#greatcoats sketches

[its-elvish-for-two]

Some 'background' Greatcoats for some sketching practice. Might do some more later

#the greatcoats series #murielle de vierre #winnow #cunien #quillata #greatcoats sketches #sketches #the greatcoats #fanart #my art

[vryfmi]

book!l&co character lineup

finally finished extended version of my L&Co designs, based on their book descriptions! it took months, but im happy with the results

ID of designs + thumbnail-sketch under the cut

[image ID: two digital drawings of characters from Lockwood and Co books, done in semi-realistic style, black lineart and plain colour against grey background.

image 1: from left to right there are full body drawings of George Cubbins, Anthony Lockwood and Lucy Carlyle. George is standing facing left, slouching, he's looking at the viewer with indifferent expression. he's fat, light-skinned and has medium length fair hair. George's wearing round glasses, red t-shirt, baggy jeans, unzipped grey hoodie and sneakers. he has a grey sport bag in right hand and a black messenger bag across left shoulder. next to him there's Lockwood, he's standing half turned to right, he's facing the viewer with a gentle smile. Lockwood is paler than George, almost a head taller and slim with short, slightly wavy, black hair. he's wearing a grey three piece suit with white shirt underneath, as well as smart black shoes and a purple tie. on top of it is a black greatcoat. Lockwood stands with one hand in pocket and another resting on rapier's grip. the sword is in its scabbard attached to Lockwood's belt. furthest on the right is Lucy, she's standing half turned to right, head facing left with a curious look directed at the viewer. her skin is light and her hair is warm brown, slightly uneven and spiky with middle parting. she has a wide frame and is the same height as George. Lucy's wearing a baggy orange sweater, plaid grey skirt, black leggings and tall dark-brown work boots with iron patches. she's holding onto a strap of her rucksack that is on her right shoulder. there's also a belt on top of the sweater which holds her rapier.

image 2: from left to right there are full body drawings of Flo Bones, human version of the skull, Quill Kipps and Holly Munro. Flo is standing half turned to left, facing towards the viewer with a smirk. she's light-skinned with long dirty-blonde hair, and her face has smudges of mud all over. compared to previous pictures, she's almost as tall as Lockwood, but not quite. Flo is wearing long blue puffer jacket on top of her darker clothes that resemble one of fisherman's with mudded thigh-high rainboots. she stands with one hand in jacket pocket, one raising a brim of straw hat with a knife. said hat has a fishing hook stuck on its brim and two lavender stems attached to hat band. next to her is the skull in his human form. he stands half turned to right, slouching, hands in pockets, with head thrown back with a wide smirk across his face. skull is very thin and not really tall, he is tanned and freckled with spiky dark hair. skull is wearing ill-fitting clothes: a white old-timey shirt that is slightly too big and grey trousers that are too small and short. he stands barefoot. third from the left is Quill Kipps, he stand half turned to right, crossing his arms, head facing left with a look of annoyance. Kipps is short and slim, he has ruddy and freckled skin and short ginger hair. Kipps is wearing a grey leather jacket with Fittes logo on it as well as two medals, tight black jeans and chelsea boots. his rapier scabbard has a baldric type of belt. rapier itself has green gems on a hilt. finally, there's Holly Munro, she's standing half turned to left, head facing right with a gentle smile. she's pretty tall and slim with deep rich black skin tone and black shoulder length curls. Holly's wearing a white short lantern sleeve shirt with a blue dress with a cloth belt wrapped around and tied into a bow at the back, as well as low heel shoes. she has a light-blue scarf wrapped around her head. Holly also has white small earrings and beige nail paint. all of the characters have artist’s watermark at the lower right side of them./end ID]

bonus sketch

#lockwood and co #l&co #character lineup #character design #illustration #digital art #fanart #lucy carlyle #anthony lockwood #george cubbins #holly munro #the skull #skull in the jar #quill kipps #flo bones #lockwood and co books #jonathan stroud #described #image description in alt #artpost #dont mind my silhouette practice #imho it's an upgrade from that one posts from almost 2 years ago (though designs haven't changed much)

[ratwithhands]

Decided to polish some jacket designs!

Emmet originally received a strait from the League after they thought he posed a safety risk to others and mandated him to wear it. Big surprise, they literally just went to a Unovan hospital and asked if they had any of the old jackets lying around. It's ill-fitting and unpleasant, not to mention the hasty edits they made to his uniform to act as a secondary restraint looks awful. As much as he is still operating as usual, having to walk around in the strait is humiliating and dehumanizing, especially because of the stares from other people.

Of course this crime against dignity and fashion had to be corrected, so Elesa called her designers and offered to make the League Council a more appropriate uniform for him. The only rule given was that it must still restrain as well as the original straitjacket, so Elesa ended up modelling the jacket after a vest and the secondary restraint after a double-breasted greatcoat. It's meant to look like clothing, more like everyday wear than something out of an asylum. It also uses hand covers (i.e. socks) instead of a grossly oversized sleeve to keep the hands restrained.

It resolves a lot of the issues Emmet had with the original, namely that it blends in with the crowd rather than making him stick out. It also has an air of professionalism and formality that the original didn't have. He's much more willing to wear it and keep it on, as well as being more comfortable in it.

I'm struggling to describe this in sentences so as for the differences:

League Straitjacket:

actual retired straitjacket from hospital storage

made of old canvas and leather

uses oversized belted sleeves to restrain arms

uses belts and buckles to restrain upper arms and tighten back

can't fit anything thicker than a tank top underneath

Elesa's Modified Straitvest:

bespoke articles custom tailored to Emmet's measurements

made from stiff cotton and fabric staps

uses belted cuffs and hand covers to restrain arms

uses straps and locking slide buckles to restrain upper arms and tighten back

able to fit a collared shirt underneath

Elesa's outfit also has the added bonus of being more breathable, soft, and being able to function as regular clothes.

Anyways bonus sketch comic:

Dignity restored.

#tw straitjacket #straitjacket #submas #submas au #au #ingo #subway master ingo #ingo pokemon #nobori #emmet #subway master emmet #emmet pokemon #kudari #When they brought the finished pieces in for Emmet to try on he nearly broke down #like yes it was more comfortable‚ but the sentiment and effort put into it didn't even make it feel like it was constricting him #no matter how tight the straps are pulled‚ the knowledge that it was made out of concern for him‚ for his comfort‚ for his humanity‚ #it was just like any other piece of clothing #I really wanted to draw what his first day being “free” in his new uniform was like #if only to show his relief after so long being bound like a rabid animal #unfortunately I don't have enough motivation or writing ability to pull that comic off convincingly so we just have these #I hope you guys will enjoy them though! I had fun drawing them so I want them to entertain you guys too #you guys let me know if you have questions/want to see stuff about Battle Addict‚ It's fun getting to share AUs like this #see ya later

[favouritefi]

oh do the cat/dogboys have fur covering their torsos and legs or is it just parts of the head?

the colder the environment the more their body hair starts to become body fur, i acc had a super old wip about this and how long haired cat/dogboys are at risk of overheating on the ships in their greatcoats and stuff as their "winter coats" grow in, likely wont ever finish it bc i dont like the sketch anymore but here it is:

#purror and erebark

[naushtheaspiringauthor]

~Child Of The Storm~

Nikolai Lantsov x OC

Image by - @brokendreamtale2

Warnings- none 😽

A/N- Let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist!

Taglist- @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @sirisuorionblack @nadeleine123n

Ch-24 ~Unexpected manoeuvre~

Later that night, Anaya was jerked awake by Tamar calling her name

“Time to go,” she said.

“Now?” Alina asked blearily. “What time is it?”

“Coming on three bells.”

“In the morning?” she yawned and got out of her hammock

“Where are we?” Anaya asked hoarsely

“Fifteen miles off the coast of West Ravka. Come on, Sturmhond is waiting.” She was dressed and had her canvas bag slung over her shoulder.

As Anaya was putting her kefta on, Tamar handed out a tawny coat in front of her, "I'm sure those people won't exactly be happy to a see a grisha from the little palace"

She put on the coat and left her kefta on her hammock, stuffing her notebook in the inside pocket. 

On deck, Mal stood by the ship’s starboard rail with a small group of crewmen. It took Anaya a moment to realize that Privyet had been wearing Sturmhond’s garish teal coat. The boy would've been hard to recognize if he hadn't been the one giving orders. He was swaddled in a voluminous greatcoat, the collar turned up, a wool hat pulled low over his ears.

