave yours to watch it rattle. The skin of your left ring finger burns from the swift twisting and tugging you’d employed in a state of tipsy panic—your plan had been to slip the ring unnoticed beneath his leather jacket, the same place you’d stuffed the velvet box. 

A breath tears itself out of the lieutenant’s chest. Tan skin rises and falls once, and his grip goes white-knuckle on his towel. 

Then he pads back toward the bathroom without a word and disappears behind the slammed door. Somehow, in some terrible way, it is even harder to breathe with him not in the room after that. 

But he bursts through the door a second later, completely negligent of the violent pacing of your heart, donned in clothes wrinkled and stretched in odd places from frantic dressing. He covers the distance with three long strides and slackens back into the plastic hospital chair, the heavy creases under his eyes never having looked so deep-seated. 

You see it now. The damage this whole experience has done to him. He’s been hollowed out, rigorously gutted to the point that one last revelation might finally crack him in half and let the despair pour out. 

You’re afraid to tell him all that you don’t know. That even though you had slid that ring on and off your finger, you still don’t know him. But, God, you want to tell him that you love him, despite knowing it won’t be enough. It’s not even enough to you, and it’s all that you have. 

Usually, he wears this sheen layer of tenderness over his face; it slips off every night when you close your eyes, and he smooths it back on in the mornings in the mirror. Some days he layers it on so thick you never even notice the grief hidden underneath. 

It must have gotten too heavy to bear. 

The silence hangs just as heavy. He runs both hands down his face, pressing hard enough that his skin emerges pink, and folds his hands, knocking them against his lips. Veins in his eyes grow redder by the second, and your heart begins a slow crawl up your throat at the watery levels of his eyelines, waiting to spill. The ring sits on the floor untouched. 

“Do you,” he faltered, clearing his throat. “Do you… remember anything?”

He’s looking at you so intensely that your skin is searing. Shame washes over you, grasping your shoulders and burying you deeply into its chest. You want to cry. 

“Nothing.”

The lieutenant stares at you a second longer, stretching it out until you’re trembling. Then he looks away, down, before reaching and retrieving the ring from the ground. He observes it for just a second, the way it glimmers in night’s imperfect lighting, and his eyes squeeze shut.

Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw, you’ve learned, will draw things out until the perfect moment has come. He will wait until the ache swells and culminates, with a tolerance so inexhaustible you wonder if, in all your time loving him, you ever bothered to wait up. He’s noticed how the darkness has swallowed both of you wholly, and only now does he offer reprieve. 

Bradley tells you your name.

And he tells you that he’s been in love with you since the first second he saw you. 

He tells you that he can’t bear the thought of losing all that you’d had, and that his world had been crumbling apart before his own goddamned eyes ever since your jet’s engine had sputtered and died. He tells you that he’s so, so fucking sorry he couldn’t save you, sorry that your life ever got entangled so messily with his in the first place, and even more sorry that he’s so useless to help you find your way back, that you can’t seem to find your way back to him. 

And when you began to cry, he bolted up from his seat and held you, whispering apologies into your hair, and you cried a little harder, because you had found your way back to him, but he wouldn’t ever care, because it wasn’t the same path you’d taken before. 

You cry because it hurts to hold him, and even more because it hurts him to hold you. You want all of the I-love-yous he’s ever said to be for you, and you want that damned ring too. 

You want that goddamn ring on your finger right now because he’d promised you that it would be yours. That first moment he’d ever seen you, stumbling drunk in a crowded Hard Deck and spilling his beer half on his Hawaiian shirt, half on yours, that he’d make up for it by putting a spendy ring on your little finger right there, despite not actually knowing where right there was. The only one I’ll ever buy, he’d hiccuped, it’ll be yours, darlin’. 

“Rooster,” you croaked into his chest. “Roo.”

A provoked sob tore from your throat, your arms and ribs aching from how tightly you clung to him, even after he froze. You surfaced from the curve of his shoulder, hands sliding past his sides, over his thrumming chest, and up to cradle his damp jawline before drawing his face down to yours. He mumbled your name, whiskey eyes potent as ever, and you smothered the rest of his question against your lips. 

You couldn’t tell who was crying anymore. Your cheeks’ dampness was his, just the same as his lips pressed against yours so harshly, so numbingly you couldn’t quite tell where yours ended and his began. It must have been somewhere close to where his tongue met yours, making up for lost time as he fought hard and fiercely for everything he’d been starved of for three, going on four, unbearable days. His hands left their leverage against the bed and latched onto your hips, rough fingertips familiarly caressing the soft slopes of your sides, and when you offered an airy moan to him, he accepted eagerly with a tightening grip. 

You separated from him with a small cry, ribs twinging. Bradley pulled away in horror, and his dilated pupils struggled to sober up to join. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, larger hands now grappling at yours and trying to remove your grasp. “You need—ice, I’ll go get you some ice–”

“Roo, no,” you mumbled, refusing to let go of him. 

He paused, and his body shivered under your touch. The familiarity of his name from your mouth seemed as comforting to him as it was to you. His lips twitched and curled, and he breathed a small sigh. The hard lines of his face grew tender as he slid his hands down to your wrists, turning and pressing a kiss to each palm. 

His heart jumped and throbbed against your fingertips, and you had no doubt he could feel the same from yours. The heat of his damp cheeks had grown infinitely warmer under your touch, and for all the nights you’d spent with just a grasp on his hand, the change was more and more welcome. 

“Don’t leave me again,” he pleaded against the skin of your palm, voice thick and bittersweet, like honey seeping through your ears. “I don’t think I can handle that again.”

He steeled himself against your mattress with one hand when you tugged his forehead down against yours, lips just whispering against one another. You smiled. 

“Was it all the Jell-O that did you in, or…?”

“Yeah, actually,” he nodded, tongue pressed against his cheek. “It was. I hope you know we’re never having Jell-O in our house ever again.”

“Not even lime?”

“Especially lime.”

You huffed, “Fine.” You pulled away, despite how desperate Bradley was to follow you. He let you fall back against the pillows with your hand still in his grasp, and he settled onto the edge of the mattress, letting his spare hand find home in the pliant skin of your thigh. Your eyes rose to the ceiling. “But it’ll cost you.”

Soft lips brushed the back of your left hand before cold metal slipped around your finger. “One of these?”

“Exactly.”

Bradley hummed. “Gladly.”

#top gun x reader #rooster x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster #bradley bradshaw #top gun: maverick x reader #tgm x reader #tgm #tgm rooster #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader

[lala1267]

His pretty baby.

Summary: A young girl named Carmen ends up asleep in Elvis's lap in a library.

Warning: age gap.

Notes: DADDY ELVIS😫😍

Carmen. Her name was Carmen. But it was never really said out of other people's mouths. She was never really there. Although her precious caramel goldilocks hair and her marble hazel eyes made her out to be well spoken, she was just a girl that lived in the shadows of others, just a girl that found peace in the white noise. Her lininen curls, her cartoon eyes, her button nose, her frilly socks, her checkered school skirts, all cascaded or even disguised her shy personality. She was naive, innocent, and most of all, dumb. She would sit in class, squinting her eyes and tapping her pencil against the glazed wooden desk, searching every part of her brain for an answer to the thick test that blurred her vision. She would do anything that anyone would say. She would talk with the old creepy men instead of run, she would attempt to hug a tiger instead of watch it from afar, she would probably jump on thin ice instead of walk, she would attempt to walk on the tight rope instead of staying in the audience. She was that kind of girl, clueless and dumb. She could be in a very important discussion, but if a pretty butterfly flies past her, her eyes would follow like a magnet. She always had a thing where she would tend to get distracted easily. But you couldn't blame her for her childishness. She was only 17, after all.

A warm summer evening

Warm summer breeze blew through the windows and past the thin white curtains. Hot sun beams shined through the glass window and onto the living room carpet. The sound of Carmen's mother making supper could be heard. Dishes clanging, and cutlery ringing like a melody. Carmen sat perched up on the living room sofa that had scribbled lines of crayon all over it due to her siblings that were still toddlers. The sound of her siblings giggling and running around echoed throughout the busy house. The sound of the dog barking and her father making business calls were all overwhelming. But it didn't manage to pry her doll eyes from the small television that was placed opposite the couch. She looked at the white comp sequin jumpsuit ghost that danced and sang on a large stage that shined in the stage lights. Elvis Presley. Carmen's hands fiddled, and her teethe grinded as she watched the handsome man.

"Carmen! How many times do I have to tell you!? Your food is ready! No one listens to me in this goddamn house, i do everything and no one helps me....." and she goes on.

Her mother's shouting boiled Carmen's blood like a kettle but she just kept it bottled inside of her locked heart, like she did with all of her feelings.

Carmen eyes shut and opened again before she got up and made her way into the kitchen. She sat herself down at the dining table and began to eat her meal.

Friday: after school

Carmen stopped by a local library after school. She walked around the Isles, carefully examining each and every book, picking and choosing with her wandering eyes. Her checkered skirt stopped just in the middle of her thighs, extenuating her sun-kissed legs. She wore a button-up white t-shirt and a tie. Long white socks ran up until the top of her calfs. She wore a pair of white and red saddle shoes.

Her small fingers ran along the sides of the books that were neatly placed on the shelves. Her concentration was broken when a lot of voices sounded at the entrance of the library. It sounded as if a crowd of people just entered or left.

"Can you please all exit the library."

A female voice said loudly.

'Probably not for me' Carmen thought to herself. The sound of cameras flickering also echoed around the atmosphere. But the commotion was brought to a stop when the sound of the doors closing was heard. Carmen turned around to see what was going on but she saw nothing, not a single person.

"What the..."

She whispered to herself as her brows furrowed and her eyes scanned the empty library. Where did everyone go? It was like a dream but except, it wasn't. She slowly turned back around to carry on scanning the books although she was still very confused.

Her eyes caught a glimpse of a book that looked somewhat interesting, but it was on the top shelf. She was only 5,4. She let out a loud sigh as she craned her head to look all the way up to it. She went on her tiptoes and reached her small arm as far as she could, but she had no luck. She tried again. This time, she grabbed onto one of the shelves for support. Suddenly, the smell of a musky, woody, manly cologne invaded her nostrils. Her nose twitched at how strong the smell was. Just then, a large male hand grabbed the book that she wanted with ease. The fingers of the hand were decorated in big shiny rings that were each individually studded with a different kind of expensive rock. She followed the hand and turned around. Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped as she saw the one and only Elvis Presley standing right in front of her. He wore a lavish silk shirt that was decorated with coulerfull patterns and black flared trousers that were studded with gleaming rhinestones. A large gold belt made itself comfy on his hips as a pair of his signature sunglasses rested on his nose bridge. The initials "E.P." were studded on the side neatly. His black velvet hair hung over his face perfectly. Carmen stood there shyly, staring up at him in awe whilst he towered over her like a building.

"I'm guessing you want this?"

He said in his deep southern drawl as he held the book up infront of her. Her words were ripped from her voice box and her brain was foggy. She couldn't talk or even process what was happening. She nodded slightly before she took the book with her trembling hand. She looked at the book before shifting her eyes back up to the unethereal man that stood infront of her. His brows furrowed and a slight grin formed on his plump lips.

