Aaron |—> 25 | He/They | Welcome to my page :)
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noise dept.
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Not today Justin
tumblr dot com
Monterey Bay Aquarium
DEAR READER

Kaledo Art

Origami Around

#extradirty
One Nice Bug Per Day
i don't do bad sauce passes
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
No title available
Today's Document
Cosmic Funnies
NASA
Cosimo Galluzzi

oozey mess

ellievsbear
sheepfilms

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from India

seen from India

seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Kazakhstan

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Argentina

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
@atticssmellgood
Aaron |—> 25 | He/They | Welcome to my page :)
| Masterlist — Prompts — Request Rules |
Some people: Billy and Stu arnt gay 🤓☝️
Billy and Stu:
The x reader Problem
guys i went to a slam poetry night and i met some amazing people and heard their amazing stories and now i'm on the woke war path. I've been thinking about this for a long time and i think now that i have my own x reader fanfic and my own platform, it's the perfect time to speak up about it!!
Fellow (white) xreader fanfic writers LISTEN UP because I think this is important.
Your fanfiction is not automatically for readers of all races just because you don't mention skin tone.
Let me repeat that:
Your fanfiction is not automatically for readers of all races just because you don't mention skin tone.
This is something I haven't seen discussed enough across the x reader sphere, it's mostly in discussions between People of Colour bonding over and sharing their frustrations over how majority of x readers - a genre that is intentionally supposed to keep the MC vague so that it's easy for the reader to insert themselves - have been so obviously written to be a white person BY a white person that it's impossible to relate to.
Reading those discussions was so valuable to me because they pointed out all the little things that are so unbelieably common that they're literally x reader troupes, and yet they are almost exclusively a white experience.
If you're an ignorant white person like myself*, you might at first assume the clearly white experiences I'm talking about are the surface level things you know about racism, like how it's easier to get a job with a white name, you don't deal with racial profiling on a daily basis, you never worry that the reason your partner broke up with you because it "wasn't gonna work out long term" wasn't actually because their bigot family members convinced them not to date you. And yeah, it's good to be aware of all those things too. But what I saw people complaining about most was hair.
We've all seen that cringe satire post about "you put your hair up into a messy bun and run down the stairs and your mum told you she sold you to one direction!"
To most white people that might look like a normal (albiet dumb) sentence, but it contains a potentially world-breaking assumption.
It assumes the reader can wear their hair in a bun.
In your first sentence, you as the hypothetical white writer of this x reader fanfic have just told everyone in your audience who doesn't have the texture or length or even EXISTENCE of hair that can be pulled up into a messy bun that this story is not for them.
If you're muslim, sorry, no time to put a hijab on before these five strange men kidnap you! And sure, you were only expecting to see your mother so maybe it makes sense you didn't have your hijab on yet, but what, you can't go and put one on before your mum lets them into the house?? What the fuck mum???
Ok, sure, you just won't specify hair styles, right? The reader can picture their hair however they want! Problem solved!
What about later in the fanfic, when the reader is laying next to Harry Styles (idk why im still going with this 1D thing), they read about how "you curl up in his arms and relax into his embrace as his fingers slide through your hair to lull you to sleep."
Aww, that's lovely!
If you have hair. And it's not in braids or locs or waves or cornrose. And if it's no curlier than 3A - 3B if he's particularly good at not getting tangled in your curls. And if it's not in a bonnet. Or a hijab. Or a burqa. Or literally anything worn for hair care, cultural or religious reasons.
Ok fine, you just won't include hair at all! Not a mention of it. When you're writing, you're just gonna assume at all times your MC is bald. If you really wanna include something similar to hairplaying, you'll just say that he's massaging the base of their scalp or temples or something.
And you didn't mention anything about skintone so there's no issues there! Racially ambiguous!
Well, you also said they get sunburnt easily, which is impacted by both skin colour and the country they live in. You also said their cheeks grew red and Harry pointed out their blushing, but not everyone has skin light enough for blushing to be seen. Not everyone allows their face to be visible. Not everyone has their ears pierced or tattoos or 20-20 vision or a tiny waist or complete mobility in both their arms.