A cold wind was blowing. The stars were bright in the sky, and a sickle moon sat low on the horizon. 

“What’s happening?” Alina asked.

“We’re going ashore.” Mal responded

“In the middle of the night?”

“The Volkvolny will raise my colors near the Fjerdan coast,” the captain spoke. “The Darkling doesn’t need to know that you’re back on Ravkan soil just yet.”

Sturmhond bent his head to conversate with Privyet

Anaya looked up at the starry sky. Whatever sort of trouble was coming their way, she was ready to face it. And whatever the mad captain intended to throw their way wouldn't be much of a surprise to her, she'd already seen worse.

She looked over at Rabeah, who'd been talking to the fabrikator from a few nights ago. 

She noticed Alina and Mal speaking in low voices.  Mal bent to kiss her, a sight that made Anaya grimace. Sturmhond’s voice cut through the dark. “Can we get to the cuddling later? I want us ashore before dawn.

Mal took Alina's hand and they returned to the group.

Sturmhond gave Privyet an envelope sealed with pale blue wax, then clapped him on the back. They boy appeared as he was about to cry. Tolya and Tamar slipped over the railing, holding tight to the weighted ladder secured to the schooner.

Anaya looked over the side. She was surprised to see a smaller structure, similar to the sketches she'd seen in Sturmhond's cabin, floating alongside the Volkvolny. IIt was quite an extraordinary ship. Its two hulls looked like a pair of hollowed-out shoes, and they were held together by a deck with a giant hole in its center.

Mal and Alina followed, stepping onto one of the craft’s curved hulls. They picked their way across it and descended to the central deck, where a sunken cockpit was nestled between two masts. Sturmhond gestured Anaya to follow and then leapt down after them, then swung up onto a raised platform behind the cockpit and took his place at the ship’s wheel.

Anaya looked around but was quickly relieved to find Rabeah standing near the cockpit, glancing in her direction with curiosity

“What is this thing?” Alina asked the question building up in Anaya's mind

“I call her the Hummingbird,” he said, consulting some sort of chart. "Though I’m thinking of renaming her the Firebird "

The girl's expression quickly changed but the bloke only grinned

"Cut anchor and release!” he ordered

Tamar and Tolya unhitched the knots of the grapples that held them to the Volkvolny. Anaua saw the anchor line slither like a live snake over the Hummingbird’s stern, the end slipping silently into the sea. 

“Make sail,”  Sturmhond called

The sails unfurled. Though the Hummingbird’s masts were considerably shorter than those aboard the schooner, its double sails were huge and rectangular, and they required two crewmen each to maneuver them into position.

They pulled farther from the Volkvolny.

The captain shook himself, then called out, “Squallers!”

A Grisha was positioned in each hull. They raised their arms, and wind billowed around them, filling the sails. Sturmhond adjusted the course and called for more speed. The Squallers obliged, and the vessel leapt forward. 

“Take these,” the privateer spoke He dropped a pair of goggles into Alina's lap and tossed another pair to Mal. He then handed similar pairs to Anaya and Rabeah.

They looked similar to those worn by the Fabrikators in the workshops of the Little Palace. All of the crew seemed to be wearing them, along with Sturmhond. 

Anaya pulled them on along with the others. 

The boy soom called for more speed, he seemed to be in a hurry. 

The Hummingbird sped over the water, its shallow double hulls skated from wave to wave, barely seeming to touch the surface of the sea. 

“All right, Squallers,” commanded Sturmhond, “Take us up. Sailors to wings, on my count.”

Anaya looked around in confusion, unable to comprehend what was going on

“Five!” the captain shouted.

The crewmen started to move counterclockwise, pulling on the lines.

“Four!”

The Squallers spread their hands wider.

“Three!”

A boom lifted between the two masts, the sails gliding along its length.

“Two!”

“Heave!” cried the sailors. The Squallers lifted their arms in a massive swoop.

“One!” Sturmhond yelled. 

The sails billowed up and out, snapping into place high above the deck like two gigantic wings

Sturmhond was laughing like a lunatic. The Squallers were calling out to each other in a volley, making sure they kept the updraft steady.

That was when Anaya finally realized, They were flying.

#grishaverse #shadow and bone #nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov fanfiction #nikolai lanstov #nikolai lanstov x reader #nikolai lantsov x oc

[saintguard]

I had some big ol' hyperfixation this weekend that actually got me to write some stuff (and lose some sleep, because apparently the best time to have ideas is in the middle of the night).

This kinda midnight revelation-style of creativity has happened before, when I ended up writing a whole fan rewrite of the Legend of Korra at 3am on my phone. It's kinda wild and remarkably coherent, but I'll leave that for some other time.

This weekend's hyperfixation that I'm going to focus on came out of two places:

Some worldbuilding I'd done on a stream back in August 2022 using some of the campaign/worldbuilding guidelines from Beam Saber by Austin Ramsey (it's a wonderful game, highly recommend it). I'd created two settings in it, one of which was a manufactured war between megacorporations taglined as "Imagine if the Tour de France/Formula 1 was mech battles". The other, which is actually important for this, takes place in an unnamed region on an unnamed planet with an overall cold climate, currently split between three factions who are all trying to get their hands on some old (and sealed) super-technology. The region has the incredibly unlucky distinction of being the place with heaviest indication of said super-tech, so these three offworld factions rushed in to try finding the tech first, sovereignty and the concerns of the millions of people living there be damned.

I've been trying to get myself back into drawing lately, and I had the idea for a scene that turned into a short (at this point just sketched out) comic. It goes something like this: Pilot: "Again, why are we doing this?" Handler: "To keep us going another day, Mai." Pilot, watching a battle unfold in front of them from their obscured position: "...right."

My brain turned out to be very fond of this idea, to the point where I started thinking of scenes and characters for a whole comic. I ended up with a page of notes on my phone and another page on a doc on my computer. I'm fairly pleased with that, after being so creatively burnt out this year.

Here are some highlights from those notes:

I've come up with eight characters, but only two of them are named: Mai-Lin, aka Mai, a local mech pilot and our protagonist, and Kestrel, a Vraskan mech pilot who might be a lab experiment (the Vraskan State is one of the offworld factions, a military dictatorship ala Starship Troopers).

That comic I was sketching out would actually function at the beginning of the comic, with Mai and her squad third-partying a fight between the Vraskans and the UFL (different faction, a stratified democracy).

The cold climate means lots of cold weather clothing, including greatcoats for the Vraskans and a whole variety for the UFL. Not too decided on what the local fashion is yet.

One of the main throughlines would be Mai and Kestrel continuing to encounter each other, with Mai trying to break Kestrel's programming. They kiss at some point. Is it a good idea? Who knows!

I wrote not one, but two separate flashbacks for Kestrel. I'm really starting to understand the writer thing of "I love this character! I'm going to have absolutely terrible things happen to them."

Outlines of a few other scenes, with the highlight being just before a diplomatic summit. Kestrel's CO, a violent, domineering sort in a violent, domineering society, is accompanying a Vraskan diplomat who's also a military officer. The CO makes a comment about how much of a waste of time this whole summit is, to which the diplomat shows their full displeasure, culminating with “Your rank may be higher, but I outrank you. Are we understood?”

I love all of this, with one caveat - I don't know if I can deliver on my own promise. I can see in my mind's eye what all this stuff should look like, but I'm not sure if I could put pencil to paper and actually make it happen. Still, it's nice to gush about it, especially after all this time of feeling creatively empty.

#worldbuilding #mecha #hyperfixation

[sketchy-scribs-n-doods]

@softladyhours​

Hi! Omg hi lol! Markiplier fandom I have returned to you once more. I’m going back to my roots lol

Okay so, sorry this is a tad late, I've had lots of irl stuff to deal w because of the global panini, but I've had some free time this week to finally get to this! I’m hoping to make up for it with sheer volume of content to give you lmao >:)

You're very lucky I got back into Mark's content like last month lol, otherwise your ask would have oh so tragically stagnated in my ask box. Since you've reminded me of such a lovely little tidbit from this blog's past, I drew up a little something special for ya:

A redraw! Of sorts lol. I like to think my art has improved a bit since, what, 2017? 2018? But anyway, it’s them! I may do a few more sketches of them here and there if more inspiration strikes hehe

And as you asked, some headcanons for you as well:

- Dames does in fact use his cane when he snaps (think of it as instinctual lashing out when he's distressed instead of the peppy absentminded way Wilford will pull out a gun), though I think with all that goes on with the rest of the egos, he's probably learned his way around a knife or two to balance his out his skill set. The cane isn't always stained, but it's not particularly uncommon to see it sticky or crusted with red. Sometimes, when he's having an off day, someone has to advise Dames to go 'polish' it clean before it gets too grungy.