"I thought I rented out this place, what are you still doing here?"

His eyes stared straight into hers. She managed to form some words from the dephs of her soul.

"I dunno."

She said quietly as her shoulders shrugged. She brought her hand up to her mouth. She began to bite her nails.

"You don't talk much do ya."

Elvis said. His smile quickly disappeared when he noticed her chewing her nails. He brought his hand up to hers and slowly pulled it away from her mouth.

"Hey, hey, hey, don't bite ya nails, it ain't good for a lil girl like yourself."

He said as he rubbed her small hand with his thumb. He looked down at her hand and then back up at her.

"You don't have to be shy baby, I ain't gonna bite."

He said reassuringly as he looked into her bambi eyes. She just stood there, trying to not ruin her only time of meeting Elvis.

"Why aren't ya out playin' with your freinds or something?"

He asked as his hand was still wrapped around hers.

"I-i like reading."

She said quietly.

"Well, you must be Intellegent then."

He said with a smile on his face. If only he knew how wrong he was. She was the polar opposite of intelligent, she was anything but intelligent. She let out a slight giggle at his comment.

"What's so funny, doll?"

He asks with a grin on his face. Carmen looked up to him.

"I'm not intelligent."

She says, this was followed by a round of giggles. Elvis smiled and chuckled slightly aswell.

"You're cute."

He says, still chuckling slightly. His hand was still latched onto hers.

"What's your name honey?"

He asked. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear before answering his question.

"Carmen"

She said quietly. Elvis smiled as his eyebrows raised.

"I ain't never heard that name before, but it's nice. It suits ya."

He says. Carmen smiled and blushed at his comment.

"You blushin' already, if anything I should be blushin', you are the pretty one!"

Elvis says as he laughed. Carmen giggled along with him. She was so cute.

"Why don't ya come and sit down with me? I wouldn't want you to be alone now."

Carmen's heart suddenly pounded faster against her ribcage as she scavangered for her words.

"Oh, uhm, s-sure."

She said quietly. A large smile formed on Elvis's face as if he had achieved something. He gripped her small hand before escorting her to a seating area that was in the corner of the library. She sat down on a chair as he sat down next to her. She placed her book on the glazed wooden desk that was in front of them. She looked up into his glimmering eyes as he looked down at hers. They talked and talked until eventually Carmen became comfortable with him. The more she listened to his calming southern voice, the more she fell in love with him. She was laughing like a child and talking like there was no tomorrow. Elvis looked down at her small body, which was inches away from him. He looked back up at her.

"Why don't ya take a seat on my lap? It's more comfortable."

He said with his signature smile. Carmen looked at his lap and then back up at him. She smiled.

"Sure."

She said happily before she climbed into his lap. He held onto her thigh with one of his hands. He wrapped one of his arms around her body so that he could hold his book.

"Ya comfy baby?"

He asked as he looked into her eyes. She nodded with a wide grin. He looked back down at the book and opened it whilst still keeping Carmen cosy on his lap. He began to read outloud, and he read to Carmen. She smiled as she listened to his soothing voice. His voice was music to her ears. She looked at his hand, which turned the page occasionally. She loved his large rings that decorated his long fingers. He had large veins running through his hand. She slowly felt her eyelids begin to close, and she tried her best to keep them open. His voice was putting her to sleep. His cologne, his warmth, his voice, his touch, was all too pleasant for little Carmen. Her body gradually leaned onto Elvis until she was sound asleep, resting her head on his chest. Elvis chuckled slightly before placing the book down and wrapping his arms around her. He stroked her body and played with her golden hair. The start of a true love affair.

#elvis presley #fanfic #lana del rey #elvis the pelvis #fan fic writing #70s elvis #70s vintage #singers #60s elvis #please follow me #please like this #elvis x y/n #elvis x you #elvis x reader #elvis presley x y/n #elvis presley x reader #daddy issues #you can be my daddy #older daddy #aesthetic #fanfic writing #older man younger woman #handsome older man #girlblogger #girlblogging #elvis presley x you #elvis x oc #fypツ #tumblr fyp #foryоu

[cosmomoore]

Lookit this little goofball! :3

I 3D printed a head designed by Aelith Art on Etsy (P-aei on Insta) that I modified to fit a Shadow High Natasha Zima body.

Their faceup is inspired by akiglancy on Insta, I liked how the watercolor pencils paired with the layer lines give it almost a crayon effect.

Wig, eyes, and tights made by me. All other clothes are from various dolls.

#dolls #doll #toys #toy #custom doll #hybrid doll #rainbow high #shadow high #kawaii #handmade

[citrus-soda]

I have yet to watch the Shurara Corps episodes, but there is something so so sweet about them unabashedly being kids' OCs. They have cool powers like being made of snow, controlling shadows, or turning people into stuffed animals. They are all part of this mysterious and elite squad of antagonists sent to defeat the main characters. Not to mention that their final designs in the anime are almost exactly the same - if not an exact replica of the designs their creators gave them.

This isn't the whole Corps, but look at these! Drawn in marker and crayon and colored pencil - most likely on whatever printer paper was in the house. They are all so creative, I just know the artists had fun making them.

And I'm sure these guys were more time-consuming to animate than the main cast. Look me in the eye and tell me Shurara WASN'T a total pain to color correctly. Not counting shading he's got at least 10 or 11 unique colors in his color scheme... and yet he's still there in all his asymmetrical glory, looking almost exactly the same as he does in the fanletter. They all do!

From a professional standpoint, he's a nightmare of a character design. But from a kid's standpoint? He's like the coolest villain imaginable. They're ALL cool.

To me, these guys are love letters to childhood creativity. I love that they exist and I'm so glad they didn't get simplified by the anime staff to save on time or production costs. I bet it made their creators happy to see them on screen.

#keroro gunso #citrussodatalks #I hope these kids (wherever they are now) never lost that joy for drawing. #i know putata's creator had a deviantart but last time i checked the account was deactivated. and i think yukiki's creator might have... #...(or once had anyway?) an account on twitter. cant remember the username or if its still up tho. #and there are so many more awesome fan characters from the keroroland magazine! I love going thru the wiki and looking at em #the keroland designs are so important to me. #getting emotional. drawing is fun. joy and love uhuyuhuhu. sobs.

[trolls-with-tails]

Wanderer's Lullaby (The Black Falcon Sneak Peek)

By the time John Dory finished the last remainders of his chores for the day, a quick glance at the quietly ticking clock on the kitchen wall was enough to startle the revelation into him that the hour had long since dwindled away into the night.

Sloughing off the sticky, sudsy remnants of dish soap from his arms and hands under the warm water of the tap, the boy looked away from the clock, disturbed by how quickly time had slipped him by. Today had felt like a blur of bustling mechanically about, and when he tried to reach into the recesses of his mind to recall how exactly he went about the day, the voids in his memory that greeted him were…concerning, to say the least. But it certainly wasn’t unfamiliar; not at this point in his life.

In fact, ever since his band with his brothers accelerated in fame, so, too, did the weight of expectations and responsibilities grow heavier upon John Dory’s shoulders, and most days, it was enough to nearly bring him to the cusp of suffocating. Even so, he knew in his heart that he could not break, could not falter, lest he risk the foundations of everything his brothers deserved and more crumbling under their feet.

After all, John Dory was the eldest. His brothers’ protector. Their primary guardian when Grandma Rosiepuff’s health failed her and the cruel hand of fate tore their parents away from them. John Dory had to be everything for his family. John Dory had to be perfect, and nothing less.

The sound of distant laughter is what mercifully pulled him from the dark, downward spiral of his thoughts, and John Dory couldn’t help but smile, tired but fond all the same, as he tucked the last few plates back into the cabinet before padding lightly down the hallway, towards his brothers’ shared room. As he went along, he took a moment to study the many photographs hanging on the wall in frames of polished wood, and here, in the shadows cast by the night, laying out a shrouded veil over the world, captured moments of sweet family memories didn’t appear so innocent now, leering down at him through the darkness with unblinking eyes and unwavering smiles.

It wasn’t the first time John Dory wondered if he deserved to belong in these photographs, and he ducked his head low and continued his trek in uneasy silence, determined to not allow his head to cloud over again. He had his fill of enough stormy thoughts lately.

Passing by the shut door to Grandma Rosiepuff’s bedroom, where his keen ears could pick up on the muffled sound of her snoring softly away, the oldest BroZone member rounded the corner of the corridor, and, upon opening the door, was met with a sight beyond the threshold of the space he shared with his brothers that had him ready to tie all of his siblings into one big knot.

Leaning against the doorframe, John Dory planted a hand on his hip, his tail twitching by his ankles. “Anyone wanna tell me why you’re all up and out of bed, at twelve o’clock, on a school night?” Pausing to take in the fact that little Branch was in on the scheme and nowhere near his crib like he should be, he vehemently added, “And what in the name of music are you guys doing with Bitty B? I put him down for bed at eight!”

They were all clustered together around an unruly spread of colored paper, pencils, crayons, glue, and scissors, and a million thoughts as to what could possibly be so important about the setup that it had them long neglecting their bedtime flooded John Dory all at once. Did they procrastinate on a project and were now racing to make up for lost time? Was it a gift to the pretty girl that always waved and smiled at Spruce on the way to school? Or could it be they were working on a new album cover?

Before the questions could leave his mouth, Clay broke the ensuing silence with a groan, dropping the pair of scissors he’d been holding haphazardly against a pile of paper scraps. “Great. We’ve been busted, boys.”

“Only ‘cause you wouldn’t shut your big trap,” Spruce shot back, narrowing his eyes before returning to his task of diligently sprinkling glitter over swirls of glue, making a point of not looking his older brother in the eye and ignoring Clay’s indignant quailing.

Floyd, who was sitting with Branch in his lap, both of their cheeks decorated in a variety of colorful stickers, was the only one who had enough sense to look ashamed, sheepishly bouncing his giggling baby brother on his knee. “Sorry, JD. We were just…uh…” Wincing, he aimed a pleading glance in Clay’s direction, rewarded only with a mere shrug.

Spruce sighed, redirecting his focus from his work to sit back on his haunches and peel at a patch of drying glue on his palm. This time, he dared to meet the expectant gaze of BroZone’s eldest member, still leaning in the doorway and pinning them with his eyes like insects to a board, and there was resignation in the way his shoulders slumped and his ears drooped. “Alright, alright, guess it’s up to me to spill.” Steepling his fingers together in what JD assumed was an effort to save face, the purple-haired troll continued, “We were working on your present for tomorrow, Johnny.”

John Dory blinked slowly. A present? Tomorrow? For what? Brain spinning with questions, he was about to ask his brothers of such, when the epiphany struck him like a bolt of lightning.

His birthday was tomorrow.

By all the trolls, how could I forget that?

Remembering himself, John was quick to wipe away any traces of bewilderment from his expression, silently praying that none of his siblings spotted it. He had no doubt in his mind that his brothers would get on his case if they so much as suspected that his forgetfulness was attributed to his tendency to work himself to the bone, and the mere thought of his younger siblings catching a glimpse of the cracked, faulty John Dory that was behind the fortified wall of steel that was his confident, perfect persona was enough to send his stomach twisting into tight knots. It was not their job to shoulder their eldest brother’s problems; that burden was his and his alone, and he was determined to carry it with him into the grave and well into whatever afterlife was merciless enough to welcome him, so long as it meant that his beloved family never had to shed a tear in his favor. Enclosed by the Bergens at all times, there were more important, pressing matters worth crying about, and John Dory feeling a little overworked was not one of them, of this he was certain.