Ok then, fuck! What are you supposed to write?? Every person on this earth is unique and your x reader fic can't possibly cater towards everyone!
Exactly. And I want you to be honest with yourself when I ask this: have you ever thought about that before?
When you're born straight, white, able and cis, it's really easy to be completely oblivious to the lack of x readers that do accomodate for those differences because you've never had to think about it. It doesn't apply to you. Every x reader about every blorbo you could ever want has already been written for you (depending on fandom size). You've never had to scroll to the very last page on ao3 to find a single oneshot where Peter Parker watches a youtube tutorial on how to properly braid your 4B hair. Or gotten halfway into a fanfiction about your favourite male character that you thought was gender neutral but it turned out the reader was VERY MUCH A WOMAN and the afab sex scene that snuck up on you sends you into a dysphoric spiral.
As a dumb white person myself, I was ignorant to this for years too until I read something on (I think) Tumblr that really stuck with me.
It pointed out that, when reading text, most of us were conditioned to assume everyone was straight, white and cis unless otherwise specified. If a character was Brown or Black or Asian or Islander, that would be intentionally pointed out with adjectives describing their skin tone or physical features - why?
Because so many of us have been conditioned to imagine straight, white, able and cis as the "default".
How could the reader pOssibly think that new character is a person of colour if it's not explicitly stated? Especially when so much visual media in the past has featured straight, white, cis people at the forefront.
I saw a video of someone posting their childhood sona, your classic light-brown haired, green eyed whiter than paper skinned anime girl, with the caption "Me, 2013: I can't wait to see how I draw myself in the future!" followed by a really fantastic drawing (the art nerd in me can't help it, it's so expressive and the pose is so dynamic and the colouring is MWAH) of a black woman with the caption "why are you white"
And I was fucking floored by the amount of Black, Brown, Light-skinned, Latinx, and Indigenous people in the comments, who could relate to that exact experience. Until I saw that video, I had no idea how common it was for non-white people to draw their sonas - THEIR IDEALISED SELVES - as white. Some commenters attributed this phenomenon to the lack of Black/Latinx/Indigenous representation in visual media during their childhoods, especially in anime which is a common style for kids/teens to draw in. Another reason is that some kids just never had their ACTUAL skin colour in the crayon or pen or pencil sets they had, everyone who wasn't this specific fucking pale peachy white was an afterthought.
Anime tutorials didn't teach kids how to draw curly hair or hijabs or almond eyes or non-button noses or how to correctly shade skin darker than Pantone 27.
And x readers aren't exempt from this phenomenon. In fact, they can be a prolific perpetuator of this "default", to the point where there are tags like x black!reader or x asian!reader because the general x reader stories are so obviously written from a white perspective that they can end up being completely unrelatable. And as much as it makes me happy to see non-white fanfic writers carving out those niches and making sure there are diverse spaces in the community, every time I see Black or Latinx preceeding the word reader I'm reminded of that post about white being the "default". Like the reader can't be Black or Brown or Indian or Asian or Indigenous or Islander unless it's actively specified.
And it's not just People of Colour who have to deal with this bullshit - the colonial "default" is straight, white, able and cis, remember?
If a straight, white, able, cis woman wanted to read an x reader fanfic for an older man with a relatable mc, she'd just type x reader.
If I want an x reader fanfic for an older man where the main character is someone I can relate to, I have to type x gn!reader.
If a cis, white, able man wanted an older man fanfic with a relatable mc, he'd have to type x male!reader.
If a white, able, trans man wanted an older man fanfic with a relatable mc, he'd have to type trans!male!reader.
If a black, able, trans man wanted an older man fanfic with a relatable mc, he'd have to type black!trans!male!reader.
If a black, disabled, trans man wanted an older man fanfic with a relatable mc, he'd have to type black!disabled!trans!male!reader.
Each "default" setting you don't fit into is another tag you have to add on. To read about someone who will love you for who you are, you have to list out every part of your identity that does not fit into the 'norm'.