As for the Colonel, well:

- I think he's primarily called Dark, as ours is, but certain egos can get away with calling him the Colonel sometimes (usually Dames, but also egos he'd be more inclined to respect like the Host,  Dr. Iplier, etc.), so it isn't unheard of to hear him referred to in that manner. Plus, it's just very obvious in the way he holds himself that he was once a military man.

- The Colonel only sometimes wears suits. More often, you'll find him in a well fitted button up and slacks held up by suspenders. On rarer occasions, he'll wear a greatcoat or suit jacket over this ensemble.

- Since this Dark is made up of William and Celine instead of Damien and Celine, he lacks the portion of suave charm and wit that Damien brought to the table. Instead, he strikes me as a man that would have a more gruff, stoic charm, kind of like the older uncle everyone in the family just instinctively respects because of his strong bearing and self assuredness he exudes. If he's keen to make a good impression, he has the vibe of good solid drinking buddy you can fuck shit up with, type of guy not easily taken aback. You get the feeling he's tough but fair and has seen enough shit to not tolerate any bullshit from anyone.

- Everyone knows that Dark is a bit soft around Dames (not to say he hasn't caused the poor man emotional distress on occasion, this is Dark we're talking about), but he's also got that rough lumberjack dad vibe around some of the less powerful/overtly hostile egos like Erik. He isn't necessarily nice, he's more the 'fair and wise advice giver' type. Like an emotionally repressed parental figure that isn't particularly good at comfort but is very well versed in helping you get your life back in order. Very tough love and reality check sort of guy when he's trying to be supportive.

- That said, the Colonel is fucking big. This mf is built like a brick shit house on top of being some sort of conglomerate of eldritch horror, so when he's angry he's fucking terrifying. Our Dark is a powerful demon twunk in a suit with manipulative tendencies. This Dark is a demon beef cake that roars like a fucking feral bear when he's angry. When things are bad, they're bad, and the other egos tip toe around him the way a child would around an angry father (and if any notices that after a while the Colonel stops blowing up like that when Erik is around, well, it's not like anyone is complaining, character growth and all that).

- The Colonel can't stand himself sometimes. Just fuckin hates his own company every now and then. I think in general this version of Dark is just much more volatile than the one comprised of Damien and Celine. While siblings can bicker, the tension between what's left of Celine and William has got to be fucking insufferable. I don't know what the fusion equivalent for our Dark would be, but the Colonel definitely seems like he would have problems similar (if distinct) to Malachite from Steven Universe. William and Celine just aren't very good for each other anymore, especially not the forced together remnants of their souls bound by dark magic, and it really shows sometimes. If you thought our Dark seemed horrible, the Colonel is downright intolerable sometimes, even to himself. Learning to deal with it is a long, continuous journey for him, and he's had many, many, many bad slips that he fails to process in a healthy way. It's a long while before the rest of the egos start to be able to trust him (or at least trust that he won't threaten/scare them the next time he blows up).

- Everything has it's ups and downs though, and when things are looking up the Colonel is a surprisingly good listener. The other egos may be periodically afraid of and threatened by him, but Dark just as easily slots into the space of protector and trusted confidante when the need arises. There's something almost maternal in the way he guides the others, yet blunt and no nonsense. It doesn't reduce the healthy dose of fear and respect the others have for him, only further solidifies his capacity as a leader to them. Dark is surprisingly soft in these moments, and everyone he's lent an ear to treasures the experience.

- Dark sometimes indulges in painting his nails. No one ever dares ask him about it. Except Dames, only to say that he likes the black, but thinks that pink is much more Dark's color.

- When he's feeling more stable (and far less neurotic), and if the egos are lucky, the Colonel will sometimes sit and listen to old tunes play on a record player as he whittles away at a piece of wood in the common area. The rest of the egos will gather 'round to read, knit, nap, whatever they like to pass the time with. It's as close to family bonding as they tend to get in the early days. And if the Colonel is lucky, Dames will play along on the dusty old upright piano that sits in the corner. The small wood carving in his rough hands is always a gift for Damien when this happens. Very carefully, no one ever reacts to this, save for Dames and his enthusiastic gratitude.

- Dark has a gun on him at all time that he rarely needs to use. He doesn't much like pulling it out, it tends to scare Dames.

- When Dames gets scared, or upset, or just all around has a very bad day, the Colonel learns to always be aware of it when it happens. Later still, he learns how to help with it beyond stern words and frustrated, fumbling attempts at care. After the early days have long become an embarrassing and unpleasant reminder of their sharp learning curve, if the other egos tend to occasionally find Dames and Dark asleep and tucked into some quiet corner of the manor together, well. The Googles happen to have a very secure cloud to upload the ensuing pictures to.

- Overall the this version of Dark has a different edge to him than our Dark does, meaning that the egos in this au have to deal with an angry emotional abusive bull in the early days rather than regular Dark’s deceitful and psychologically manipulative nastiness and snake-like tendencies. Not to ignore that, but I am a softie at heart, so I like to think that eventually the Colonel (and regular Dark as well) learns to process his trauma in a less destructive manner and treat the other egos, a found family of sorts, much better in the long run. I’m always a sucker for character development lol.

Hope ya’ll find this interesting! God knows I haven’t thought about this au in ages lmao, so anyone feel free to hmu about it, I love diving back into old interests when the mood strikes. ^-^

#markiplier #darkiplier #damien the mayor #who killed markiplier #wkm #wilford warfstache #markiplier art #william j barnum #the colonel wkm #damien wkm #digital illustration #digital art #character design #markiart #fanart #fan art #wkm au #who killed markiplier au #i worked hard on this ngl #both the art and the headcanons tbh #pls dont let it flop ;w; #had fun w this i missed these poor lads #cotton candy damien #dark colonel #my art

[lapinlunaire-games]

Can i ask about the fashion available in the story? and what styles do the ROs prefer?

You sure can! (and I'm very glad you did, I loveee talking fashion hehe, hence the cut for the sake of not flooding a feed :P) This is still a 2-part post because of the 10-image limit, so hang in there! Part 2 here!

In general, the game is pretty faithful to real-life 1860s and 70s fashion, so there will be a lot of using silhouettes that create purposeful, inorganic shapes (regardless of gender). There's also a lot of trendy military-jacket-esque looks, for both casual/riding fashion and more formal events.

I am, however, a real sucker for late Victorian fashion, so expect some higher necklines, more triangle-y ruffles and things like that (not bustles tho). Since a lot of the game focuses on high society, there will be plenty of luxurious fabrics floating around, with lots of embroidery and decorative elements (not to mention the Fantastic world, which likes to incorporate enchantments into fabric to either hide or augment the wearer's own magic). In general, think of the kind of clothes from Little Women and Penny Dreadful.

In dresses, you'll see hoop skirts that add more volume to the back to create a conical/pyramid kind shape like these:

And suits are more loosely cut, for a wide, easy feel, like above. At the time, fashion was really coming to a new era, with the rise of fashion houses like the House of Worth and new methods and materials making huge advancements in society. As for the cast, here we go:

A grew up with money and a keen eye for fashion. They like form-flattering outfits in rich/jewel tones, but nothing too showy. Their wardrobe is very fashion-forward, but is beginning to lag behind the trends just a teeny bit since they abandoned the Gordon family vault. Something like this:

Ailbhe is usually found in their white council robes, which consist of long/knee-length high-collared tunics with a wide sash looping over one shoulder and pinned into place, sometimes cinched with a belt (I do have sketches for these, but *teacher voice* I'm not an artist). They don't really like Mundane clothes and prefer flowy clothing that doesn't reveal much skin. The style is similar to LOTR elf clothing, though less extravagant. They really like delicate, plant-themed jewelry and decorations. (Sorry I know the LOTR pic here is super blurry, but it's the only pic i could find of Celeborn's silver robes)

Catherine is showy, and wants you to know it. Picture lots of silks, velvets, and New and Intriguing dyes, with beadwork, embroidery, the works! And don't forget the pearls dripping from wrist, neck, ears...Catherine is impossible to miss at parties, partially because of the Sparkles and partially because of the crowd. Also a big fan of body jewelry/chains!