So on the flawless, impenetrable mask went, and John Dory straightened up from his spot against the doorframe and smiled like he knew the important date was coming up all along, like his memories and sense of time weren’t addled and misplaced from countless nights with little to no shut eye and numerous days spent tiring away at the grindstone of routine, of chipping away at his responsibilities until he’d dug himself somewhere deep and dark.

“You guys didn’t have to get me anything,” he insisted, but even so, his eyes couldn’t help but trail curiously over to what looked like a scrapbook on the floor, bound with black leather and white string and stuffed to the gills with vibrant paper. “Just making you all happy is enough of a birthday gift for me.”

Clay snorted. “Quit your babbling and take it, JD. I sustained battle scars over this.” He wiggled his bandaged fingers for emphasis.

“What Clay means to say,” Floyd cut in, but not before shooting the yellow-haired troll a meaningful glare, “is that while we know we didn’t have to give you anything for your birthday, we wanted to.” He offered his older brother a warm smile, which Branch giggled at, his small, pudgy hands reaching up to tug on the corners of his mouth.

Spruce nodded, a look in his eye that John Dory found himself nervous to fully interpret, something far too knowing and searching in that gaze of his. Was he catching on to his inner turmoil? By the trolls, JD internally pleaded that that was not the case, but his younger sibling continued to eye him in that strange, studying way before he addressed him next. “Exactly. You’ve been working really hard lately, and we wanted to give you something to show our appreciation.” Pausing to pick up a discarded bottle of glue from off the floor, he went on, “We were hoping to give it to you in the morning, but it turns out we weren’t as discreet about this as we thought. So, I guess we could add the last few details and give it to him now, right, guys?”

Clay and Floyd nodded in collective agreement, and it was the pink-haired troll who readjusted Branch in his lap and reached over him to make a grab for the scrapbook lying on the carpet, instructing John not to peek before adding the final finishing touches, the tip of his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration.

Once the present was declared complete and John Dory was allowed to open his eyes again, he watched as all of his brothers– minus Bitty B, who leisured in Floyd’s cradled arms and blew a raspberry at the eldest BroZone member when he looked his way– made to stand and approached him with Spruce at the head, holding out the leather-bound book with a sheepish tint to his cheeks.

“Happy birthday, JD,” his brothers chorused, softly so as to not rouse Grandma from her slumber down the hall.

Something inside John Dory’s chest swelled to the brim and tightened, but it was not the cold, prickly sensation of dread he had become so accustomed to. It was a warm, blooming feeling, one that spread in tingly ripples all throughout his arms, down to the tips of his fingers, and he swallowed hard so as to not choke on the intensity of it as he reached for his present with forcibly stilled hands.

I don’t deserve this, murmured the downtrodden voice in his head that he had endured for as long as he could remember, one not so easily quashed even after all these years of dealing with it, and such a feat continued to ring true as he looked down at the scrapbook in his grasp, crafted with every intention of being granted to him, of appreciating him, of him earning it. I just do what any other big sibling would do. It’s nothing special.

After all, why would John Dory, ever the imperfect troll, deserve any sort of praise, when it was his brothers who were shining examples of what perfection should be?

Still, for all his grievances, there was little keeping him from sweeping a tender hand down the scrapbook’s spine, quietly taking in the details that his brothers spent the night toiling away on, pouring every ounce of their blood, sweat, tears, and dedicated hearts into something they believed their older brother had earned. On the cover, using the stickers of themselves that were a part of their new merchandise line, cutesy decals of his brothers’ heads were lined up in a neat box formation, with himself being placed in the center. Spirals and zig-zags of glue shone with glitter all throughout, drawn neatly and artfully around each sticker, and John had to blink hard around the threat of tears in his eyes and braced himself as he opened the scrapbook.

The sight that greeted him beyond the cover was nearly enough to break the dam restraining the waterworks right then and there. Each page he leafed through not only had Clay’s neat handwriting, Floyd’s skilled doodles, and Spruce’s painstaking paper craftsmanship, it was filled to the brim with photos upon photos of the childhood memories they made together, even pictures predating the formation of BroZone.

The first time he held Spruce’s egg; Clay learning how to do a handstand; themselves and Grandma Rosiepuff posing by a snowman they’d rolled up and decorated together; a portrait of their parents smiling with their hands lovingly clasped together; Floyd gazing fondly at a sleeping Branch in his arms; himself and his brothers all dressed up for a fashion show that they put on for Grandma; Spruce and Clay out cold on the couch together after they challenged each other to a dance-off and both stubbornly refused to give in to the point of exhaustion… It was all here, the reason he woke up every morning to fight another day, the happy moments he poured every fiber of his being into to ensure they never ended, fitted together so carefully and lovingly in this scrapbook, and it was made with the belief that he deserved the thought and care put into it.

He blinked hard, and was barely given a moment to realize that a tear managed to slip through before he was being bombarded, finding himself encircled within the embrace of all of his brothers, the very people he would conquer the world for if the moment called for it.

“D’you like it?” Floyd was the first to speak, reaching up to brush away the stray teardrop rolling down his older brother’s cheek, his smile kind but nervous, as if he believed there was a universe where John Dory would reject something so precious, something so perfect.

“Do I like it?” John echoed incredulously, a wet chuckle escaping him against his better judgment. Drying his eyes with the back of his hand, he slung his arms around his siblings and pulled them in closer, hoping that the action alone could pour out every ounce of gratitude and love that the gift stirred within him, a swell of emotions that not even his lyrically-trained mind could put to words. “Guys, I love it! Gosh, it’s…it’s perfect. Thank you guys so, so much, this is already the best birthday ever!”

“Slow your roll there, pal,” Clay piped up from where he was nestled snugly against the older troll’s side, but the grin he wore betrayed his amusement, his eyes warm and fond. “The party barely even started!”

They lingered like that for what felt like ages, basking in each other’s company and the affectionate embrace that tied them together, and it was only when John Dory became aware of the ticking of the clock in the kitchen amidst the silence did he remember how late it was, his eyes flying open with a start.

“Again, thank you guys for the amazing birthday gift, but by all the trolls, have you seen what time it is?” JD quailed, regretfully wrangling himself out of the group hug to nudge his brothers in the directions of their respective beds. Thankfully, he was met with minimal protests for his prodding, as it quickly became apparent that spending their time working on an arts-and-crafts project instead of resting up for school was taking its toll, if the way they rubbed their drooping eyes and succumbed to long, exaggerated yawning fits was of any indication.

Clay clambered his way up onto the top bunk, and Spruce fell onto the mattress underneath John Dory’s, landing face-first onto his pillow.

Waiting until Floyd was seated at the edge of his bed to take Branch from his tiring arms, JD turned and was about to lay their baby brother down in his crib, when a hand catching him by the elbow halted him in his tracks. He blinked slowly and turned around to fix his younger brother with a curious stare, his intrigument only increasing when he was met with a bashful expression.

Realizing he now had the older troll’s attention, Floyd relinquished his hold on his brother’s arm in favor of picking at the tuft on his tail, diverting his gaze to the mess of art supplies scattered on the ground like it suddenly became the most interesting sight in the world. “Uh, I know I might be a little old for this, but I was thinking…” He hesitated, brows pinching in as he seemed to mull it over, until eventually, he decided whatever it was that he was going to say would be worth it and proceeded on, “D’you think you could sing that old lullaby you sometimes sing to Bitty B? You…you haven’t sung it in a while, and I miss it.”

Floyd’s soft-spoken words reached into John Dory’s chest with deceptively cruel talons and squeezed his heart without mercy, and it took all of his willpower to stifle the wince threatening to pull at his face. God, it had been a while, hadn't it? Foggy as his brain was nowadays, JD could still recall in perfect detail the nights he spent singing the very song Floyd wished to hear to all of his brothers, a melody passed down to him from his parents when he himself was a little tyke, one he continued to pay forward through his siblings in the hopes it would grant them the same sense of peace and security that it gave him. The realization that, in lieu of his ever-increasing duties, Branch was the most unfortunate out of his siblings to have heard the lullaby the least was nothing short of agonizing, for more often than not did John Dory find himself passing out as soon as his head hit the pillow lately. It didn’t occur to him until now that Branch might not be the only one missing out on the familiar song, too.

Some brother you are, that icy voice from before nagged at him again, and John Dory raced to prove it wrong. It was the least he could do after receiving a gift so special from his brothers; if anyone deserved everything they desired and more, it was his family, and the eldest member of BroZone was quick to hold up his end of the bargain.

“Of course I can,” JD replied with a too-bright smile, and before Floyd had a chance to read too far into it, he turned on the ball of his heel and padded past the messy floor– he’d wake up early to clean it up come the morning– towards the rocking chair that Grandma Rosiepuff would read stories to them from, sitting down and making sure Branch was settled securely in his arms. His eyelids felt as if they were being weighed down by lead, and his head felt heavier than a boulder, but despite his own exhaustion trying to drag him down into the depths with it, he persisted, determination to do right by his brothers guiding his voice into the soft, tranquil notes that his heart knew like the back of his hand.

“Wandering child of the earth, Do you know just how much you're worth? You have walked this path since your birth, You were destined for more…”

In an instant, Floyd’s sheepish demeanor melted away, his posture dissolving into something loose and relaxed as he allowed himself to settle against his mattress, wriggling his way under the covers and sinking into the pillow with a contented sigh.

“There are those who'll tell you you're wrong, They will try to silence your song, But right here is where you belong, So don't search anymore…”

Spruce didn’t move much even as the song started up, and for a moment, John Dory suspected that he had already fallen asleep, when the purple-haired troll proved him wrong by moving his head so he could watch the performance through heavily-lidded eyes, a pleased little smile curling his lip.

“You are the dawn of a new day that's waking, A masterpiece still in the making, The blue in an ocean of gray, You are right where you need to be, Poised to inspire and to succeed, You'll look back and you'll realize one day…”

Cradled securely in his older brother’s arms, Branch could only stare up at him in wide-eyed wonder for so long until sleep came to claim him, sticking his thumb into his mouth as his eyelids slid closed.

“In your eyes there is doubt, As you try to figure it out, But that's not what life is about, So have faith, there's a way. Though the world may try to define you, It can't take the light that's inside you, So don't you dare try to hide, Let your fears fade away…”

Out of the corner of his eye, John could see Clay peering at him drowsily over the edge of the top bunk, his head nodding off as he fought against the tempting pull of sleep in an effort to hear the rest of the song through. However, in the end, his body’s demands won out, and his head dropped heavily into his pillow. Still, JD carried on, something strangely cathartic about returning to a song long since left to collect dust.

“You are the dawn of a new day that's waking, A masterpiece still in the making, The blue in an ocean of gray, You are right where you need to be, Poised to inspire and to succeed, You'll look back and you'll realize one day…”

Careful not to disturb Bitty B from his slumber, John Dory slowly rose up from the old rocking chair and inched lightly towards the crib, easing him down with a kiss pressed to his forehead for good measure.