And while yes, I'm glad that people who don't fit into the "default" are able to both create and find fanfics that specify exactly what we're looking for, doesn't it fuckin suck that they know a basic "x reader" just isn't going to include them?
Doesn't it fuckin suck to know that every one of us who don't fit even one of the "default" characteristics often has to take on the responsibility of carving out that niche within the fandom because if we don't make space for ourselves and our community, who will?
I wish I could tell you I have a solution, but hundreds of years of colonial brainwashing doesn't disappear over night.
But, in my opinion as a dumb white person (so take this with a grain of salt the size of the Great Australian Bite and feel free to drag me in the comments), I think we've made a little progress into erasing the colonial "default" for recent media like The Magnus Archives or The Amazing Digital Circus. Where the fandom, in lieu of canonical human appearence, have drawn and written and headcannoned characters to be Black or autistic or gay or transmasc based on their own interpretations and/or personal experiences they've seen mirrored. Or even just because they wanna add some goddamn spice to their designs. And to all of that I say Hell fuckin Yeah.
I also like that i've personally seen an uptick in people using fem!reader or afab!reader for fics about fictional male characters because:
a) cis amab or trans masc/masc leaning people don't have to get halfway through the first chapter before they realise "oh goddamnit the MC is obviously a girl and it's gonna come up in this fic so i can't just ignore it" and
b) combined with the uptick of gn!readers i've been seeing, it's helping us break down the "default" straight, fem reader archetype because everyone of every and any gender should be able to get love and attention from their blorbos and
c) i especially love the afab and amab tags because they aknowledge that gender is diverse and what's written is purely about what you physically have and not what gender you are. Girls can have dicks, boys can have vaginas, it's twenty-twenty-fuckin-five, people.
With all this being said, I'm absolutely NOT saying we should get rid of specifying tags for race and gender and disabilities, they're an incredibly important tool for people who don't fit the "default" to find community and connection. It's totally ok if you want to write about a straight, white, able, cis reader because that's your experience.
At the end of this rant, what I really want you to take away from this if you're an x reader fanfic writer who does fit into the "default", is that your experience is not a universal one. Everyone deserves to be able to find and write fanfics that make them happy and are relatable to their experiences and struggles.
Even if you don't personally relate to the stories they're telling,
Support Black Creators. Support East-Asian Creators. Support South-Asian Creators. Support Latinx Creators. Support Muslim Creators. Support Indigenous Creators. Support Islander Creators. Support Disabled Creators. Support Neurodiverse Creators. Support Queer Creators. Support Trans Creators. Support Non-Binary Creators.
Support Creators.
Because everyone deserves to feel loved and respected and understood in a community they love and respect.
*honey, if you're white, you are ignorant, intentionally or otherwise. You could have just grown up in a majority white area and not considered these things before because no one ever pointed it out to you. I had to have this stuff pointed out to me because yes, ignorance is a part of white privilege.
another ramble about arctic monkeys:
body paint.
I’ve always seen it as a song which is basically like turner’s time capsule in musical form, like an actor riffling through stolen props and costumes from various shows and productions, reminiscing on each of them to the audience, how each of them have had a lasting impact on his life. along with this I also see it as him reflecting on who he’s turned into and also his insecurities maybe that have formed from being perceived by so many at such a young age, he matured in the public eye, not quite grow up. yeah he and the band debuted officially at 20 however they were playing locally even before then around 16/17. yeah that’s not as young as most musicians like billie eilish but now we have the expanses of social media, they didn’t really, getting that much fame at an age where people are still very much figuring out their identity and who they are, freshly out of teen hood, must’ve been really overwhelming. I feel like body paint is an ode to that almost and how he’s had to put on so many acts and facades and what scars they’ve almost left him with. I was also looking at the spotify graphic and that helps my point, it’s just him walking around in the spotlight aimlessly. It’s almost like he’s accepted that no matter what, he’ll be watched now always, like a bug in a jar. It also I feel like could symbolise how he felt like the only one perceived so thoroughly, yeah sure the rest of the members weren’t fully ignored but turner, as the frontman, definitely had a lot more focus on him to say the least. yeah. hope that makes sense. late night ramble. in conclusion, I hate interpreting songs just as they are with their “intended” meaning (music is art, hoes), especially love songs. be more fun, stop taking music as literally sometimes. peace out
Agree with this wholeheartedly
People really need to start writing more male reader/ gender neutral reader fanfiction because tell me why I’m scouring the DEPTHS of every single fanfic site—and I mean EVERY fanfic site—yet I can’t find anything more than the same stuff I’ve read 100 times already.