Imric isn't too fussed about keeping up with trends, particularly at the expense of things like eating well and having enough loose cash to, shall we say, ease the way out of a sticky situation. His uniform is a smart, navy blue confection of wool and cotton, and he quite likes the greatcoat that goes over it. In civilian clothes, his wardrobe is pretty standard, without many flourishes -- Imric likes to think that his smile is a standout accessory. He likes the floppier neckties of the early 1800s, which do set him apart in a crowd if you know what to look for. (Apologizing in advance bc I could not find more images that weren't of white people. 😔)

Mina, Rosalind, and Sam are in Part 2!

#h&h #anon I am so sorry you have opened the flood gates #also if you so wish you can choose to wear a corset (regardless of gender) #get that trim figure 👌 #and just to clarify: fashion in the game is not gender-locked #you can choose to wear whatever you want (there will be at least one scene where your choice of clothing will affect the plot) #depending on how I code things lmao #ask #h&h ask #I think i'll make a separate post about Fantastic fashion #bc i do want to talk about that too heehee

[arsnovacadenza]

Leonardo x Comte Fic- Some Like it That Way

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire

Characters: Leonardo da Vinci and Comte de Saint-Germain. Mentions of Sebastian and Yukari (MC)

Pairings: Leonardo x Comte

Rating: T to M (foot fetish involved)

Word count: 1144

With a plate of macarons in one hand and a pot of coffee in the other, Comte de Saint-Germain carefully backed against the door of Leonardo's room.

 Upon entering, he was greeted by the sight of haphazardly arranged trinkets and an avalanche of books spilling all over the floor. On the wall was the expensive world map that Comte had painstakingly procured.

 The owner of the room himself was at the coffee table, seated on a pile of floor cushions sewn by Sebastian. Leonardo first learned about the pillows from Dazai and then asked the butler to make some for him too.

Without announcing himself, Comte went over to Leonardo. He placed the plate on the (frankly, useless) sofa and set the coffee pot on the table, after carefully making sure that he wouldn't be accidentally pressing down on one of Leonardo's papers.

"Hard at work, I see," Comte commented at the sight of Leonardo pouring over his sketches.

"Hmmm," was the reply.

"Well, now's the perfect time to catch a break." The count proposed. "Oh, silly me! I forgot to bring our cups. Let me see if Sebastian is around so he can retrieve some for us."

But Leonardo held Comte back by the tails of his greatcoat.

"Yes?" the count looked back at his compagno. Truthfully, Leonardo asking him to stay was rare, and thus adorable. Comte would never say it out loud to the other man, though. 

That was until he felt like teasing Leonardo.

But the Renaissance Man wasn't looking back at him. He seemed to be deep in thought, golden eyes downcast and eyebrows knitted together. What now? Comte smiled knowingly. His partner was indeed, just as enigmatic as the records made him out to be. 

Finally, after a moment of brief silence, Leonardo met Comte's eyes and pulled on the coat once more. "Come here. I'd like to try something."

The blond man dutifully made his way back to Leonardo's side, waiting for his next move. "But of course. How can I be of service to you?"

Never breaking his gaze from Leonardo, Comte noticed a licentious glint within his eyes. He knew what effect those words would have on Leonardo. He'd always known how to work Leonardo up until the other man could no longer take it and take him down.

But Leonardo retained his composure. He stopped gripping his old friend's coat and started addressing him.

"I've been thinking of trying out something, you know." He murmured. "Just something I overheard from Yukari and Sebastian the other day."

"Go on."

Comte waited for the larger man to finish his words.  But instead, Leonardo just stared at Comte with a hard gaze, clearly struggling to hold back the blush that was blossoming under his cheeks.

"Can you step on me?"

Comte couldn't believe what he just heard. Of all the things he'd experienced in his long life and all that he'd done with Leonardo— 

Well, this was new.

 "I heard Sebastian commenting something about you having an intimidating aura." Leonardo continued to mumble. "Said something the lines of 'The count is somebody you don't mind being stepped on by—'"

"What, like on your foot?" Comte  interrupted. As much as Sebastian's interest in him amused the count, he was much more invested in seeing where this situation was heading. "I do that all the time when I teach you how to dance."

"No," Leonardo responded. "I mean, on me. On my body, I mean." 

With Leonardo's choice words, the tables turned. Now it was Comte who was swallowing hard. 

To further demonstrate his point, Leonardo reclined on the floor, toying with the placket of his shirt and looking up at Comte expectantly. "I'd like you to do it here." His hand moved to the center of his torso, which was now uncovered. "Right here, if you please."

Leonardo hardly ever let his shirt unbuttoned that low.

Comte hadn't raised his foot just yet, instead choosing to play along for a bit. "Should I step on you with my shoe on?"

He could easily imagine Leonardo's breath hitching in his throat.

"Well," came the reply, soft and almost hushed if it wasn't for Comte's vampiric abilities. "For now, let's keep it off."

With no further questions, Comte bent down to undo his footwear. He made the action slow and deliberate, relishing in Leonardo's muted groans.

After what seemed like an eternity (to the inventor, at least), Comte loomed over the supine man, his left foot suspended above right where Leonardo had specified.

"You sure about this?" He teased, taking delight in prolonging the deed.

"I am sure. Just do it now."

"That's not how you ask, Leonardo." Comte tutted calmly. "What do you say when you want me to do something?"

The man below him groaned.

"Please," he sighed. "Please, step on me."

Comte's smile only grew wider in satisfaction. With almost reluctant slowness, he placed his foot down until every inch of his sole came in contact with Leonardo's skin.

Underneath him, Leonardo shuddered, simultaneously sending shivers down Comte's spine. Both men were aware of how cold Leonardo's chest was in stark comparison to Comte's heated pads.

Testing the waters a bit more, Comte wriggled his toes, eliciting a gasp from Leonardo. "Should I apply some pressure?"

The man underneath sent him a defiant stare. "Do it however you like," He drawled. "You know I won't break."

Rolling his eyes, Comte dug his heel and stole the breath out of Leonardo. "Come now," he muttered. "Save that overused dirty talk for later."

Leonardo answered by laying a hand on his bridge and lightly massaging it. His other hand, meanwhile, circled his ankle.

There was reverence in his ministrations and the way his golden orbs regarded him, Comte thought. There was little he could do to return the gesture aside from giving him a fond, approving look.

"How strange," Comte broke the silence. "It was you who asked me to fulfill this strange request. But it feels like I'm the one being rewarded here."

"I have more to show you," Leonardo purred. "If you allow me."

After a gentle nudging, Comte finally freed his foot from the reluctant Leonardo's hold. Without much effort, he helped pull the larger man back on his feet. Immediately, his hands settled firmly on Leonardo's sides.

"I suppose I could spare some time." He whispered. "I haven't paid you any attention in a very long while."

"Heh. What are you talking about?" Leonardo chuckled, engulfing his longtime companion in a familiar embrace. "It was me who had been neglecting you with this work. Think of it as my apology." 

And an invitation to do something more, Comte extracted the unspoken words.

Without resistance, he gently fell back against messy sheets. 

"Wait, even if you intended to take a break, what about the coffee?" the smaller man hissed, albeit with minimal force. "It'll get cold."

"Oh, mio patriarca." Leonardo hushed. "Why worry about the coffee? You'll still drink it anyway after we're done."

"You'll be needing the energy. Trust me."

True to his words, their entire ordeal spent Comte's energy and time, continuing well into the quiet evening.

#ikevam fanfic #ikemen vampire #ikevamp leonardo da vinci #ikevamp comte #leocomte #riri tries ikevam

[aes-iii]

a long winter's night | james/francis/sophia | 4600

Fitzjames looks less like a portrait than she remembers.

Halfway down the stairs she must stop, she finds, to take him in. In the dark of her hall, in the glow of her lamps, in profile: full brass, stiff collar and cuffs. Whenever she thinks of him it is as something from the last century, a sketch of the young Keppel, a halfdrawn figure behind Howe or Duncan: white breeches and silk stockings, honourably receiving a blade from some kneeling admiral.

Here instead he is, dripping on her hall rug, and he looks like a man: just a man, in a salt-stained coat, with a lined face and something to his stance that suggests old injury. Terribly handsome, yes. Terribly tired. Holds his hat under his arm, though John has taken his greatcoat: his eyes on his own braid in the hall glass. As she watches he lifts a hand to his hair and pushes it from his face: turns the curl in his fingers.

At the rustle of her skirts he turns his head. Looks, she thinks, unhappy.