Confident that all of his brothers were asleep by now, the teal-haired troll carried on to lay a kiss across the foreheads of each and every one of them, a ritual he never quite grew out of, even when the others themselves grew older. His heart warm and full for the first time in what must’ve been ages, JD flicked off the light and quietly crept up the ladder to his own bed, the final notes of the lullaby pouring out of him as he laid his weary body to rest, the scrapbook his brothers made for him carefully tucked away under the safety of his pillow.

“You are the dawn of a new day that's waking, A masterpiece still in the making, The blue in an ocean of gray, You are right where you need to be, Poised to inspire and to succeed, Soon you'll finally find your own way.”

Welcoming the darkness that greeted him from behind his eyelids, John Dory’s last thought before the shadowed veil of sleep wrapped around him flickered through his mind:

For as long as me and my brothers are together…we’re perfect.

(Song included is Wanderer's Lullaby by Adriana Figueroa)

#dreamworks trolls #trolls #trolls 3 #trolls movie #trolls fandom #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #archive of our own #fic #ao3 writer #trolls band together #trolls john dory #The Black Falcon John Dory AU #branch trolls #trolls fanfic #trolls floyd #trolls clay #trolls bruce #trolls brozone #trolls spruce #trolls branch

[lynxgriffin]

Under blue skies

Within a forest of gold

Lies a thin veneer of lies

Some black, some white, though mostly old.

What rises to the wind,

whether houses or trees

Families so close, love shines ever clean

Ah, or so it would seem

What rises to the wind

Whispers and dreams

One family, north of all else

Their home houses something beyond compense

It's skin is strange

And eyes too red

Wherever they walk

A glance would be shed

In good company

Where worries are shared

One stands tall

Though whispered with glares

"why are they so different ?"

"why so mouch trouble ?"

It's strange for one to think

That gossip would not bubble

They act like it can't hear

Though perhaps they know

They hope in secret

It would better itself, somehow

It hopes, but sees

All of their peers think the same

Oh woe be to the one

Who bares all the blame

It knows it, it sees that.

The soul they bear is so guilty

So red.

"why" they ask

"why couldn't it have been white?"

White as a lamb, no harm, no foul

Red is hate, a predator on a prowl

Pencil to paper

Crayon and crawl

The one they hope to be

The palest soul alive

A vain wish, destined to die.

Years pass and times are rough

One who held them close

Left them to wilt

A darkened rose

Days bring no joy

Sleep is too plentiful

One day a tormentor comes

They grow ever more pitiful

And then

Darker yet darker

The shadows grow

A world of new wonder

Unveils it's row

Now they walk together

The picker and the picked

A world of fantasy

Where dreams come true

Or be they shadows

Whom come to collect their due ?

The one veiled in purple

They find their destiny

A lonelines crushed

By a blue ball of loyalty

But they

Their red soul within

They find a shadow,

A mirror so thin

It's fur is white

(I wish to be them)

It's smile is wide

(I wish to be happy)

Manners are gold

(I wish to be good)

It's eyes shine pink

Theirs glow red

So slight is the difference

What cost...

for it...

to be...

....shed ?

Stranger of feathers

Master of creation

Answer one question :

Of whom do I speak

And of what do they reek ?

Your poem about Kris is very interesting, and I've been mulling over what to do with it! So, I guess I can share it again for other folks to mull over!

#ask lynx stuff #bit of a dash stretch warning #gosh I never quite know what to do with asks like these #like it's fascinating but I feel like I'm the wrong recipient!

[tunaababee]

we will be everything we say - a feysand friends-to-lovers AU 💖

masterlist // fic playlist // read on AO3 // overall rating: e // wc this chapter: 2.3k // updates Mondays (aest)

Feyre Archeron has been best friends with Rhysand Sterling ever since she moved onto the same street when they were kids - the two became absolutely joined at the hip, with nothing able to come between them.

As they get older, life gets more complicated and things get harder. Not everything comes as naturally as it once did. People change, things happen, friends... drift.

But after drifting apart, maybe life can push them back together again, in time.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

welcome to my very first feysand longfic! this fic is planned to be eight chapters long. while the fic is rated e overall as smut will eventually happen (spoilers i guess lol), this chapter is as clean as it gets haha.

i hope you all like it! as always, big props to my beta reader @climbthemountain2020 who is forever and always my favourite cheerleader!!!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter 1: five and six

The sunlight beat down warmly against the soft, plasticky material that covered the entire expanse of the playground. Kids yelling and chatting, scraping knees, throwing balls and playing with toys. Parents murmuring and chuckling amongst themselves, reading books or watching intently. It was a beautiful day for a Sunday in the town of Prythian and it seemed that nobody was going to let it go to waste. The flowers and shrubs that surrounded the edges of the playground were on full display, spring in full bloom around them.

Little Feyre Archeron had mixed feelings about these days. She did love them sometimes, sure - the sun was very nice against her skin, and the flowers around them were very beautiful. The bright and sunny day did make the colours of the playground look bright and enticing... But at the same time, she very much preferred to fill in her colouring book to her heart’s content inside. Feyre didn’t have to worry about losing her favourite crayon colours or pencils in there, nor did she have to share them with anybody but her sisters if they were at home. Nesta and Elain didn’t even really use them that much - it worked out great! However, Feyre did love any excuse for her father to take her and her sisters out for the day, especially when it meant ice cream afterwards. So she sat at a picnic table, a fierce intensity in her little frown, as she tried to make the prettiest Princess Ariel anybody in this playground had ever seen. Elain was busy playing shop with Nesta underneath one of the play structures, Nesta making sure that nobody was trying to cut her younger sister an unfair deal or push her around while their dad kept Nesta in check about being too mean to any of the other kids.

Feyre barely paid attention to her sisters, let alone any of the other kids on the playground. She was going to create a masterpiece.

That is, until, a slight shadow was cast along the bottom of her colouring page, shading Ariel’s feet and preventing Feyre from seeing it properly.

“Hey!” She grumbled, turning around before meeting the gaze of a little boy with a mess of black, slightly curly hair atop his head and deep blue eyes. He was slightly taller, slightly older, but not by much. “Your shadow is getting in the way of my Ariel picture.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He stared down at his feet a little, shuffling to the side and out of the way of Feyre’s colouring book. “Um. Can I sit here too?”

“If you want. But you can’t colour in on this page, this one’s mine! My sister Nesta already coloured another page of mine and it was very rude.” Feyre huffed slightly at the memory before returning attention to her page.

“That’s okay.” He shuffled onto the bench, sitting right up next to her and watching intently with a little amazement in his eyes. “Wow, you’re really good at colouring. It’s all in the lines and everything!”

Feyre couldn’t help but feel a large sense of pride swell in her chest at that - nobody ever paid attention to how much care she put into her colouring in. It was her favourite thing to do, and she wanted to draw pictures just as pretty as the ones she would colour in when she got older. She gave the boy a big, toothy grin.

“Thank you! I’m almost done, I just need to finish her shoes. You can colour the next one with me if you want. You just need to be careful with the crayons, they’re my special ones.” She looked back down at her page with the same intensity as before, but with a little more excitement about her as she scrambled to finish the picture so she could partake in the next with her new buddy.

“I will, I promise! My name is Rhysand, but I like to be called Rhys. I’m six!” He held his little hand out with enthusiasm, his skin a warm golden brown and a face full of hope. “Maybe we can be friends!”

Feyre paused a moment, taking care to place her colouring implements delicately on the page before taking his hand and shaking it up and down furiously. Just like all the serious grown-ups do, right? “My name’s Feyre, I’m five so I’m nearly as big as you. I’d really like to be friends with you - I haven’t been here very long, so I don’t know anybody else yet. My mommy and daddy said we had to come here for daddy’s work.”

She let go of his hand to put the last touches on Ariel’s shoes, taking a triumphant look at it before turning the page. A stark black and white depiction of Aladdin and Princess Jasmine - him in his normal outfit and Jasmine in her princess outfit, of course. Rhys let out a little gasp of excitement, searching excitedly through Feyre’s crayons before pulling out a purple one. “Oh, Aladdin is my favourite! He looks just like me!”

“Aladdin is pretty cool. I think Jasmine’s clothes are sooooo pretty, and she even gets to have a pet tiger! She’s really brave.”

They both set to colouring in, Feyre taking her time and trying her best to impress her new friend even further with her awesome colouring skills. Rhys wasn’t as great at staying in the lines as her, but that was okay. They were having fun together, and Feyre felt a little less alone than she had when they had first arrived at the park. She loved Elain and Nesta, but they always stuck together and it could make her feel a little left out. But Rhys? Rhys was her friend. She hoped they could stick together just like her sisters did, too.

The two chattered away incessantly as they coloured, even moving to do their own little drawings all around Aladdin and Jasmine and trying to make a silly story out of the whole thing. Rhys said that he knew a lot of kids, but not many of them really talked to or played with him very much. His dad was really busy, but his mom always did her best to make him feel special. They went out together a lot, and it was always the favourite part of his day. Feyre told him how her sisters were 7 and 8 years old and they always thought she was a bit too little to play a lot of their games with her, which was SO unfair because she’s a big kid too! She talked of how her dad liked to treat them to ice cream after their park adventures, and how her mom never, ever really liked taking them and always seemed to be a bit cranky, but that was okay. We can’t be happy all the time - she knew that from when she couldn’t get her drawings to look just like how she wanted them to or when her and her sisters were playing Barbies and it wasn’t going how Feyre thought it should. Why can’t her Barbie have cool superpowers AND live in the dreamhouse?

It definitely made Feyre feel more than justified when Rhys wholeheartedly agreed with her.

Soon enough though, the peak sunlight of the day had started to wane a little, beginning to hide behind the few clouds that decided to rear their heads in the sky. Her dad began to walk over to her, Nesta and Elain holding each of his hands. Nesta, unsurprisingly, looked a bit cross while Elain was jumping for joy.

“Feyre, honey, it’s time for us to go so we can get some ice cream. Come on, pack up your book and your crayons so we can take them home.”

Feyre pouted furiously at her father, bottom lip getting slightly wobbly as she crossed her arms.

“But I don’t wanna go yet! I wanna stay with my friend!”

“Your friend might have to go home soon, too. We should let him get back to his parents.” Her father looked exhausted, already tired of this fight and wanting to simply take them back into their regular routine.

“I don’t wanna! He won’t have anyone else to play with!”

“Feyre, honey-”

“Rhys? Rhys, baby, where’d you go?” A woman with hair as pitch black as Rhysand’s came walking over with a smile across her face as her son waved at her from the other side of the park. There was no way this could be anybody but his mother, and she seemed so kind and warm in her demeanour right from the start.

“Mama! I made a new friend! This is Feyre!” He went bounding over to her without a second thought, babbling excitedly to her about everything they had talked about earlier. His mother had kneeled down to be eye level with him, before turning her gaze on Feyre with that same warm smile.

“Really? Well, it’s lovely to meet you Feyre.”

“...N-Nice to meet you.” She was a little shy around grown-ups she didn’t know, but if it was Rhys’ mother, Feyre could will herself to be brave. Feyre’s dad waved at Rhys’ mother, reaching a hand out to make introductions.