It’s so frustrating😕
Arctic Monkeys @ L'Olympia, Paris Feb 3, 2012
Transition goals tbh
new post am alex hello
The Only Time That We Stop Laughing is to Breathe or Steal a Kiss - Alex Turner x Reader (part one//prologue)
In which you lose your job, go to the pub, and find a new one on the moon; your boss is a sad washed-up rockstar. Alternative universe based on TBHC where space travel is easily accessible for narrative purposes.
warnings: none, they just met, i’m just setting up the rest of it bear w me </3 idk TW cigarettes this is alex turner ofc theres cigarettes. Warning for i havent written fanfiction in years and cant do dialogue either
word count: 2458
There are situations that fester within one’s heart a sense of despondency so vast and all-encompassing that to be faced with the notion that somewhere, submerged between the periphery of the celestial realms and another plane of matter utterly inarticulate to the barriers of even the most astute psyches is a star even lonelier – its distance from its nearest brethren so interminable that perhaps, were it sentient, it would spend each eon dwindling, reigniting and dying aflame without ever considering the possibility of another of its kind – serves as both a consolation and a source of disquietude. The prospect of burning out in solitude, of existing as a microcosm to the greater impersonal cycle of life and death that carries along on autopilot; is it easier to succumb to the elements alone if one is bereft of a heart to think about it?
This was one of those evenings, it seemed; you were never one for revelry, but your discomposure begged on all fours to be numbed and placated. You had been let go from your job the prior morning following a dispute with your boss; it was disheartening at best, the gig having been the primary victory of a series of tribulations that had culminated into you dropping out of university much to the dismay of your parents – so much so that you had been kicked out for violating the ultimatum decreeing that you were only to live there into adulthood until your graduation. Meaning, now, that you were responsible for yourself without an income. It felt like a transgression of your hard-earned hubris to crawl back home and, after thirty-six-too-many hours spent sobbing and bereaved, in the absence of resolution, the pub felt magnetic.
You had arrived a quarter to nine, perched atop a barstool nursing a cocktail. The establishment was no grandiose pandemonium, by any means, a choice based on proximity alone. Its noise felt almost chaste, loud but subdued, a diffident sort of chaos procured by its aged inhabitants, spectres of waning youth clung onto with vise grips in the modesty that is an acquired taste, one that you grow into, not unlike the burn of heady beverages. It was easy to remain invisible here. That was what you needed. To be inconsequential, for just a moment. For nothing to matter.
The alcohol swam about your gut, circulating its heady caress throughout your body; you watched the lights carouse in tandem with the swinging of hips peppering the floor of the parlor and indulged in your sphere of quietude before the reverberation of the beats around you came to a sharp halt, the scaffolding of bodies falling into stillness along with it. You snapped out of your oncoming haze and peered about the area; a small stage on the corner of the west end lit up, previously unbeknownst to you, and the crowd had turned towards it as if this was routine.
A middle–aged woman in an apron and slacks made her way to the podium, clearing her throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight, Alex Turner is joining us for a performance. Normally, he’s got the full band, but we’re celebrating the new moon with our favourite lunar rockstar on a solo set.” The subsequent cheering grew to a point of reverence as soon as he stepped foot atop the stage. You’d never heard of this man before, but you felt the eagerness aurating from the public.
His grey pinstripe tuxedo contrasted with the scarlet tie that hung from his neck like a noose, gently grazing the brown tendrils that grew from the base of his skull. His eyes were guarded by a pair of copper sunglasses framed by arched brows and the wrinkle that creased between them. He grinned politely, the outlines of pearly canines poking through the gap between his lips. “Hello, everybody,” he greeted, his lyrical Northern lilt inflecting the anterior notes of his vowels downwards. “How’re we doin’? I’ve got a few songs for you, free of charge… but if anyone wants t’buy me a drink afterwards, be my guest.” His prelude was met with an ovation of laughter.