“Mrs Crozier,” he says, inclining his head. All that stiff exhausted grace, not at all like Francis's, somehow. “I had sought your husband.” It sounds like an admission: a disappointment.

She is still halfway down the stairs.

“Forgive me,” Fitzjames says. “How uncivil I am: I have only just come up from Portsmouth. You look very well.” This as if it weighs on him, and his eyes trace the line of her skirts. The spell snaps: she takes a step down, and another.

“You must be exhausted, Captain,” she says, as she reaches him. “Please, come into the parlour—have a glass of something—“

He straightens into formality. “I really must—“

“Francis will be in shortly,” she says. “Won’t you wait? Gin, isn’t it?”

He swallows it like a hook and follows.

-

She had wondered if it was Fitzjames.

Francis had declined to tell her, of course, and she had not pressed: such secrets cost. It was not his to say. But she had felt it between them almost from the first.

On their wedding night, on their marriage bed, when they were both of them wrung like cloth and dripping sweat and sated, she had asked him who he had loved, and he had told her. Yes, there had been women—of course there had. Yes, men too. He had not blushed to tell her so and she loves him more for it.

And now?, she’d said.

You, he’d answered, and she’d kissed him long and hard and slipped his hand into her shift to cup her breast. Felt him exhale against her mouth.

And, she’d said. Others?

Yes. No. Not anymore.

Who.

And he’d turned his head: just half a turn. Not even a refusal: just an absence of an answer.

Ah, she’d thought.

There are certain expectations a person has, as a sailor’s wife, whether married to a stoker or an admiral. This one, at least, suits her. She has not been chaste and would not ask it of him: in this she thinks they understand one another.

(Once, brooding, he asks: “Did you ever have Ross,” something unexpectedly tight in his voice: when she tells him no he looks like a weight has been lifted from him, and ashamed by it, too. Perhaps it ought to tweak her, but somehow it doesn’t.

"And you?" she asks, and he laughs—blusters—no, absurd—but she does not think she was wrong to ask.

She dreams that night of being between them: wakes damp and too hot—presses her hand against herself through her nightgown. Takes her pleasure in the dark with Francis asleep beside her, snoring slightly, and curls against him when she's done.)

—

In her blue parlour Fitzjames stands like a figure of himself before the fire, his wrist on the mantel, his glass in his hand. (He’ll take brandy in company, Francis had told her, when first they'd asked Fitzjames to dinner: gin if alone. What a thing to know of a man, Sophia had thought.)

“Are you in Brighton,” she asks, when the quiet has filled the room entirely. She has a sense of it as a great velvet cushion pressing down on them, exhausting every space, restraining hands and tongues. Regards him: his still-brown hair, its glossy curl flattened by the rain. His coat well cut, his back still straight. A shockingly beautiful man: how lucky Francis is, she thinks.

“I am,” he says, and can’t seem to continue. Francis had always told her he was a talker but here words seem beyond him: some unknown country. She wonders, suddenly, if something terrible has happened.

“And how was—Madras?”

No response: only the swirl of his glass in his hand and the fire reflected in it.

“Hot,” he says eventually.

Oh but this is tedious.

“Captain Fitzjames,” she says, “is something troubling you?”

He looks at her for a moment and then a smile, bright with gold, illuminates his face: she can feel the vast lantern of his charm lit in her direction: “My god,” he says, “I am dull, aren’t I? Come, let me tell you of the East Indies Station,” sitting elegantly beside her on the chaise, and it is all of it false: she knows this: and irresistible anyway.

=

(How did you come to choose me, she asks, idly, with her hand on Francis's chest.

I love you, says Francis. Turns his head against her shoulder: turns his clear blue eyes to hers.

You love him, too, Sophia says.

Ah, says Francis. A pause: his hand in her loose hair, following a curl. I gave you my word first, he says, eventually.

And I refused it, Sophia doesn't say.

Does he hate you for it, she asks instead: sometimes she curses her own bluntness, and sometimes relishes it.

I don't know, Francis says. I don't know.)

=

“Captain Crozier, ma'am,” Hannah says, around the door.

And Francis comes in half distracted, his coat already off—talking, as always, about dockyard politics—masters' buttons, inferior gilding—and stops, three steps into the room. Sways, as if he's hit some submerged invisible thing.

“James,” he says. Such a series of thoughts across his face: she cannot track all of them, but some, at least, are familiar. Affection. Hurt. Hope.

“Francis,” says Fitzjames, putting down his glass on the sidetable. He rises, correcting his waistcoat—straightens himself to his full graceful height—

Something is going to happen, she thinks.

They move towards one another like failing clockwork: the inevitability of the action set against the diminishing energy necessary to complete it. Like ships, she thinks, trying to read obscure signals. Waiting for the sound of guns.

“I hadn't meant to come," James says, low, something regretful in his voice.

“You know you are always welcome," says Francis, and she would call the tone dismissal if she didn't know it for hurt.

A foot from one another now, and Fitzjames's hand comes up. Hangs in the empty space between him. Opens, closes. His glance, beyond all reason, comes to her.

She looks at him without rising. “Shall I go,” she says. Means it, entirely. (Idly: wonders if they will lie together, soon—if such things are—repairable. Just the picture of it. A little flare of heat somewhere deep in her.)

“Perhaps—a moment—” Fitzjames says.

“Stay,” says Francis.

James looks at him.

"She knows all, James," Francis says, with that slight tip to his chin that says defiance.

Betrayal in a flash across Fitzjames's face. He nods, once, tightly. For a moment Sophia thinks he will fly.

"I wasn't told," Sophia says. "I came to it myself." She swallows. "I don't mind," she says, and finds it true. Fitzjames makes a choked sound that might be a laugh.

On the mantel the carriage clock ticking. The flicker of the firelight on the panelled walls.

She rises from her place on the chaise.

"I think perhaps I ought to go," she says, gently, to Francis.

The look he gives her: loss, confusion. She takes his hand: holds it a moment. "Send for me when you've finished," she says. "I would like to know how things fall."

As she passes Fitzjames she extends a hand to him, too—he takes it without question, although he looks uncertain.

"Be kind," she says, and then she goes from the room.

—

("What do you think he meant by it?" she asks, leaning at the carriage window, as the column passes view. The little figure almost invisible above, lost in the low London rain. Francis says nothing: a grey mood on him, today, and no interest. "'Kiss me, Hardy'?"

That, at least, lifts his eyes to hers. Amusement or bitterness around his mouth. "Kismet," he says, something wry in it. "Sir John will have told you, I'm sure, that it was 'Kismet'."

"Oh?" She says. "Do you think so?" She settles back in her seat.

He looks blankly at her. Then the edge of a smile: he has realized they are playing.

"He meant nothing at all, save to ask a little comfort," he says. "The man was dying. A friend was near. A solace."

"And you'd have asked Thomas Blanky to kiss you, would you?"

He laughs at that.

"No, but I shall tell him that you asked."

"I wonder, though," she says, eyes on the window.

"Aye," says Francis. "You and the fleet."

"And Lady Hamilton such an interesting woman," Sophia says, idly. "With such interesting friends."

Silence, now, from Francis.

"Do you think the three of them..." She lets it slide, fade.

"Well," she says, arranging her skirts. Letting her eyes catch Francis's, now. "I shall have to think on it further.")

—

There is no shouting, though she had thought perhaps there might be. She isn't certain whether it bodes well or ill.

She sits at a card table and puts a button on a cuff. Across the hall she can hear their paced footsteps, their strained voices—once, an oath, Fitzjames she thinks, saying oh god in such desperation—

To think, that her Francis can be as cruel as she.

—

When the door across the hall comes off its latch and Francis steps quietly out it must be eight o'clock: a still and soundless winter night. Her sewing in her lap. She has got good at them, these naval blues and golds. John helps her, sometimes, with the detail work: his steward's fingers faster than hers will ever be.

"Sophy," Francis says, from a distance away. She looks up at him: he doesn't look as though his heart has broken. (That is a look she knows, on him.)

"How shall we go on," he says, not despairing, merely—inquiring.

"Quite easily, I should think," she says. "Will Captain Fitzjames stay the night?"

Francis swallows.

"Come back into the parlour," he says. "Please."

Fitzjames is sitting in an armchair drawn up close to the fire, his long legs crossed and his hair dishevelled. He has lost his coat somewhere, and his waistcoat is open at the top: his collar disarranged. Head in hand, lost in thought.