“Hey there. I’m Gerald, Feyre’s dad.”

“Rebecca, I’m Rhysand’s mom. Nice to meet you.”

Feyre’s dad gave her a polite, if not slightly strained, smile before trying to urge Feyre to come with him despite his full hands and her open defiance.

“Come on Feyre, if you don’t use your listening ears, we won’t get any ice cream.”

“But can’t Rhys come? He’s my friend! He should get ice cream too!” Feyre pointed at her friend with a stubbornness that ran through the Archeron women that wouldn’t be diluted, even in childhood. Rebecca couldn’t help but look at Feyre with a softness in her eyes, glad that her son was finally starting to make friends.

“We don’t get to choose that for him, baby. Come on-”

“Oh, I think we might have some time to go for ice cream. What do you think, Rhys?” She grabbed Rhys’ hand as he pumped a little fist in the air, Feyre beaming at him before she took that free hand with gusto.

Feyre’s dad mouthed a ‘thank you’ at Rebecca, her giving a wave in a universal indication of ‘no problem’. The group of six took up the entirety of the pathway, the two parents hanging back a little bit to chat whilst the four rambunctious kids led the way. Rhys led the charge, knowing the way to the ice cream parlour like the back of his hand while he and Feyre swung their hands together between them. The two avoided cracks in the pavement, nearly falling over each other several times, but the air was filled with laughter and probably the most talking Feyre had ever done since they had moved to Prythian in the first place. After a few careful reminders not to cross the road without their adults, to look both ways and to not be silly as they crossed the few stretches of road that laid between them and the ice cream parlour, they arrived at their destination. The minute they were inside, Feyre practically pressed her face against the glass of the service counter to look at all the flavours they had.

“What flavour are you gonna get?” Rhys mumbled to her, staring with just as much want and hunger in his eyes at the gallons of ice cream before them.

“Choc mint. That one’s my favourite. What about you?”

“Choc mint is okay, but I like boysenberry the most. It even has all the cool swirlies in it!” He pointed excitedly through the glass, Feyre making a small face.

“Mm. That’s a good choice. It’s really pretty.” Feyre pulled away from the glass to lightly tap at her father’s arm, relaying her order as Rhys did the same with his mom before they all sat down at the biggest booth they had available.

“Since you two walked to the ice cream parlour with us, are you just parked here or do you live nearby?” Gerald asked Rebecca, the kids too busy waiting impatiently for their orders to be delivered to their table to pay attention to what they were talking about.

“We’re not too far from here, just a block or two over on Orion Avenue.”

“Ah, same street as us then.” Feyre’s ears perked up at that.

“Oh, you’re the ones who moved into number 31 then? We’re a few doors down at 25.” Rebecca mussed up Rhys’ hair with a grin, pressing a kiss to the top of his head as the two ever-excitable children looked at each other.

“You’re at number 31! That means we’re almost neighbours! We can play all the time!”

“I can show you all my cool toys!”

“I can show you all my toys too! This is so awesome! Mama, can I go play at Feyre’s one day?” Rhys’ little face was full of wonder as he looked up at his mother, practically pleading with her.

“One day, yeah! But her parents have to say yes, too. I think after we have our ice cream we’ve all had enough adventure for one day, though.”

As if she had spoken it into existence, the heaped cups of ice cream were placed in front of everyone and they didn’t hesitate to dig in.

After ice cream, the group proceeded to walk home together in the reddened rays of a setting sun on a beautiful afternoon, the two fast friends holding hands the whole way home. Before they had to go their separate ways though, Feyre and Rhys shared a tight hug.

“You’re my best friend now, so we have to play together all the time, okay?” Feyre whispered to him, like it was a secret just for the two of them.

“Okay! I’ll see you later, Feyre!”

Rhys and Feyre waved at each other before walking into their homes, not knowing that in that moment they’d found a soft place to land in one another for years to come.

#feysand #rhysand x feyre archeron #fanfiction #rhysand #feyre archeron #acotar #acotar fanfiction #friends to lovers

[pinkestmenace]

Thoughts on Shadow Kirby

I see Shadow as like Kirby, but minus the cheerfulness and can-do attitude. So he's more of an unsmiling husk and has a bit of a creepy Victorian orphan vibe.

Comparisons (largely based on how I see them and may not match canon exactly):

Kirby: "I used to have lots of enemies, but not anymore!" (He befriended them.)

Skirby: "I used to have lots of enemies. Not anymore." (Refuses to elaborate.)

Kirby: Likes Meta Knight partially because his glowing eyes remind him of fireflies, which he loves to chase.

Skirby: Intrigued by Dark Meta Knight partially because, like a cockroach, he's shiny, dark, mysterious, difficult to kill and eats trash.

Kirby: Crashes at your house uninvited, will eat all your snacks if you let him.

Skirby: Manifests behind you when you least expect it. Even though you were sure you locked all the doors... (He crawled in through the chimney.)

Kirby: Uses crayons to draw slightly primitive but vibrant scenes of his friends and food. (And the occasional fight with a horrific villain, but shhh.)

Skirby: Makes intricate charcoal pencil drawings of cockroaches and other creepy crawlies performing summoning rituals. (They're summoning candy.)

Kirby: Doesn't always know what to say, but makes up for it in enthusiasm.

Skirby: Doesn't always know what to say, so hangs back and stares. If you stare back too long he'll throw something at you and run.

Kirby: Childishly inquisitive. Asks lots of questions like: "How do clouds float? Is that a hat or a crown? What's your favourite snack? Why do you wear a mask? What do you think of this cool trick I can do?" Meta Knight humours him, even when he doesn't know the answers. (Although he sometimes loses his patience when Kirby interrupts him when he's busy.)

Skirby: Morbidly curious. Asks questions like: "Does everyone have blood? How many stars explode everyday that we've never seen or heard of? Do angels exist and are they friendly? How long does it take for rainwater with a pH of 5.6 to erode an igneous rock that's exactly 13 m³ big?" Dark Meta Knight is sick of it. (He doesn't know the answers and doesn't have the patience or resources to look them up.)

Kirby: Doesn't mind sparring as long as it's not cruel, because it's great exercise. Willingly fights in the Arena where he doesn't have to hold back, so he can train to defend his friends and planet.

Skirby: Used to hate fighting, but learned to turn his opponent's weapons against them. Doesn't hold back because while the Power of Friendship™ is all well and good, sometimes violence is the only way to defeat a threat.

* * * * * * * * * *

I also think it's interesting to note that in KatAM when you encounter Shadow the second time he can suddenly use Copy Abilities, but has no hat and can only do one simple attack. Just like when Kirby first showed his Copy Ability in Adventure (his second appearance)!

No wonder Shadow is so shy! He just spawned, only knows this is his world and something is terribly wrong, then witnesses the fight between Meta Knight and Dark Meta Knight and the subsequent sealing. He secretly follows DMK, then runs into someone strong who looks just like him, he realises that he has abilities like this pink doppelganger, but doesn't know Kirby's motivations and has to decide right then: is this an enemy or not? Who's the good guy? Not unlike how Kirby must've felt when he first ran into Meta Knight.

Of course Shadow already has Dark Meta Knight, but I have no idea how or if they would canonically interact, if DMK was even aware of him before he got shattered, how long it took for DMK to regenerate, what Shadow did in the mean time, or if Shadow considers him an ally.

#kirby #shadow kirby #skirby #meta knight #Dark Meta Knight #theories #KatAM #kirby and the amazing mirror #headcanon

[sonicattos]

wait shit wait oh my god. i almost forgot about this hc. okay so i think maria would be like super bummed about not being able to go to earth and see the flowers and shadow obviously would pick up on that! and he’s like really young barely out of the tube at this point so he still has that childhood wonder and innocence. he takes a book or two about flowers (with pictures) and he gets some construction paper and crayons and colored pencils and he makes paper flowers and tapes them to the walls of marias room and he makes her wait outside and walk in with her eyes closed so he can surprise her and and and. they’re still up there, somehow. they’re old and dusty and falling apart but they’re still there, untouched by man

OOOHHH MY GOOOOODDD. i love this so much. i love hcs of shadow being a sweetie in general but he WOULD!!

#ask box #saltcat text #sonic hcs #long post

[tiger-lily-55555]

Some drawings of my gijinka design for Broken Vessel. I wanted to keep these a bit more loose with the linework and colouring, and I'm quiet happy with how it turned out!

(I'm going to add the image description in the 'Keep reading' as well because the box keeps disappearing before you can read it all)

A series of five drawing of a gijinka design of Broken Vessel from Hollow Knight, drawn roughly in pencil and pencil crayon on a white piece of paper. The first image on the left-top side of the page is a full-bodied drawing, their dark teal cloak wrapped around them. Parts are stained orange-brown from the infection, particularly at the trailing ends and near their face/neck. A grey-coloured nail, cracked and worn with age, is sheathed across their back, the blade on their left stained orange with dried infection. They have a gaunt, oval-shaped face, pale skin, a sharp nose, and an defensive expression. There is a scar running down their face from their right temple to left eye, leaking infection. Their eyes are orange with lighter orange pupils and have bags under them. Their white hair is stained orange near the top from the infection glob growing out of the top of their head - a ovalish blob with two smaller protrusions. Their hair is shoulder-lengthen at the back, with two stands obscuring some of the left side of their face; one short and one long, resembling canon Broken Vessel's horns. The image to the right is from the chest-up and the right side. It is of them pointing their nail out, part of the name cut off by the end of the page. Their visible eye is mostly obscured by the infection blob on their head. Their mouth is slightly open in a frown, glowing slightly orange and infection leaks out of it. Their cloak opens around their extended arm, revealing a long-sleeved black shirt and a black-grey gauntlet covering their hand. The groves of the gauntlet are also stained with infection, fresh infection dripping down Broken Vessel's hands where the worn metal cuts into them. Under that image is a bust drawing of the Broken Vessel wearing a knight helmet. The helmet is white but is worn and corroded, stained with infection, and has horns that match up with the canon Broken Vessel. The helmet visor is down and their eyes are glowing orange. Tears of infection are welling up at the eyeholes, while fresh streaks already run down under the visor. The infection glob on their head is erupting, semi-circle rings bursting out like a solar flare while smaller droplets scatter away from the main mass. Behind them is a shadow made of light depicting the Radience. It is yellow at its edges, becoming lighter towards the core, and her wings and crown are visible. At the bottom left of the page is a drawing of the arena you battle Broken Vessel in, drawn roughly with various shades of brown, two dark pillars fading into the lighter background. The floor is grey, with orange light canst off from the invection vines and growths at either side of the room. Broken Vessel stands slumped over in the middle of the room with their helmet on and eyes closed. Two infection balloons are in the air, one on either side of them, and a few infection cells are on the floor near or are climbing up them. At the bottom of the drawing you can see Ghost from behind as if they are approaching Broken Vessel. They have a blue cloak and a light grey, repaired nail. The bottom right drawing is another, smaller bust taken slightly from the left. Broken Vessel is looking over their left shoulder towards the viewer, looking annoyed. The longer parts of their hair cover most of the left side of their face, though their eye is visible. Not only is infection visibly leaking out of their scar, but the infection glob on their head as well.