He perched upon a stool and pulled out a guitar. Scarfing down the spidery cirrus of the final remnants of your drink, you ordered another and committed to the watch.
He played his instrument like an extension of himself, his strums heavy-handed, yet simultaneously gentle, coinciding with the tender alto of his voice in a harmony that felt almost disingenuous; he sang like he knew the scripture of his words more intimately than their substance. It was beautiful, though, that much was undeniable.
Rarely did he avert his gaze from his feet – at least, that was inferred from the downwards tilt of his head – and the end of the set marked the first time he removed the glasses from the contour of his nose. After a series of gratuities, he had stepped away. All festivities resumed, not that they had really stopped at all. You spared him your reaction, and kept at your business.
Once again, your thoughts began to drift. It dawned on you, upon the declination of your card on your – what was it, fifth? – cocktail, that you wouldn’t be making rent this month. You pondered for a moment, as the sinking feeling settled into your stomach. There, in this middle ground between melancholy and abject despair, a sense of paralysis imposed itself upon you; you were alone here, feeble and meaningless, just like you wanted to be, and yet a sickening notion had presented itself that this had already been the case. The only purpose of this all, it seemed, was to chase a semblance of fulfillment that could not be acquiesced from disavowal. And its naivety had come to a bitter head.
So you waited, as the night went on, eating your own words and shoving them as they faltered on the way out. Maybe you'd have a fiver for a cab. The contrary proved true an assessment of your pockets, much to your dismay. A posse a few seats down was clamoring in conversation. They seemed delighted, proud, whole. Their martinis splashed around their glasses in circles, the ornamental olives like talismans. You had no interest in their discussion, but eavesdropped in an attempt to divert your attention elsewhere – to have any attention at all – and maybe, just maybe, you’d be able to sober up and walk yourself home unscathed.
You were cajoled away from your zoned-out haze when the next barstool over creaked with the weight of an occupant. Slower than the motion felt, you swung your head to look – it had remained vacant for the entirety of your stay. It was an old man.
With a sigh, and perhaps a crack in your voice as you muttered a curse, you sauntered to the bathroom.
It was clean, surprisingly, in spite of the gaudy tile and kitschy decor adorning it. A woman fixed her lipstick at the end of the counter, a frosty baby pink reminiscent of aged trends. You paused to see your own reflection: you had forgotten to take a proper look for a long time now. Your skin, puffy and sallow, bore the remnants of liquidated mascara, abruptly cut off in fragments by insufficient wipes – you felt almost spectral, ghastly, as if you were viewing an apparition in the rearview mirror. This wasn’t you. You hadn’t been you a while.
A voice pulled you from your trance. “Are you alright, hun?” Inquired the made-up woman.
You looked up to meet her gaze as she leant against the countertop. “Think so. Maybe. I hope.”
Her face contorted with worry. “Do you need anything? Do you smoke?” She snatched her purse up from the moist surface and rummaged through it, tossing her lipstick back in between the swift motions of her hands. “I’ve got a few. I won’t pry, but I think you need one.”
Her concern felt almost maternal – although she wasn’t old, by any means – and it warmed your heart with the glowing thermics of a final snub of coal, its meager perseverance accredited to a miniscule spark holding it aflame while its brethren dwindle into soot. “I don’t normally, but if you’re insisting… I suppose I might.”
She lit up at that, dispensing a red lighter and a cigarette into your palms with an outstretched arm. “Here. I’ve got to go, my husband is waiting for me. Keep the lighter. I’ve got plenty.”
You smiled. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
With a wave of acknowledgement, she departed, and you were alone again – you waited a few minutes before leaving.
The bar had, for the most part, calmed down, slower jazz music replacing the more upbeat melodies that had sounded throughout the building prior to the musician’s set. You were grateful for this on account of the nausea threatening to make itself at home in your gut; never much of a drinker, you seldom tolerated it well at all.