When he notices her he makes to stand and she waves: "Never rise," she says, and then because she is herself cannot resist: "Surely we are close enough now, with only one man between us." Watches a high flush appealingly spread across his cheekbones.

After a moment he settles back in the chair. Looks back into the fire.

There is a second chair already pulled up too close to the first, at an awkward angle—a kissing angle, she thinks, and nearly smiles. Something so sweet in both of them: innocent, in a way, for all the hells they have walked through.

Francis is hauling the chaise across, too, into the circle of the firelight. None of the lamps lit in here: she supposes they haven't given Hannah the chance.

She takes a seat in the awkward chair and pushes it back so that she can see both of them.

"Well, gentlemen," she says, aware somehow that she is presiding. "What have you decided?"

"Nothing," says Fitzjames, ambivalently, without looking from the fire. "Francis." He swallows. "Francis is under the impression that you would tolerate—" he leaves off. Doesn't seem to know what he means to say. "I wouldn't force you from him," then, staidly. "Nor him from you. Not to—" Silence again. For a talker, Sophia thinks again, he is strangely ineloquent. She has an impulse to comfort him.

"I would almost certainly tolerate," Sophia says. "I am generally a tolerant woman."

"As I said," Francis says, from his seat on the chaise. Sophia glances at him. His waistcoat is a bit too tight: it suits him, somehow.

"I might," Sophia says, "even take pleasure."

"Sophia," Francis says, sounding pleased—interested. She loves him very much: loves speaking to him, playing games like this. Always has, long before she had any intention of marrying him: which has nearly killed them both.

Fitzjames is watching them look at each other. Breathes out, half a sigh.

Enough, she thinks, enough.

"I think," she says, in the leading tone of a schoolmistress, "that we might make some sort of—arrangement."

She looks at Fitzjames: smiles a little. Is aware of him adjusting, minutely, under her gaze: shoulders back, jaw tilted just so. Vain, she thinks: a satisfying trait in bed. To be picked apart with the teeth.

"Yes," he says. His eyes trace some invisible line strung between the two of them. "It needn't be anything—sordid," he says, stiffly. "Only this is—unendurable." This last to Francis. What, she wonders.

Francis, to his credit, laughs.

"Well, what is sordid, James," he says. And then, softer: "You have never been sordid in your life."

"The question now, Captain Fitzjames," Sophia says, before they can wander into stiff endearments, "is the precise shape of it. Tell me, have you any interest at all in me, or will only Francis do?" Francis, scoffing quietly: and out of reach of her hand.

Fitzjames is staring at her, his head tilted a little. Flicks his glance to Francis. Something she cannot see passes between them, and Fitzjames's face softens minutely.

"I think," says Fitzjames, "you had better call me James."

"James, then," she says. "James, will you come to bed with me?"

An intake of breath from Francis: she wants to look at him, just to see his face, but it cannot be. She holds Fitzjames's gaze instead.

"Yes," he says, after a moment. And then, swallowing, at last with something of the charm she recalls: "Yes, I would like that."

"Good," says Sophia. "Francis, I hardly need ask—"

"Yes," says Francis, unequivocally.

"Shall we all go upstairs, then," Sophia says.

They look at her, then, both of them together. As though somehow it is her decision, for all the rank in the room. A giddiness to it: she is torn between telling them they are both fools and taking it in stride. Jane, she thinks, would not hesitate.

"Well," Sophia says. "Someone had best tell Mary and Hannah to take the evening. John, I think, can probably stay."

—

It is not a smooth ascent nor elegant. They stop, stumble, fall back: Francis holds the door for her and then for James and she goes on ahead but James waits for him to latch it, so that she is left standing on the bottom step looking at them together, their awkward edges nearly touching. She waits for them to come up and they do, keeping pace; she thinks again of ships—won't voice the thought, would surely make some error, but it makes her smile, anyway. Herself the faltering would-be prize: waiting only for the range to haul her fighting colours up.

Francis kisses her, in passing, his hand at her elbow, his thumb rubbing at the fabric of her sleeve: then goes on, a few steps up. Fitzjames watching, silent, from below. Something open in his face, now, and searching. He sways closer: she leans: a glancing kiss, on the side of the mouth. Tentative: more kind than passionate.

Above, on the stairs, she hears Francis curse, choked somewhere in his throat. Against her mouth James smiles, and she feels something arc between them: the spark of tying Francis's tongue. She kisses James again: deeper, this time. Makes a little sound in it, a little kitten-mew.

James brings a hand to her waist as she pulls away. She places hers on his shoulder: then turns it, the backs of her fingers against the edge of his jaw. His head turns easily when she presses, his mouth opening: interesting, she thinks. His eyes glassy in the dim light. He is one perhaps who would like to be taken in hand: perhaps he does not know it yet.

She has lost track of Francis, she realizes, though of course this is all for his benefit. When she glances up she finds he has come down to stand a bare step above them, back up against the bannister, hands resting on it at either side. His breathing shallow.

"Again," he says, in a tone something like need.

James steps up to her, now, and oh, he's tall: solid, even in his shirt sleeves: his heavy hand still at her waist. A new role, she thinks, and melts into it, against the wall. James kisses her steadily, this time, and firmly: like something from a novel. Pleasant, she thinks, to be had so. A while now, since she had any man like this, all brisk and bold, affectation though it may be. Her eyes when they open drift to Francis, the high colour in his cheeks, their poses mirrored. James fitting so neatly into the space between them.

She puts her hands to his breast: runs her fingertips down the underside of his lapels. Pushes a little, with her knuckles.

"You," she says. Swallows. "The two of you."

James's breath hitches, just barely.

It is an odd place to see it first, in the middle of her own front stairs, with the lamps shining low off everything. The way James leans up, halting: the breath Francis draws before his eyes shut. Then the angle of it, familiar: the easy way they fit together, as lovers do.

—

In her chamber, at the foot of her bed, certain things become clear.

First, this: however they have been together, they have not managed to undress: not fully, not with the lamps lit. She has the pleasure then of watching, the awkward beauty of it, the anxieties of revelation. Fingers on buttons, quick then slowing; shirts pulled hesitantly over heads: James with his bitter scars and his lean shoulders, tilting his head just so into shadow—Francis holding his breath until James kisses him fiercely and he forgets.

On the end of her bed stripped to her shift she watches: her leg folded against her chest, her arm round her knee. Her hand against herself, unforgiving. She could love them both, she thinks, the way she loves Francis: easily. Indeed.

It is James who turns to her first: who breaks the kiss and crawls onto the bed at her side. His trousers still on, but open: the half-hard line of his prick visible. Her fingers twitch.

"Sophia," he says, "May I—", and she nearly laughs at him, his misplaced decorum, but she says "Yes" instead, without hearing the end of the question.

His hands come up to her face and she waits, curious: presses her mouth to the heel of his hand, just barely: and then he reaches to pull the pins from her hair.

"Shall I help," she says, after a minute of this, the gentle twist of his fingers through her careful curls: not one snag, not one tangle: a practiced hand. Who has he has done this for before, she wonders.

"No," he says, and when the weight of her hair falls against her neck she dips her head. His hand, sliding down her neck to the space between her breasts. Lower, to cup one: his thumb brushing across the peak of it.

She is aware, vaguely, of Francis settling behind her on the bed: his hand on the round curve of her hip.

"It has been some time," James says, quite plainly, with the weight of her breast in his hand, "since I have been close to a woman."

"Christ," Francis says, under his breath.

"How shall we—" says James.

—

How shall we: an excellent question. Slowly. In the warm halflight, with little inquisitive touches: with Francis showing them the way of it. Placing James's hand at the back of her thigh, just below the crease. Placing hers on James's shoulders, to work the tightness there and make his head tip back, mouth open. Francis's hand on James's prick, gentler than he likes it himself. They find their own ways, too: James lapping the hollow of her throat with his tongue; her fingers in his mouth; his fingers inside her.

("Are you," he asks, at one point—swallows—looks awkward—looks to Francis—wondering, of course, whether there will be a child.

"Not yet," she says. Struck by the sudden ache of knowing she will not have him inside her she wants it desperately: tugs his hand into her lap.)

He is better with his tongue than Francis, perhaps unsurprisingly.

Her legs spread, his fingers tanned and rough against the plush of her thigh: his tongue at the crease of her leg and then against her, in stutters like a code, shallow then deep, off-rhythm—off-perfect, in that way that keeps her twisting for more—and Francis lying on his side, watching, his thumb at the bone of her ankle, saying "oh."