#id in alt text #my art #hollow knight #hk broken vessel #hollow knight broken vessel #hollow knight gijinka

[mask131]

The myth of Apollo (5)

And here is the last part of Françoise Graziani’s article « Apollo, the mythical sun » (begun here).

IV/ The mystical Sun

The interpretation of the Sun as a symbol of royalty was already present during the Renaissance but was truly amplified by the baroque era. This iconological interpretation was first punctually associated with the panegyric (Ronsard in his “Elegies” wrote “Henry, the Sun that inspired me”), then to the emblematic, as the royal crown was depicted as a crown of sun-rays. While Tyard saw a positive symbol within the idea of the Sun “Prince and rector of the sky”, the baroque poet Drelincourt, in 1677, compared it to a “superb King, who shines in his Court, Crowned with rays” – but only to better accuse the celestial body of being a simulacra of God, a “weak painting”. Within the same idea, Du Bartas substituted the false pagan god to the real God: “The world is a cloud through which shines, not the bow-shooting son of the beautiful Latone, this divine Phoebus, but…”. It is very revealing that Drelincourt presents a critical and desacralizing interpretation of the sun, where it loses its mythical name and function… while writing within the court of Louis XIV, right as the king ideologically concretizes the literary allegories by depicting himself within Versailles (the “house of the Sun”) as Apollo, as the sun on earth. Drelincourt concludes his sonnet “About the Sun”, by insisting that the Sun is just the “portrait of the Primal Cause”: “your brightness is but a Shadow, and you are not the Sun anymore”. The mythical Sun is a false sun, but it is replaced in the metaphorical heaven by the real mystical Sun, the Christ, that the Renaissance paintings sometimes depicted under the traits of Apollo. As a reflection of the true God, as the interpret and the vehicle of God’s light, the Christ was a solar character, whose death was thought as bringing a “night” to the Western world (it was how the poets metaphorize the eclipse that occurred during the Crucifixion). This identification, very common within the mystical baroque poetry, was sometimes pushed to the point of including (in a very unusual way) some episodes of Apollo’s legends within the Christian allegory (such as Hyacinthus or Clythia).

V/ The Sun of intelligence

The mystical sun is, in a paradox that determined all poetic interpretations, linked to the decline of the mythical sun. And yet, the mystical sun is born from a very old topos, the one of the Deus Pictor: if God is a painter, and the Universe his painting, than the Sun (and the poets claim it since the Hellenistic times) is his brush. In the baroque era, the solar myth, heavily used in a metaphorical (not quite allegorical) way, leads this motif towards the realm of abstractions. Every time it appears, it is linked to two elements: on one side, the Sun as a divine principle and an instrument of creation which becomes the double of the poet (a poet that now dares associate himself with not just Orpheus, but Apollo). On the other side, the diurnal travel of the solar eye becomes the metaphor of the process of writing. Numerous baroque texts play on the similarity between the words “rayons” (the rays) and “crayon” (the pencil), to show the Creator in his picturesque and scriptural functions. In a similar way, it is traditional to punctuate long poems by various sunsets and sunrises, described in such a way that they establish an analogy between the rhythm of the days, and the rhythm of the poem itself.

It is for example the case within G. B. Marino’s “Adone”, where, at the end of the poem, the Muse answers Apollo’s call, and comes to “end the thread of this long canvas”, and the end of the last day is described in textual terms: “The sky is of paper, the darkness of ink, the ray a feather / Which with the sun erases the ending day to write / to the West, in letters of gold, the end of the long travel.” Within “Adone”, Apollo is present under different shapes. He is found, in a metaphorical way, in the character of the hero, Adonis, which ultimately is just a gaze that crosses the various spectacles of the universe (celestial world, terrestrial world, cultural world) and is often compared, due to the “shine of his youth”, to Apollo. As the sun is the eye that brightens the world, that reveals the world and that allows it to be, the first creating gaze over the poem is done by the poet itself ; but there is another sight, the image of the human eye that reads and interprets the great Book of Nature. Adonis, within Marino’s poem, plays this role of reader, the double of the creature to which the secrets of the creation are hidden. He is, too, a “false sun”, and this is why Marino show him as a passive hero who, throughout the poem, does not understand what he sees: it is a reverse image of the philosophical sun of the Renaissance. He symbolizes the human soul, in the idea that the human soul only perceives the appearances, and mistakes itself for the sun because it was created in tis image. Marino’s Adonis is a “lonely eye” to which the gods (Venus and Hermes) reveal secrets, but the only world that receives the light of his gaze is the one of the book, of which the real writer is Apollo, “he who brightens the wise minds”. He who shines upon the minds embodies the last avatar of the god of Poetry: the divine Intellect, he who makes the minds shining and insightful, he who gifts human with both invention and divination. The solar sign valorizes the human Intellect, and more so over the individual intelligence. The god doesn’t “inspire” anymore, but he does more by “shining” upon the artistic works.

Apollo is more and more disguised as time passes by, to the point of losing his name – he is substituted so much he is even refused the qualificative of a god. He keeps however, as a mythical sign, a great coherence. The abstract uses of the Sun as metaphors for the divine eye contain very clear remains of its mythical nature. The connotations tied to the solar figure are simply the transpositions, on a metaphorical plane, of the elements tied to the god. The frequency of his use throughout the 16th and 17th centuries proves its almost ritualistic value, even though literature splits itself from the myth. As such, it seems that, as soon as the poetry does not bear the myth of the inspiration anymire, the figure of its titular god is slowly abandoned. Even though the invocation of the Muses persists, as a convention or as a periodical element, all the way to the 19th century. The names of “Apollo”, “Muses” and “Lyre” are enough to designate, by metonymy, and outside of all myths, the very concept of poetry.

VI/ Hyperion

With Romanticism, Apollo becomes the Archer again. The divine inspiration of the poet is not an illumination or a revelation anymore, but a shock, a stupefying possession. The poet, as Hölderlin writes, is “struck by Apollo” and, confronted by the presence of the god, he can’t be understood by other humans anymore. The poetic vocation is assimilated to a curse, and to a suffering. Within Hölderlin’s work, Apollo is fused with both Jupiter, he who strikes with the blinding lightning, he who “shakes and vivifies”, and with Dionysos, to condense itself ultimately in the figure of the Christ. He also especially identified with the one who was, according to Hesiod, his grand-father, the titan Hyperion. Just like Hyperion, of which he bears the name in the allegorical novel of Hölderlin “Hyperion”, the poet is a fallen and exiled titan, whose rebellion (pre-apollonian actions) are doomed to failure, but who keeps the vague memory of his solar origin and of his mission, while still being, like the sun, doomed to loneliness. A loneliness which, in this context, bears both a positive aspect, as the solitude which brings exaltation, and a negative aspect, the solitude which makes the poet a cursed man or a mad man. Apollo and Dionysos become one within the Romantic conception of madness as a sign of both divine election and mystical drunkenness. The fundamental ambiguity of Apollo is found back within the duality of the poetry, perceived as both a grace and an eviction. This duality was felt by the Romantics on an individual plane, and not on a conceptual plane like in the Renaissance.

An exceptional occurrence of the figure of Apollo within literature must be studied, quite close to Hölderlin’s own interpretation. Apollo appears as the subject and the hero of a 19th century literary work in only one piece, an unfinished poem by Keats which was also called Hyperion (1819). This brief epic of a Miltonian style depicts the fall of the Titans, banished by the New Gods, and the rise to divinity of the young Apollo, initiated by Mnemosyne. Within Keats’ writing, just like within Hölderlin’s work, Apollo is treated as the symbol of a “new beauty”, and as the tutelar god, not to say the embodiment, of the New Poetry. For both men, the accent is put on the “divine future” of Apollo: for Keats, Apollo only becomes a god when, thanks to Mnemosyne (who is in mythology the mother of the Muses), he understands his divinity, and this accession to Knowledge is a painful process. Apollo, before striking the poets, suffers himself from an “agony as burning as death is cold”. And he screams painfully when he was his epiphany. Within Hölderlin’s, the name Hyperion symbolized, by an antonomasia, the splitting of the hero, a hero turned to the Ancient Gods, that feels himself as their interpret, and yet is destined to inaugurate the renewal of the Teenager Sun through a New Poetic Religion. The poet which is speaking here is not yet born, and Hyperion represents the mythical prehistory of he who will only become a god, a pure lonely spirit, the “Hermit of Greece”, free of all heroic temptations, only after Romanticism. In a similar way, Keats brutally interrupts his poem right as Poetry is born.

#the myth of apollo #apollo #hyperion #greek mythology #poetry #greek gods #symbolism #sun #titans #keats #hölderlin #christianization of greek myths #greek myths #poetic symbols #literary myths

[darkened-writer]

BEWARE | Henry Creel x Reader

SUMMARY || Being 000 alongside 001/Henry, a unlikely friendship was bonded through trauma, and eventually becoming a part of the staff who worked with the rest of the numbers, some... privacy is finally given to you, and with privacy comes, certain acts of pleasure.

PAIRINGS || Henry Creel x Reader

WARNINGS || SMUT! with plot, Rough into Soft sex, Voice kink, Marking, Praise kink, Oral sex (fem receiving), loss of virginity, Creampie (doubt the lab has CONDOMS available, but wrap it before you tap it!)

WORD COUNT || 4,006

A/N || This is one of the first times in AWHILE that I am trying my hand at smut, so please bear with me and enjoy!

Realistically, you couldn’t remember a time outside of the lab, outside of the buzzing of the tattoo gun or the rainbow in the rainbow room. The earliest memory you could recall being watching Henry sit in the leather chair, Dr. Brenner tattooing a small 001 onto the skin of his wrist, and the looming feeling of knowing that you were next.

Reality was, you were stuck in this building since you were a toddler, your own mother noticing odd behaviors and items levitating above your small head as you would giggle in wonderment. So, she took you to the lab, had you display your powers, and suddenly there was no more momma, just the smiling face of Doctor Brenner. 

The lab had been lonely for years, until a boy showed up, his wide eyes drawing you in immediately. Who was he? Was he just like you? Those questions were answered when Brenner told you that he would be doing the same exact tests as you, and it set in for the both of you that there would be no escape from the lab, so you’d have to depend on each other. And, quickly, a friendship blossomed.

“What are you drawing?”

The boy, Henry, you had learned, leaned to look at the neat drawing you were creating with a pencil and a simple blue crayon. An oddly good portrait of him was laden upon the table, the most noticeable part of the drawing being the striking blue irises and the blue shadow around his face. And, he was frankly surprised at the artistic skill, having been once well at art when he drew the spider-like creature on some papers back before his family died. 

“You drew me…? Why?”

You pointed at the blue crayon then his eyes, a smile arising on his face.

“You… like my eyes?”

“I do…”

“You captured the likeness very well, Y/N…”

Silence then filled the rainbow room, except this time, you weren’t alone, you had Henry drawing right beside you, drawing a just as beautiful portrait of you.

“Now, Zero, I need you to turn all of those lightbulbs on. Think you can do that for me?”