Slipping through the doorway after whittling through small clusters of people, you joined the smokers outside. The wind was cool and invigorating, a welcome contrast to the amalgamation of heat radiating throughout the poorly-conditioned interior.
You slid down the bricks and mortar to situate yourself on the concrete below, the chill seeping through the fabric of your pants. Pulling the cigarette from its temporary abode in your pocket, you positioned the filter between your lips, its rotund shape clumsy and unfamiliar in your mouth. Squinting, you flicked the ridges of the lighter, the initial attempt a failure, the softness of your thumb unaccustomed to the coarse component as it stagnates without the force required to turn it – the second moved it without a flame, the third eliciting only a spark, and by the sixth or seventh you had given up. With your eyes on the bustling street anterior to you, the cigarette had fallen into your lap. You shifted to pick it up again and watched your breath condense into translucent vapour as you rid out the comedown of unmet expectations for what felt like the thousandth time today.
“Need a light, there?”
You flinched, swinging your head back and forth until your gaze settled on the speaker – his feet, anyway, and then trailed upwards from the loafers, to grey slacks, to the pinstripe suit, to the red tie, until it registered in your mind that it was the singer from the lounge.
“Apparently.”
He chuckled. “Quite the dud you’ve got, by the looks of it.”
“It’s not mine,” you replied, your tone low.
Raising an eyebrow, he fished one from his breastpocket and tossed it your way. It landed with a subtle clamor onto the ground beside your feet. “That was on me. Don’t have very good aim nowadays, you see.”
You shot him a look, pursing your lips, although not unkindly, and grabbed the lighter. “It’s alright. I didn’t catch it.” You lit the cigarette, this time on your second try, and on the first draw allowed your head to fall back against the wall momentarily as you reveled in the tingly buzz washing over you. “Thank you, by the way.” You inched your head sideways and offered the lighter back, peering up at him.
He took a step forward, and as he grabbed it you felt the callouses on his fingers graze your palms. “No problem.”
You took in another drag and coughed. After the wincing subsided, you looked back at him. “You’re the guy who was singing, right?”
“That would be me.”
“I thought so, but I didn’t think you’d be here so long. It was a good show.”
He smiled. “Why, thank you, love. I’m not in the country much longer, I didn’t quite feel like leaving yet.”
“The country? If you’re on a tour, what are you playing at bars for?”
“I’m not one for stadiums these days. Band’s always busy. I’ve got a business to run.”
You squinted. He played stadiums and you still had no idea who he was before this. “Oh. Well, it was nice of you to come play. I’ve never been here – I don’t drink much. I wasn’t supposed to be here this late either.” You paused. “You know, I haven’t smoked since college either. It’s been a weird day.”
Bemused, he rested his back against the wall. “College? Smart girl, then. What were you in school for?”
“Nursing. I wanted to go into science, but I never had the grades. I ended up dropping out. I hated it.” You stared at your shoes.
“I never tried in the first place, it’s alright. I’m not sure I’d particularly care for all that finnaggling about, either,” he replied, lighting his own smoke. The flame illuminated his face briefly – he was pretty, all cheekbones and eyes. “What do you do now?”
A deep breath preluded your response, a preparatory measure for the upcoming embarassment. “Nothing, as of today. I was a journalist.”
He raised his brows – both, this time. “Quit? Or did you get sacked?”
“Sacked. No need to salt the wound.”
With a shake of his head, he sat down next to you, roughly an arms’ length away. “Well, I was just inquiring about it, my apologies. It happens, dunnit?”
You snuffed the butt of your cigarette on the ground, stamping it with your heel for good measure. “It does, yeah. You said you play stadiums, I don’t think you’ve ever worried about eating before.” You didn’t intend to come off spitefully. You hoped you didn’t.
He smiled again, small and meek. “Only when I was on a bender,” he quipped, a laugh nearly emerging before he stifled it. “Y’know, my receptionist just left last week. Been over me head with paperwork.”
“Glad you have something to do.”
“So that one went over your head, hm?”