And when she has had enough of him she pushes at his shoulder and he goes, easily, sliding back from her and off the bed and upright: she rolls her head to look at him and is surprised for an instant that he is still just a man, slighter than she would have thought, and softer at the hips, with his hair tucked back behind his ear. She glances at Francis, thinking to watch him watch James—a new and exquisite pleasure—but he is watching her instead. Only when she slides her eyes back to James—pouring himself a glass of water, now, from the carafe on her dressing table, his back straight and scarred—does Francis turn his head that way.

"James," he says, voice rough, and James turns—

—

The two of them, intensely gentle with each other. Francis's light touch at the wound in James's side: questioning, she thinks. The ragged sound Francis makes deep in his throat when James kisses him: when James slides a hand up his thigh and cups him, less than gently.

Francis for all his defences and deflections open, now, at James's touch.

James between his thighs sliding into him so devastatingly slowly. Francis with his lip between his teeth and that expression which she can only read as acute pain, though when James lowers himself to ask with mouth against throat "all right?", all raw, Francis responds with a wordless sound which can only be pleasure, pleasure above and beyond all things.

Their hands, caught together on the bed, fingers twisting.

The drip of sweat on the end of James's nose.

—

And Francis, finally, sliding home into her, on his back between her legs. The burn in her spread thighs as she lifts and lowers herself, undone when he pulls her down flush chest to chest to fuck up into her, hard and fast as she adores.

For all that she loves performance this is not one: has never been one, between them. They simply find the smoothest routes to pleasure, like water coursing downhill. Francis, rolling her under him without pulling out: hitching her hips up off the bed: the heat of his skin against hers. The tension in his shoulders and his arms as he supports himself: the concentration on his face. His eyes, shut. The kiss he presses to her brow. The weight of him, when he presses her down. Release like a spiral, descending.

And James, sitting up against the headboard, prick soft and spent against his thigh. Just watching. His dark eyes catch hers for an instant, and he smiles.

—

After, with the lamps out. With her hand in Francis's. He has pulled a shirt on as he always does: less invulnerable, in the afterglow. James curved around them, a loose bracket, asleep. His even breath and his warm hand over her waist, resting in the space between her and Francis.

"I like him," she says, to Francis. He swallows: his eyes already shut.

"Good," he says, drifting. "Good."

"Will he stay," she asks, hoping, but Francis is asleep.

—

And in the morning the light through the curtains and onto the bed, and Francis still warm beside her, despite the sense of someone moving through the room.

"A mistake," James is saying. She comes awake quicker, then.

Francis, beside her, quiet and tense. Sitting up now to watch this display. "James," he says, after a moment. "Must we, again—"

"Christ, again," James says, half to himself, stuffing his shirt into his trousers and buttoning at speed. "I can't—I won't—" he is looking for his tie, now, staccato—and Sophia looks at Francis, to see what he is thinking, but he does not look at her. What is written on his face is something like resignation.

"I have no interest," James is saying, to whom unclear, but so bitterly, "in being a paramour—in trespassing—"

"James," Francis says, and then nothing.

"Please," says Sophia, and James starts. Perhaps hasn't realized she is awake. "Let us be clear about what we are asking of one another." She slips from the bed almost despite herself: meets him standing, on her own two feet. Bare in front of him: a weapon in its own right.

"Stay here," she says. "With us. As long as you like. Live here, James. Tell people you live here."

"Yes," says Francis, without pause.

James standing there with his crumpled tie in his hand looking—mortared.

"Have your things sent up," Sophia says. "Today, if you will."

Francis on his feet, now, too. His hand touching her shoulderblade, just—light. Through the windows the light pooling on the floor: motes of dust caught in it, turning. Winter light, but turning.

"Please do," Sophia says. "Stay."

(She had asked Francis, in those first weeks after the wedding: And will Captain Fitzjames be living with us? Such things are done, though she was not innocent even then of how this case might differ. Francis's mouth unmoving: his eyes aside: No, he'd said, I think not.)

James looking at both of them. Half-dressed, his hair flat, his collar half down.  Those little lines around his mouth: discomfort, distrust. So much of him, she thinks, invested in being respectable. So much faith in the sanctity of whatever he is not.

"You were the one," she says, "who said it needn't be sordid. So stay."

He brings a hand to his brow: pushes that lock of hair back from it.

"All right," he says, and it sounds like defeat: but longing, also.

"Good," Sophia says. "I'll let Mary know about breakfast."

(As she goes to dress she glances back: sees Francis extend his hand and draw James into his arms. Sees them tip together. Like sculpture, she thinks, the way they fit. Implausibly balanced. As if cut from one single piece of stone.)

>>a probably unnecessary note: despite it generally being pinned on the victorians, the earliest mentions i can find of the "kismet" argument are from the 1920s. on the other hand these are all refutations, so presumably the idea was floating around before that? Great Battles of the British Navy (1872) omits the line entirely and gives Nelson and Hardy a nice manly deathbed handshake instead, so presumably the concern about how “kiss me” might be understood existed by then. also this show/book shamelessly used "go for broke" in the 1840s so i, too, refuse to be ashamed.

#12daysofcarnivale #i was going to save this for the Last Day but what the hell: #happy new year's eve friends #nervous about tagging this #in this new puritanical dawn #but like: you probably shouldn't read it at a family gathering.

[solohux]

That soulmate au where the outline of your shadow is your soulmate...

Armitage doesn't have a real shadow for the first five years of his life, only a faint one that's his own and he's so upset that he doesn't have a soulmate because loads of his classmates at the Academy's preschool have them.

It's a few years later that he gets one when he's almost 6 years old and he's ecstatic. He watches his shadow grow from a small baby into a boy and into a teenager, gradually surpassing him in height.

Armitage keeps a notebook in his cadet's quarters, under his mattress, that has the outlines of his shadow's shape, drawn in an old pencil he found in one of his classrooms.

His soulmate is tall and looks masculine, has shoulders that have become broader with age and hair that has grown longer on either side of his head. Even as he surpasses his teenage years, Hux keeps the notebook with him, always sketching any changes to his soulmate's shadow; sometimes it looks like he's wearing robes, sometimes he looks in fancy gala clothing, and sometimes he looks like he's wearing a pilot's flight suit.

But when Hux gets promoted from Lieutenant to General, his shadow changes. His robes grow longer and his hands look as though they're gloved, but his long hair is now hidden by a ghastly-looking helmet that makes him look inhuman.

Hux is devastated. What does this mean? Why has his soulmate gone from an intriguing and exciting boy to a man in a helmet? He decides to put all of it behind him (ha) and forget about his soulmate to focus on his Starkiller project.

He meets Kylo Ren soon after and everyone on the Finalizer talks about how Ren's long cape pools on the floor behind him, obscuring his shadow to all. Is it because his shadow is his own? Or does the mighty Master Ren wish to keep the identity of his soulmate a secret? Hux wonders if it's Snoke.

All is well until Hux interrupts Kylo's meditation one evening that things are turned upside down forever. Hux enters Kylo's chambers unannounced to find the Knight standing in front of the viewport, his back to Hux and wearing nothing but a soft pair of sleeping pants.

The light from the stars casts Kylo's shadow onto the ground, and Hux would recognise his own proud stance anywhere. Tall, with his feet shoulder-width apart and his greatcoat improving his form, Hux almost falls to his knees when he realises the truth.

He is Kylo's shadow. He is Kylo's soulmate. The helmeted man that dominates Hux's shadow is Kylo Ren.

Hux goes ballistic, snapping Kylo out of his meditative state. All this time, Kylo has known that Hux is his soulmate and said nothing. Kylo denies it all, even now refusing to look at the ground.

Kylo says he can't. Snoke has forbidden him from looking. He hasn't set his gaze upon his shadow since he fell to the dark side, that's why he wears the long cape.

Hux begs him to look. Kylo does. And throws himself into Hux's arms.

#kylux #soulmate au #im a sucker for soulmate aus 😂😂😂😂😂

[its-elvish-for-two]

Knight's Shadow, Chapter 36 - The Monastery

#greatcoats #the greatcoats series #greatcoats don't kneel #kest #falcio #falcio val mond #kest murrowson #saint kest #saint of swords #sebastien de castell #sketch #fanart #my art

[hellenhighwater]

.....I did three more pages of Cryptid Dog-Faced Javert. I can’t help myself, he’s just so quick and easy to draw! Starting from the top, (looking at the three full page sketches) we’ve got:

Javert, looming over his police colleagues, who ignore anything odd about him. When asked to point him out in a crowd, they’ll tell you to look for the exceptionally tall man.