A hand outstretched, tips of the fingers curling down a bit with the tension in your hand building. The wet feeling that slowly rolled from the inside of your nose wasn’t foreign but sent a small shiver down your spine as the ten lightbulbs that Doctor Brenner had set up on the table were now flickering to life, the brighter it was getting the more tired you had felt. But the tiredness wavered when a hand was placed on your shoulder, breaking the concentration that was on the bulbs. Henry leaned up to your ear, “Don’t tire yourself out to impress him…”

Wiping the blood with the collar of your hospital gown, the boy had started doing the same thing you had previously done, except seemingly more neater and tidier, not messy and unorganized, and the lights stayed on and never wavered or flickered.

“Excellent work, number one!”

The boy wiped his nose with his pale hand, blue eyes burrowing into yours with a feeling of confidence. But that didn’t stop you from trying the experiment again, this time, craning your neck to the side and relaxing your arm as it was raised. And, like you yourself had predicted, the light had become stable, which aroused a shocked expression from Brenner as he watched the bulbs float up and seemingly stay up in the air. But what you nor Brenner had seen, was Henry’s smirk on his face, knowing that he had found someone just as powerful as himself, and the thought of fighting you one day became a golden thought at that. And, as he watched you set down the bulbs back onto the table, with distant cheers from Brenner, he decided that he’d keep friendly until he could force you into submission with his power. A puppet to its master, and this was only the beginning.

Teenagehood came quickly and hit like a train as tensions arose between you and Brenner, now spending most of your time in a padded room or being electrouted into a passive state due to rowdy behavior. However, it didn’t stop you from bad mouthing him or the rest of the lab workers, only using your powers if you were sincerely angry, and when powers got involved, punishments were given. And, as Brenner put it, “Atl east number one isn’t as argumentative…”, which only fueled the ever-growing anger and need to leave the facility.

Henry watched all of this going on with a watchful eye, noting the behaviors you exhibited when you were angry, or irritated, or even a bit scared. He was learning you, from a far, but when you finally started talking to him again, he couldn’t help but note that you spoke to him with a more friendlier tone, one that was shocking but welcome to him.

You both could relate to the want of leaving the damned lab, and Henry only fanned the flame when he explained that he found a hole that led to the outside, saying that he left sometimes to get a free slice of pie at the diner near the lab. And the night of him telling you, you both snuck out into the darkness of the night to feel even a shred of freedom. And freedom tasted like apple pie with a scoop of ice-cream on top, vanilla to be exact.

“How long have you been sneaking out...?” You said with a mouth full of pie, seemingly stuffing your face with glee.

“Almost a month, I’m trying to set up an escape.”

This had caused you to drop your fork, the clang causing a few stares from the cook and the few ladies working. The faint music coming from the boombox, accompanied by the sound of the coffee machine churning to life, it felt normal, freeing.

“You plan on escaping without me? Your… basically best friend?”

This caused his eyebrow to raise in curiosity, a mocking expression on his face as you kicked him from under the table, a stifled laugh arising from his chest.

“You know, I actually planned on leaving you in the lab…”

“REALLY?!”

“No, I’m kidding!”

The once shocked expression on your face was now replaced with a look of seriousness as you took another bite of the pie, chewing about twenty-five times before swallowing.

“We’ve known each other since we were both children, I don’t think I could leave you there if I tried…”

His eyes looked to yours once again, irises tracing over your face, your hair, the wrinkle in your nose as you were in thought, and he had made up his mind. When he rules the world, you had to be by his side, two powerful people in a world of normalcy, they would all have to conform to your collective power.

“So… you have a soft spot for me, Mr. Perfect Hair.”

That sentence left a look of confusion on his face.

“Perfect hair?”

“You know what I mean...-! The blond locks that you try and style every morning.”

“You notice that…?”

“Well of course, you never stop running your hands through your hair, you weirdo..!”

And, that night, laughter erupted from the diner and faded into the cool, summer night, as two friends had found a slice of happiness in their harsh conditions, and also found some slices of pie.

Seemingly over time (a few years), more numbers were filtering into the facility, both Henry and you being put away as the rest were deemed much more important to train. But this left more time to form a larger bond with the boy and talk over escaping. But, those plans were disrupted, when Doctor Brenner told the two of you that you were to work as staff, watching over the children, and having to adorn the white clothing.

You had seen it as a major backstep from escaping, while Henry thought of it as a perfect way to get closer to escaping. Possibly manipulating one of the kids into helping you both escape, and while the plan was ingenious, it would take some time to execute as he wanted to scout out a potential child to use and get closer to them. Your job being to distract Doctor Brenner as much as possible, and it went well, the man even giving you a room separate from the rest of the staff since you were so “well-behaved”. And, believe it or not, you were oddly pleased with being a “good girl”.

There was only one small problem, you could not get enough of Henry in the staff outfit, the dress shirt tucked into the prim and proper white pants, his ‘001’ tattoo gently hidden behind the cuff of his shirt, and his hair set perfectly atop his head. His gentle blue eyes still the same eyes you were used to since you were a kid. It was a distraction to even be slightly attracted to your long-time friend, well… only friend. But, that didn’t stop you from doodling in the staff journal you were given, drawing eyes, his eyes, the same ones that drew you in all those years ago.

What had worried you was the child he had chosen to use to get out, number Eleven. The girl was the oddest of the bunch, always sat by herself, alone, which made you feel for her in some ways, since you too felt alone before Henry. So, anytime you could speak with her, you did. And, over time, you had come to be close to the girl, her once solemn expression now turning into one of happiness anytime, you’d come to sit with her to talk or to draw. You didn’t want to use her or manipulate her, you wanted to save her from Brenner, from a life of service and experimentation, so behind closed doors, you thought of a plan to help her while also helping yourself and Henry. 

The activity of the day was pinning the children against each other, having them use their powers to push the other out of their circle. Doing all this while blindfolded, which you and Henry were in charge of tying the fabric over their eyes tightly, to make sure they wouldn’t be able to see. You had noted how he had whispered, “Good Luck…” into Eleven’s ear, a small smile erupting on your face which fortunately Doctor Brenner didn’t notice. However, he was looking at Henry with looks of discontent and dismay. This worried you as you watched Eleven look to be losing but triumph and win against her opponent, pushing him out of his circle.

And, as you left the room with the children to escort them to their rooms, you noticed that Henry was gone from the group, nowhere to be seen. Not letting this worry you too much, you finished your job, giving Eleven a soft hug before shutting the door of her room. You had hoped that Henry was alright, that he was just using the bathroom or getting something to eat, but a sinking feeling in your gut told you otherwise as you began your walk to your quarters, shoes clinking against the linoleum flooring. 

The sound of sliding against slippery ground had awoken you from your slumber, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, you went to the door of your room to peer outside into the hallway. The view had shocked you, seeing Henry being thrown down onto the floor next to his cot, by the surrounding other staff who were too asleep to even notice that their co-worker was obviously in need of help.

You waited until the guards left before gently opening the door of your room, slowly as to not make a sound and awaken anyone. The coldness of the flooring sent a shiver up your legs as you tip-toed over to the staff quarters, opening the door silently. The room was dark and filled with some snores and some soft murmurs of people talking in their sleep, but your attention was on Henry who was seemingly passed out on the floor next to his cot. He would be dead weight if you tried to drag him to your room by hand, so you raised your arm up in his direction and began to move him into the air and slowly out of the door, using your other hand to open your room door. Once you shut the door and set Henry’s body down onto your bed, you grabbed what medical supplies you could find in your wardrobe, being greeted by blindingly white clothes and a small health-kit.

“Y/N…?”

His voice was groggy, all over the place as he realized where he was, in the safety of his friend’s room and not in the leather chair, being pumped full of electric shocks, his body immediately relaxed.

“Hey- Hey-.. Just stay still, I’m trying to find some stuff to help you out.”

He glanced around the decently large room, eyes moving from one item to the next until his eyes caught onto a framed picture, the first picture you had ever drawn of him, the striking blue crayon filling his brain with memories of your shared past.

“You actually kept that?” His hand was drifted out towards the picture, pointer finger outstretched toward it.

Your eyes turned to the framed picture, “Yeah..- I mean, why wouldn’t I? It was the start of one of the only good things in my life…” He was silent after that being said, watching as you grabbed an icepack from the small kit.

“Mind taking your shirt off, perhaps? Can’t access your aches without coverage...”

His slender fingers slid down to his collar, popping the buttons off one-by-one, his skin now peeking out from behind the white dress shirt, he was pale but oddly beautiful even while in pain, similar to archangel Michael in an odd and poetic way. You gently set the icepack atop Henry’s chest, softly pressing and hearing a hiss from his throat, you pulled back but his other hand grabbed your wrist, keeping it in place.

“I can handle pain, Y/N…-”

Pressing back into Henry, you didn’t notice his gaze raised to your eyes, then down to your lips, his brain in thought. And, when you moved the icepack up to his neck, he shivered, eyes closed and goosebumps arising on his skin, his own leg jittering at the cold and shocking feeling on his neck, he was sensitive. 

While his eyes were closed, you lightly brushed your fingertips across the other side of his neck, feeling him shudder once again, his breath becoming slightly rigid, and scarce. 

“You evoke me…” His breath between words were fluttering, the quietness of it all was setting aflame your gut, a heartbeat in-between your legs that mirrored your own heartbeat, what was this foreign feeling? That was quickly answered when he slipped his hand up the back of your own shirt, the touch sparking a gasp from your throat, you were aroused.

“All those years of wanting to fight you, the tension, the sudden friendship, it all..” He shifted you atop his lap, moving the icepack to the side to set your hands on either side of his chest, the feeling of his chest rising up and down, with a thin sheen of sweat was a delicious view.

“Let me please you…”

You answered with a nod, but that wasn’t good enough, his other hand that wasn’t along you back now gripped your hair, pulling your head back and eliciting a cry out of you.

“Say it, Y/N…”

“Yes… please…-please..!”

With an odd ease, he lifted you off of him and to the side of him, taking a position of standing while you were laying on your back along your bed. He hadn’t bothered to take off your pants properly, nor your underwear. He opted to ripping them off and pocketing the now ripped underwear into his back pocket. His gaze was dangerous, untimely, and yet you still couldn’t get enough of those blue eyes. His hands trailed down as he got into a kneeling position, spreading your legs with his hands, the veins and the rough texture of his fingers drew your gaze down, his eyes gazing up to yours.

“The way you put yourself together… it’s so…”

His head delves downward, and a new feeling had suddenly greeted you, and it was pleasant albeit odd. His tongue dipped into your folds, moving in articulate motions around, up and down, side to side, it was all too much to think about, your own mind going blank with ecstasy, fingers diving for his dirty blond locks to gently pull on, and this drove him to be rougher.

The room that was once filled with silence was now full of slurping and sucking noises of Henry eating like his life depended on it, now introducing his fingers into the equation. This led a moan to escape your lips and into the air like a prayer to him, to Henry, as he was on his knees for you, basically worshipping your body. 

And, while you were used to Henry’s rough personality, you never thought it could also be prevalent in a setting like sexual intercourse. But, peering down and watching him be so passionate in giving you pleasure, just about made you want to cum then and there, but you held back to admire him, his jaw line, his tongue, and his blue eyes looking up at you with a smugness, only imagining how you could look right now. Disheviled? Messy? A wreck? He felt confident in his “performance”, and that was all that mattered.

