Sharon. Call me Shahs. She/Her. 31. Chinoy (Chinese/Filipino). Illustrator trying to improve everyday. Art blog @molinaesque. | Follow me on Twitter @shahs1221 (nsfw: @shahs1221NSFW) | Patreon: patreon.com/shahs1221 | Links: linktr.ee/shahs1221
On June 25, the Musée d'Orsay is opening its doors to the world of Clair Obscur: Expedition 33, with references to the Belle Époque themes and the couple formed by Auguste Renoir and Aline Charigot.
You can expect to see a roundtable discussion with the game's artists, the game's original soundtrack performed live under the museum's nave, and an exclusive exhibition highlighting parallels between images from Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 and the Musée d'Orsay's collections.
Tickets will go live on June 9th at 11am CEST
More information: https://billetterie.musee-orsay.fr/concerts-du-soir-spectacles-et-performances-css5-museeorsay-pg1-rg28945.html
10 SLOTS FOR SFW AND 5 SLOTS FOR NSFW. 15 SLOTS TOTAL.
Full view of these NSFT pieces used as examples can be seen here! Semi spicy/censored stuff can be seen here!
Some rules:
- once 15 slots are filled, you’ll be put into a queue list which will take longer to get to but you will be on a list!
- max 2 characters
- I use Paypal for payment (you can use whatever bank to send online payment as I’ll send you an invoice to request payment).
- nothing gratuitous like gore (some blood and scars and a little spicyness is fine but please nothing else).
- when providing me info/detail, do them in bullet point form or something easier to digest. Please do not send me essays/stories about your character(s) that is not relevant to your piece
- provide as much references as you can as it helps the progress significantly faster
A/n: @shahs1221 did this lovely art and I felt compelled. Small, but hey. Something in the midst of le writer's block.
Renoir x Aline: Chic
“You'll make us late.”
Renoir hums in agreement. Hums, but notably does not stop. Her husband turns his face into the curve of her shoulder, his touch feathering along the dress's high collar, stroking the skin just beneath her jaw, following the line up and up along the shell of her ear. Aline chews the inside of her cheek, fighting the urge to twitch. Her nerves cannot decide how to parse the stimuli. All at once, she wants to pull away—it is too light; it itches—and press into his touch—he is warm; the scratch of his nails promises more.
“It's fashionable. And expected,” he purrs.
“It is less chic in our own home.” He makes another affirming noise before craning her head to the side. The gentle scrape of his teeth makes some self-preserving (and tedious) voice in her head insist she pull away. “Renoir, we’ll have half the Painters in Paris gathered on our lawn before long.”
His hand smooths around to cup the gentle, nearly infinitesimal swell of her stomach—their secret, still only theirs. “There is something to be said about the joy of expectation.”
Aline snickers, stealing what remains of her faltering willpower before he can break her resolve entirely. She turns in his arms, arching a brow. “The Council will talk.”
He smirks, dipping his head to kiss her. “They already talk.”
A compelling argument. Aline finds herself sighing, sliding a hand into Renoir's hair as she relaxes into his embrace. The scent of their shampoo still lingers on his skin, fresh, warm, and Renoir is unfairly attractive in his suit, newly tailored, and terribly fashionable—
—No, they are better than this. Aline nips at him, making a dissatisfied sound. She pushes at his shoulder. “Later.”
He looks like he wants to laugh. “How uncharacteristically restrained of you, ma cher.”
“One of us has to remain responsible.”
Her love flashes her a disbelieving look. Renoir shakes his head, moving to collect her low heels from the bed. He returns to stand in front of her again, dropping to his knees.
The bottom threatens to drop out of her stomach. “Renoir—”
“Foot.”
She feels the situation slipping away from her again, grumbling irritably as she lifts her foot. He traces the arch, clutching her ankle to keep her from pulling away. The fool leans in to press his lips to her knee, careful as he slips on her heel. He slides the straps into place, stroking along the thin pieces of fabric a final time before tapping her other leg.
Aline sets one hand on her husband's shoulder to steady herself, staring down at him. She strokes his cheek without thinking, turning his face up. In her more petty and vain moments, she thinks how unfair it is—age has been nothing but a boon to him. There are more lines on his face and more gray in his hair, but he is no less handsome than the man she married. He remains…affecting.
Worse, Renoir knows it. He flashes her an unrepentant smile, resting his chin below her sternum. “You look like there’s something you wish to say, Aline.”
There are half a dozen things she wants to say. None suited for polite company.
“You are absurd.” She scratches her nails across his scalp, tugging at his hair. Renoir traces the line of her spine, hand settling at her lower back. His warm breath fans across her chest. She feels her resolve slip again.
“If I cannot entice you,” he finally says. The mischievous glimmer in his eyes suggests he knows how close she’s come to breaking, knows that he could make that final little push to steal Aline away. He is genteel enough to give her this out. Renoir stands with a grunt of effort, bringing her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss over her wedding band. “Come then. Let us hope our guests appreciate your sacrifice.”'