A nice warm cup of tea at the end of the day

A young Javert

tailcoat & ponytail

Javert, looking at the stars

A nap in front of a warm fireplace

Relaxing without his greatcoat but with his lead-shod cane

With his hair down (it’s long!)

@squadron-of-damned suggested that this might be Anubis!Javert. and they were right

Valjean prevents a suicide by tackling Javert like a linebacker. It’s effective.

Adjusting his stock collar before tying his cravat in the morning.

“Would you like to borrow my hat?”

This is not his hat. This hat is too big.

Javert is On A Horse and therefore In Charge

Tagging the rest of the Cryptid Javert squad:  @lawisnotmocked  @mycravatundone @pilferingapples . If any of you want to not be tagged, let me know, and if anyone else wants to be tagged if I draw more, just let me know.

I think I’ve exhausted my current list of ideas for this guy, so let me know if you guys have something you think Cryptid Javert should do, and I’ll see if I can make it happen.

#les mis K9 unit #javert #les mis #les miserables #jvj #jean valjean #inspector javert #cryptid Javert #dog son of a wolf #helldraws

[ayellowbirds]

dead names character sketches

drawing them hasn’t worked out just yet, but i can ‘sketch’ with words, too.

vromudis v. velfikhe

the body before you shows early signs of postmortem decay, though she is quite animate and the process has been arrested and in some respects reversed. She still retains the greasy sheen and loose skin of preliminary autolysis, as well as the unhealed mortal injuries and post-death tissue damage. Most notable is the exposure and fracturing of the lower jaw, the fatal injury having been sustained in the form of blunt trauma in the area of the jaw and throat. 

her jaw has been set with wire, suture, and nails. Undeath affords an ignorance of pain in compensation for a cessation of both life and decay. She conceals it behind the raised collar of her greatcoat, the season affording the excuse that she needs to ward off winter’s chill. Her posture reinforces this, her frame harder to distinguish as she curls inward on herself, disappearing into the too-large coat of faded mossy hue.

this makes her hair stand out all the more, the shock of red—the kind that looks more brown or more blond depending on the light—swept forward in the manner of a crown or a flame. Her eyes have the clouded paleness of death, but even still, there seems to be a bit of golden hue to them, does there not?

belaset alazraki

by no exaggeration twice as tall as most humans and broad to boot, her physique calls to mind a mountain rising in the street, starting with large feet set wide and leading up to legs thick with muscle and fat. Up from heavily stitched and patched skirt and short gown ultimately rising to a head of surprisingly average proportions—somehow not seeming out of place, with how her physique rises up from the ground—she is attired in the manner of a working woman. Dark black hair peeks out beneath her cap, particularly in the form of thick brows and sideburns.

The bags at her hips would seem more at place on the back of a draft mule, and she carries them with the same ease, shifting to pull a sizable shovel from one. It is large enough that you would need both hands to carry it, much less dig with it, but she holds it like you might a garden trowel.

menax carvajal

a full belly and a warm, brown complexion pair with an easy smile, and eyes that seem aware and precise in spite of their perpetually half-lidded state. His gaze is that of a favorite uncle picking out just the right present for you, or so you feel as he turns his attention to his books to recommend a curative. It is only when he comments upon your old injuries that you thought you’d hidden behind the years and practice affecting a normal stride that the precision of those eyes becomes apparent, and he has not yet laid hands upon you when he takes note of a swelling indicating a mild allergic response to your most recent meal. He’ll make adjustments in his prescription to account for it.

his attire is that of the middling class rather than a scholar of great repute, and has a look of being home-tailored, with the little cues missed where a man is tending to the fit of his clothes upon his own frame. His hair, cropped short save the sidelocks tucked behind his ears, is as dark as the eyes that briefly peek out from behind his spectacles. As he adjusts his glasses, you catch a brief glimpse of roughness and scarring to his hands that you would not expect of a physician, so much as you might find on a bare-knuckle boxer.

ayala vidua moss

the girl before you has a hesitant manner, each gesture at once considered and full of preparation to take it back, all lightness and flight. It is, however, the lightness of a dancer, belying practiced muscle. She wears a short buff gown in the hooded style over a brown petticoat, along with dark boots and matching gloves, all beneath a wide-brimmed hat. A closer look reveals that her garments are not cut from fabric, but wholly from leather, stitched with coarse thread. 

her eyes are solid black that stands out above her freckled cheeks and ruddy nose, and there is a pointiness to her ears that is uncanny, as are the dark stains on her teeth. It’s from the coffee she sips, you assure yourself. You had thought to advise her against traveling the road ahead on her lonesome, but now, something suggests that it might be better to be assured that you lack for her company.

she smells ever so sweet.

musick

a bitch of the pit-bull type, heavy-headed and with a blue brindle coloration. The cape at her back looks warm and well-maintained, befitting her age; her collar is high in the manner of a speaking dog rather than a base cur. She carries a broadsheet curled up and stuffed into a garter round her foreleg, and settles down to take it out and read it, padding it open and turning the pages with care. She keeps her nose close to the text.

#yenne velt: dead names #my writing

[strictlyfavorites]

NATIONAL NEW YEAR’S DAY JANUARY 1

Probably one of the most recognized holidays around the world, New Year’s Day is observed January 1.

Celebrations will begin in the Pacific Ocean with Samoa celebrating the New Year before the rest of the world.  The latest stroke of midnight will occur in the middle of the Pacific Ocean near Baker Island which is halfway between Hawaii and Australia.

Above - US soldiers and civvies recover from New Year’s Eve celebrations at Grand Central Station circa 1940. But is all as it seems to be.

Other times, other manners: how decorous our forefathers were, even when hungover! These revellers have spent their night on the razzle wearing suits, ties and gloves, and those in military greatcoats have lost neither their caps nor their dignity. Significantly, they are all male: back then, men did their partying in public, while their womenfolk waited demurely at home. Unlike the streets around Times Square – where New York now holds its New Year celebrations, with shrieking hordes herded through metal detectors into a cattle pen guarded by cops and invigilated by rooftop snipers – Grand Central Station’s marble staircase is not puddled by vomit, or piled high with plastic bottles, burger boxes and pizza cartons that will be ingested all over again tomorrow morning by a platoon of garbage trucks. You could enjoy yourself in the 1940s without going on a gluttonous binge.

If the photograph dates from 1940, it predates the fall, though possibly it was taken in 1941, by which time the fall had occurred: the United States joined the war that December. That would explain the presence of those uniformed soldiers, aligned in a column on the right to separate them from the drunks who remain on civvy street. The newspaper artfully left open at the bottom should resolve these doubts, but the closer you peer, the more the print blurs into specks and indecipherable smudges. Rather than explaining the past, photographs make it look defunct, otherworldly, populated by ghosts who don’t realise that they are dead.

The possibility that this might be in wartime alters the mood. The slumped figures resemble the sleepers Henry Moore sketched on London underground platforms during the blitz; nowadays they would be victims of a nerve-gas attack, instantly felled while hurrying to catch their trains.

Perhaps the sly grin of the man on the bottom step is a reassurance, exposing an imposture. His stupor is shammed: like all these solid citizens, he is far too respectable to be sleeping rough. Predating our age of anxiety, he has no reason not to look forward to a happy new year.

[xaeneron]

I’m not dead!  Just busy.  With life and with scribbling.  So just a few quick costume sketches for my three main derps.  Like really quick.  They’re kind of awful lul. 

---

Richter’s primary armor is the aetherblade set in-game, but he would likely have a greatcoat at all times.  He is sweet-tempered and empathetic, but he has a materialistic side to him that wants to emulate the nobility he’s envied all his life.  Now that he does have disposable income, he’s more wont to use it on looking nice.

Ive’s outfit hasn’t really changed (since y’all have seen him constantly lolol).  A mix of practical, fun, and slightly stylish as helped by his friends.  

Etiery’s primary armor is leystone, but she would likely remove the physical leystone bits in favor of a more gear/tech-oriented breastplate or attachments, hence why she would likely have the aetherblade attachments where Richter would not.  And sass bucket as usual.

#guild wars 2 #gw2 #art #sylvari #asura #Ivaris Dalmora #Etiery Velvare #Richter Thorne #I have a lot of thoughts about these guys #they're fun to work with #all their weird little tics #\o/ #also help life is hard #so is wrestling with 50+ pages of comic #wtf did I do #rofl