“Hen-Henry…- Please.. god..I..-”

Your body had suddenly felt like it was falling off a cliff and into a pile of tingling euphoria, the pulsating and warm feeling spreading all over, legs shakings around Henry’s head as he continued his ruminations during your explosive orgasm, guiding you out of the feeling as slowly and nicely as possible. And, once he pulled away, his lips and surrounding skin around it were all damp with your liquids, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, causing a chill to run up your spine. He was fucking gorgeous, and while you recovered from the foreign feeling, he suckled on the skin of your inner thighs, the feeling of his lips sending another tremble down your whole body.

“You’re so sensitive... I think that’s what I like the most…” He let his hand trail up from your lower stomach up to your chest, fingers grazing every piece of skin he could possibly get his hands on, greedy like a child denied a toy. He may have figured out why your arousal increased, due to the sound of his voice, the sultry sound to it.

“I’m going to hover over you now… just stay in that position, okay…?”

An almost exhausted nod visually confirmed your agreement, a smile arising on his face as he stood up, fully taking in the view of you under him, looking filthy and tarnished. The sound of clinking gave you a semblance of the current moment, watching his hands greet his belt, unbuckling it and smoothly pulling it from the various belt loops. He made quick work of the button of his pants, slowly unzipping his fly with tension, building butterflies in your stomach as you watched him with eyes that could only be described as “eager”. His hands wrapping around the top of his pants, pulling them down along with his boxer briefs, the distinct “V” of his pelvis being uncovered to you. This only egged you on, making the pulse in-between your legs beat to some imaginary beat. 

His member was nearly dripping at the tip, veins on the underside bulging and pulsating with desire that was mirroring your own, and his gaze was even more filled with desire, a carnal passion thronged with wantoness. 

“Keep your eyes on mine, alright? Do NOT break eye contact. If anything hurts at all, you tell me, understood?”

“Y–Yes…”

His full body loomed over yours, his eyes looking down into yours as you felt the intrusion of his member entering you with relative ease due to your previous arousal, a gasp floating from your throat and eyes closing in confusion. 

“Look. At. Me.”

The tone in his voice was demanding and affirmative, making your eyes open and stick to his.

“Good job… very good job…”

His was now going at a relative speed which could be described as pretty fast considering it was your first time, the speed made you raise your legs, wrapping them around his mid-section and settle at his hips as he bucked into you. Foreheads pressed against each-other, soft grunts were coming from him, complimenting the gasps from yourself, creating a melody of pleasure. The slaps of skin on skin consuming your every sense, the wetness of sweat on your skin making a wet plomping sounds as his hips met yours. You couldn’t speak even if you tried, the pleasure filtering in from the confusion was hazing your brain, making your drunk on the pleasure.

Eventually, your head lolled back into the single pillow on your bed, eyes rolled back into your skull as you kept hold of him with your hands on his biceps, gripping as much as you could. The pleasure surging through your veins left you speechless as you felt the feeling, the tingling, once again.

“Slow… S-Slow…”

And, he listened, stepping back from the fast pace to a slower pace, which gave him enough time to thrust deep, and deeper, hitting a bundle of nerves you didn’t even know you had, accompanied by the now new throbbing of his cock, you were on cloud-nine.

“I’ve got you, cum all over my cock… I’ve got you…”

That was all it took, the exhilarating feeling consuming your very being, spreading all over your body in a crescendo of intoxicating surges of almost electric pulses. Your nails dug into his biceps as he chased his own finish, eventually hitting his own peak, groaning into your ear with your name, and a warmness filled you, sending a tremor down your legs at the thermal and thickness of it, giving an odd feeling of ickiness and coziness.

After a few moments staying completely still, breathing deeply from the activity you two had just participated in, Henry pulled out, spilling out some of his seed on your white sheets, making you groan with annoyance.

“Now I have to do laundry… damn you…”

He chuckled at the tiredness of your voice, leaning to the side to grab his pants. He shoved a hand into the back pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, now gently wiping down your middle to rid of most of his release.

“Here’s a deal, I do your laundry, and you… stay… by my side.”

This piqued your interest, making your gaze rise to his.

“What do you mean…?”

“I mean, when I finally break us out, you stay by my side… even if I do some unsavory things…” His voice trailed off.

“Unsavory? Like…-like what?”

He looked to the side, took a breath, before speaking, “Never mind, just get some rest Y/N… we’ll talk tomorrow. I must get back to my room, so Doctor Brenner doesn’t catch us being in the same room together.”

Quickly, he got himself well put together, now looking as though he hadn’t just taken your virginity, except for his hair which was now messy, and the red, crescent marks on his biceps. Grabbing the door handle, he opened the door, taking a step to leave but looking back towards your laying figure in your bed.

“Leave your laundry next to your door, I’ll take care of it, okay?”

“Okay…”

The door shut with a creak, and only one thought was on your mind. What did he mean by unsavory things?

#xreader #fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things x reader #001 smut #001 stranger things #001 x you #henry creel x reader #henry creel #peter ballard #peter ballard x reader #smut

[k00295632]

Brief: World building in Animation.

Week 1, Tuesday, 12/03/24

Outdoor drawing

Tuesday morning, the class went to Peoples' park to do some life drawing of the scenery. Due to the poor weather it was a bit wet and miserable, and very cold, so I ended up perching myself at the red bandstand to draw. I ended up with 2 drawings and a few nice pictures.

This was my first drawing I did, I took my time with it. I did a rough sketch with a blue marker and then added in details with a brown brush tip pen I have to achieve a variety of lines. I started with the buildings in the back, then the gazebo, and then the trees, before finishing the ground and the left side distance a bit more.

This is my second piece, that I did with a orange colouring pencil and some oil pastels. Originally it was just the pencil but my camera couldn't distinguish the marks from the paper so I went over it with oil pastels.

Photos

The first two photos are the locations I drew and the other 4 were places that caught my interest, I would have liked to drawn them but frankly the weather was not pleasant to be in, so I stuck to my shelter. When taking these photos I attempted to find an anchoring point I could use. Its interesting to see how a photo differs from the human eye, they look so different compared to how I experienced these locations.

My background:

Here's my process and progress so far, with a colouring pencil I copied my original sketch onto a large sheet of water colour paper, I coloured the grass green with an alcohol marker and started filling in my base colours with posca and then some detail for some areas. I tried incorporating Benji's style while also making it my own, I really like how the bricks look on the building, but I think I need to work on the trees a bit more, my slate grey shadows sort of disappear into the purple.

So this is my progress so far, I need to finish my base colours and work on the greenery in the space. Once base colours and light detail are done I intend on going over everything with pencils, oil pastels, and crayons to add more texture to the piece. I'm worried if the page will actually fit in the printer when I scan it.

#art #artwork #planning #sketchbook #colour

[waiting-on-a-dream]

𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝟎𝟎𝟏: 𝐊𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐢 𝐈𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨

"Hey, Keiko. Don't you think this place is kinda creepy?"

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨

Name: Kanai Ichiro / 金井 一朗 (The kanjis for his last name mean "gold well" and his first name means "firstborn son" though the kanjis actually mean "first clear" and "bright" individually.)

Status: Prisoner 001

Gender: Male

Age: 16

Birthday: February 4 (Aquarius)

Height: 160 cm

Blood type: B

Image color: #FFEA00

Occupation: High school student

Personality: He is quiet and keeps to himself, often choosing to sit alone in a corner. When someone tries to talk to him, he may ignore them (unintentionally or intentionally) or answer after a short silence. He is rather detached from reality and doesn't seem to be aware of his surroundings most of the time. He forgets things easily too, and sometimes says things out loud to himself without realizing it.

He claims to be 16, but often acts like a young child. When something interests him, he'll make the first move to initiate a conversation in order to learn more about it from someone older than him. He also likes drawing, and carries a stuffed koala with him at all times.

He often displays a blank face with his eyes opened wide. However, there are times when his temper flares up for specific reasons. If the reason for his anger is not quickly dealt with, his fury quickly escalates. He can end up throwing big tantrums because of that.

𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨

Which canon Milgram song he would cover: Weakness (When I try to understand it, you’ll make that disappointed face again)

Which DECO*27 song he would cover: Rainbowder (I had a lot of trouble finding a song by DECO*27 that suited him, and this is what I ended up with. The lyrics are of a somewhat childlike quality and there are certain lines that fit him and his situation perfectly. That's good enough for me.)

If he could cover a song by a different Vocaloid producer, which one would it be: Adult children by Kanzaki Iori (I'm sure there are better options for my scrunkly here, but frankly, I've been trying to find vocaloid songs that fit him for far too long and I've run out of patience. So here~!)

His MV description: His MV takes place in a house, and the art style resembles that of crayon drawings. The MV would start off with bright colours at first before slowly transitioning to duller shades, along with shots containing bigger shadows than before. Grey, pale yellow, blue, and pink would turn up a lot.

The MV starts with a young Ichiro laying on his stomach, drawing something on paper with colour pencils all around him. He finishes the drawing and holds it up with pride, allowing us to see that it's a drawing of him and an older woman with the same hair colours as him. He gets to his feet and walks to another room where the woman that he presumably drew sits by a desk with her computer displaying jumbled words that he and us the audience cannot read. He tugs on her sleeve and shows her the drawing, mouth opened in a hopeful smile. She smiles as well and pats his head, making him grin wider.

The camera cuts to a calendar with it's pages flying off of it. We can see that two years have passed based on the dates of the first page and the last page we can see.

The camera cuts again to someone opening a door. A faceless man walks in and loosens his tie. He then breaks into a grin and opens his arms wide. The woman from before walks over and accepts his hug. Ichiro watches from the nearby hallway with a frown, stuffed koala tucked tightly to his chest.

The last minute of the MV shows Ichiro sitting in the dark hallway outside of the dining room where the woman and the man are eating, laughing happily. Duller colours and big shadows are now present.

The man leans closer to the woman, and she kisses him. Ichiro stands up and slinks quietly into his room, starting on a new drawing. The last shot we see in the MV is a drawing of him with crosses over his eyes, angry swirls of red, purple, and orange around him. The audio becomes distorted, to the point where we can't make out the last few words of the song. The MV ends.

𝐕𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬

-- 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬

(Somber) ...My name is Kanai Ichiro. I'm 16 years old. I'm a high school student. Warden-san, you'll be judging me for my crime? ...Oh.

(Blank tone) Y*u've **i*ed m* *if*, yo* *no* t*a*?

-- 𝐂����𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐫

Look at what I drew!

𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐚

His image colour is Haruto's favourite colour.

His favourite colour is sky blue.

His favourite food is mochi.

His hobby is drawing.

He likes to sneak up on people and scare them. He's scarily good at staying quiet too, much to the chagrin of other prisoners.

Keiko is a stuffed koala bear he refused to let go of when he was brought to Milgram. He takes it everywhere with him, talking to it as if it were a young child. Some prisoners find it creepy.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬

I cannot draw. So picrew saves the day once again!

Aw, cutie boy! Oh he's a little fucked up actually.

#prisoner 001: kanai ichiro #I thought it'd be fun to replicate the canon prisoners' blurred voicelines hehe #have fun guessing the full line~ #milgram #milgram project #milgram oc #milgram original character