artist x muse prompts 🕰️𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩
"nothing in the world belongs to me but my love, mine, all mine" જ⁀➴ ♡
if muse wears a cute outfit or just looks cute at a certain moment, artist will take tonnes of candid pics for later to use as references
if muse wears a cute outfit or just looks cute at a certain moment, artist will take tonnes of candid pics for later to use as references when muse is away they send artist pics of them bc they know they'll be missing taking the pictures of them for themself :')
muse collects little things and when artist doesn't have the motivation to draw figures they draw muse's little trinkets from their collection
muse likes to pick out the colours for artist's next project, it makes them feel included
[a/n: hey loves A i've been really struggling with burnout lately and haven't been able to find time or motivation to write, so take this as a peace offering! and as always if you haven't any prompt list requests then pop them into my asks box and i'll get to them a.s.a.p 💌]
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i'm bound to always be an option, never the only choice. i don't think anyone will ever make me their priority. i was made to love, not to be loved, and i have to live with this knowledge till the end of time
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always the poet never the poem
always the writer never the one written
why am I always the person who's smitten
what does it feel like to move someone so much
that they have the desire for our souls to touch
the purest of their love expressed through art
seeing how they see me, not with the eyes but the heart
their words wrapping me up in a warm embrace
as tears stream gently down my face
oh how I wish for nothing more
than to be the inspiration of those I adore
always the poet never the poem
one day I hope I'll be someone's home
Killian Rose Bay
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always an angel, never a god
always the poet, never the poem
always the lover, never the loved
always girl pretty, not boy pretty
always trying, never enough
always a choice, never the chosen
always the writer, never the muse
always an experience, never the one
always an angel never a god
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Always the artist, never the muse.
I love making art believe me. It has been a part of me since I could pick up a pencil. I like to capture the things I see, to show everyone how I see it and its beauty. Most of all, I really loved to draw people I adored, people who were a part of my soul. But at some point, after countless hours of drawing these people, spread out beautifully and in their element and then seeing others do the same online, speaking of their muse and just thinking of your own process you wish to be the muse. Even for a moment, for a single drawing...a doodle even. Doesn't have to be perfect, doesn't even have to be good...just has to be.
I have had countless artist friends, one IRL who has been my muse before. I had a s/o who did art sometimes who was and still is one of my biggest muses. I've drawn my sister a few times, she's an artist herself, I've drawn my mom who used to draw, I have never even been given art. I have given away art though, to friends and family. Never appreciated even when I'd spent hours on it.
Except a throw away drawing my baby sister did, she claimed she made it for me but I had caught her in the lie. she had drew stick figures and just added black hair so it could be me. I still have it tucked away in my box of mementos. Even though it wasn't meant for me at first...at least someone gave me something like that. She has been the only one. I don't expect to be drawn, I don't even ask it but maybe...for once I could be beautiful enough to want to capture. To someone I'll be beautiful enough to want to immortalize on a paper , in a drawing, something someone spent longer than a second on.
Maybe to someone I'm worth putting in effort, maybe to someone they think I'd be a beautiful piece of art.
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Why should some of us settle for always being the artist and never the muse? Why should we always settle for entertaining and helping the inner child in others while we are starved for affection and understanding? Why must we always settle for sacrificing our healing for others who wouldn't sacrifice the comfort of their pain to grow with us?
Why is there such a massive weight on our chests when we address our pains and demands to those who claim to love us?
Is this the price we pay for maturity and strength? What sin is so inherent in emotional compassion to the point where we are doomed to swallow our traumas and tend to those of others?
Why are we punished by dehumanization just for being too human?
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Story idea: civilian draws villain because they have some unique feature (like wings, horns, or special markings) and the villain breaks into her house to pose for a flustered civilian.
“Dont you think I’m pretty?” Villain tilted her head, her eyes gleaming as she smirked. “…well, darling?”
“I—I mean…” Civilian pulled the covers tighter over her body, the thin sheets ruffling. “Not…not that you’re not pretty—you’re more than pretty—but…you shouldn’t be here. You need to go.” She babbled as the heat rose in her face.
Those wings.
Something about them we’re so perfect. She could see the stroke of her pencil trying to replicate the beauty in each feather, in every flutter and and oh-so inhumanly perfect detail, how the shimmering wings ruffled and twitched. Civilian could drown in her daydreams of drawing Villain, but Villain was dangerous. Everybody who could access the news knew it.
Villain scoffed, then stepped closer. “I’ve noticed you, trying to sketch me from a distance. Wouldn’t it be so much easier if I came and posed for you?” She flashed a teasing pout. “You need money, don’t you? You could probably sell the portrait for a lot of money. Don’t be just another starving artist, Civilian.”
Her eyes flitted around the room, at the cracks in the walls and creaky floorboards.
Civilian’s cheeks were on fire—Villain was in her room, practically demanding to be drawn—and even though it was dangerous beyond all belief to mess with forces such as Villain, Civilian did need the money, and Villain had made a good point about the money that selling it would reap.
What would be the harm of having Villain be her muse?
“I, uh…”
“Shh. You don’t need to talk, darling. Just draw. You’re very good at it.”
Nervously, Civilian swallowed the lump in her throat and reached for her sketch pad and pencil on the nightstand. It seemed inadequate to Civilian, as she looked down at her cheap, dingy supplies. Villain was a masterpiece. Someone like her deserved to be carved from the finest marble, to be painted in only the richest paints; Villain was a beauty who would’ve had statues and altars designed in her honor—people would throw themselves at her lap, sick dogs to rotten meat, offering their grandest items to her and her glory.
Civilian had the remainders of some pastels, a pencil and her sketchbook filled with half-drawn sketches of anatomy.
Her face was a forest fire when she looked back up at Villain, who was peering at her with a faint smirk.
“I…is there…anything specific you want me to draw?” Nervously, Civilian swallowed and sat up a little straighter.
Villain hummed. “Be creative. Surprise me.”
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Her hands trembling, Civilian presented her sketch to Villain.
The villain’s eyes took in the sketch slowly. All the shaky lines, the eraser smudges and the detailed strokes of her feathers. She smiled, then took the sketch from Civilian’s hands and looked at it even closer, if such a thing was possible.
“Magnificent, as expected.” Villain commented appraisingly, then her eyes drifted to Civilian. “You know, I know a spot with an amazing view that could be the background. I’ll take you there later.”
“I…huh?” Somehow, Civilian’s brain went deeper into overdrive.
Since when did she go places with a villain? Why did the idea make her heart pound, and not just from fear?
“I’ll be careful not to drop you.” The winged villain sing-songed before she disappeared out the same window she had broken into the apartment with.
Civilian stared at the window, her jaw agape.
Whatever Villain’s insistence on this drawing was, it seemed that she wasn’t going to be easing up about it anytime soon.
She was sinking on the quicksand, yet her mind couldn’t stop conjuring images of Villain and all the ways her hands itched to draw her.
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