You met his eyes, mouth slightly agape in confusion. “Oh. You want me there.”
He shrugged. “Hard to find anyone willing to relocate.”
“The fact that I’m considering any sort of offer from a stranger tells me my survival instincts are failing me.”
“It’s not great publicity for a rockstar to kidnap girls at the pub. You can look the place up. Hotel on the moon.”
You giggled, momentarily pondering the proposition. “What’s the number? I’ll call when I’m home.”
He fetched a matte black business card – it smelt of tobacco – from the previous breastpocket. “Sure. You have a way home?”
“...Not really.”
“I’ll get you a cab. What’s your name?”
You introduced yourself, and shook his hand properly. “Thank you… Turner? Alex Turner?”
“That would be me. Talk tomorrow.”
He called the cab, leaving them your name. As you entered the vehicle you caught a glimpse of him standing at the entryway with a watchful eye.
Excited for the next chapter already🥰
AM tok scares me
hey hey! i absolutely adore your art and i have been wanting to ask for a request. i had no idea what to request but now it suddenly came to my mind!
2016 milex pirate au!!! 🏴☠️
it can be anything, really! thank you in advance!
YESSSSS ummm uhhh i love them (THANK YOU!!!)
I don’t ship milex but this is so cutie patootie omfg
Vamp al would love the organ. Like that and his guitar are his everything
Oh my god you’re so right.
I love the idea that after being isolated for a really long time, he’s picked up a huge love for music. He’s totally got a giant collection of physical media.
He wouldn’t show it, but he would have an absolute aneurism when you ask him to play the organ or guitar for you. He would act nonchalant about it at first before playing for HOURS, trying to show you new pieces he’s learned.
Sigh😔
Feel free to elaborate on vamp al
Don’t even get me STARTED.
I’ve had something in the works for a while, but I keep getting really bad writer’s block every time I touch it😞 I’ve always been a little obsessed with vampires and the stories surrounding them, but I’ve never actually been able to come up with a consistent plot.
HOWEVER. I do have a few headcanons about vampires that I’d like to incorporate within my fic(eventually)
Vampires are naturally cold due to the lack of blood in their bodies, so I’d like to think that they seek out warmth wherever they can get it. Cuddling, heaters, etc. Most of the time they just get it from feeding off of humans.
They try to avoid the sun; not because it makes them turn to ash, but because they’re eyes are extremely sensitive to it. While their eyesight is useful at night, it can make it very hard to see during the day.
To a vampire, sharing blood with another is as intimate as sex is for humans. It’s essentially sharing one’s life force, and it’s involved in many “courting” rituals for vampires.
Vampires can develop very specific tastes when it comes to blood. The taste of blood is usually determined by diet, blood type, lifestyle, and overall health. Due to this, they usually end up hunting for the blood they’re most attracted to.
They are alive, but just barely. Vampires have an extremely sluggish heartbeat that pumps blood throughout their body depending on how much they ingest.
That’s all I have written down in my notes app right now😅
But please please PLEASE, if you have any ideas for a one shot involving Vamp!Al, or just some headcanons, I am absolutely DYING to write something for him.
I’ll try and work on the first chapter of the Vamp!Al series I was initially talking about but I might just scrap the whole thing. We’ll see!
Dracula Alex lives in my mind rent free 24/7
Habitual Sleeplessness
cried out to him with my mouth, his praise was on my tongue
warnings: male reader, fellatio & fornication
word count: 5k
No words.
near-life experiences
it's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea
MALE reader. sub al <3 feelings ; sex ; issues ; tears [ implied unhealthy lifestyles + alcohol is mentioned ]
Genuinely such beautiful writing.
Hey how r u
Do you take requests
I have no idea when this was submitted but yes! I do. You can find the request rules on my pinned post😌
Imma be real i don't know anything about your interests i just saw your post about Arthur Morgan x male readers and wanted to say you are NOT alone... I have already read all the ones Tumblr has... 😭😭
Me too. I’ve genuinely scoured the deepest corners of this place and apparently only like 3 people write them😭
Genuinely considering just writing my own atp…