#man i hope these colours are the right saturation!!

[ohnococo]

Fight Night | CHAPTER 3 | MMA Fighter!Sukuna x Reader

“I’ve got a fight coming up, so I’ve got to stay clean for the tests over the next 6 months,” there’s a tinge of annoyance in his face, the closest to pouting you think a man like Sukuna can get, “so you’d better have fun tonight.” You don’t know what to say. You had fun every night with him, and while it had occurred to you that this was definitely not a permanent arrangement you’d thought you just wouldn’t hear from him again one day. You aren’t sure if you’d have preferred that to having an actual warning for this last hurrah, and being told about it as it’s happening. Having Sukuna’s eyes scanning your reaction during the few seconds you have to process it leaves an odd feeling in your stomach, something he’s quick to distract from as he goes back to kissing your neck, hands travelling further up your legs, pushing them apart gently. He has a last word on the matter, whispering into your ear as his palm meets your pussy and he hums happily at discovering you’d decided to forego panties.  “I know I will.”

Its your last night with Sukuna, and all you can do is make the most of it.

Warnings: drinking, drug use, public sex, rough sex, vaginal sex, hand jobs, spitting, creampie, fingering, exhibitionism, sex under the influence, fem bodied reader, fuck buddy situation, overstimulation, forced orgasm

Notes: I’m really happy with this chapter, I hope you guys support and enjoy!

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

Time had passed strangely in the two months since you met Ryomen ‘The King’ Sukuna. It felt like it had flown, like you’d only just met him, but at the same time you felt like it had taken a couple of years off your life. He went hard every single time, and so did you, but at the very least you would have some stories to tell.

You’re no longer unsure like you had been the first time you arrived at the VIP section unaccompanied by Uraume. You’re expected, so you say your name and the man steps aside quickly, welcoming you warmly as if you had the same name worth brown nosing like Sukuna did. It’s weird having a taste of his power just by proximity, but it explains the loyalty of the people around him even further. You don’t let it get to your head though, always acutely aware of the way you got here, always aware of how easy it would be for someone else to get here in your place.

Right now isn’t the time for those thoughts though, nor the time for thoughts of how Sukuna never communicated in the days between telling you where to be and when, nor the time for thoughts of how that fact gave you a little pit in your stomach.

No, now was the time to make some memories on Sukuna’s dime, and on his cock.

Walking into the lounge, he’s as handsome as ever, shirt rolled up and further exposing his already unconcealable tattoos. His hair is a much more saturated shade of that peachy hue that managed to seem intimidating on him despite the otherwise pretty nature of such a colour. His thickly muscled thighs seem to be straining much harder than usual against his slacks and when you catch his eye he stretches his legs out as he lies back in his chair. Familiar faces say hello to you as you pass and you nod back in lieu of more lengthy pleasantries as the call of his lap beckons you.

He stops you in your tracks with two raised fingers before you have a chance to take your spot. He looks you up and down, appraising you for a moment through heavy lids before licking his lips and smiling. “All that, for me?”

You roll your eyes, opting to sit on the arm of his chair instead of his legs since he was starting up with you already. He won’t have it though, grabbing you by the hips and sliding you onto his lap as he locks in on your neck, kissing along the exact spots his lips had been the last time you’d seen each other the previous weekend.

“All this for a drink.” you finally reply, leaning away from his kisses and towards the table in front of his chair where your drink was awaiting, having been ordered by Uraume as soon as they spotted you speaking with the bouncer.

You lick your lips after sipping the lethal but necessary combination of Red Bull and vodka, having finally admitted to Sukuna only last week that you didn’t actually care for the taste of the Dom Perignom he’d kept on ice for your arrival at the beginning of each night out after the first. When you’d told him you’d just asked for something expensive to piss him off a little he’d had a good laugh at that.

A smile finds its way to your lips when you recall the danger in his voice when he’d told you that you didn’t want to try too hard to piss him off. ’But,’ he’d said, ’my pockets are deep when it comes to having a good time.’

The ’for a price’ part of that went unsaid. Lucky for you the price was something you were more than willing to pay.

Your reminiscing is interrupted and you nearly spill your drink as he hooks an arm around your waist, pressing your side back into him to remove any distance you’d momentarily created. He’s wasting even less time than usual, already renewing the marks on your neck with lips and tongue and teeth. You take a slow sip, tangling your other hand in his hair and tugging lightly.

He steals your lips before you have a chance to take another drink, and something on his tongue is bitter, giving you a hint at what would be helping this night along. His kiss is hot, hands squeezing at your thighs, cock already hard underneath you, and when he pulls back there’s a dangerous look in his eyes.

“I’ve got a fight coming up, so I’ve got to stay clean for the tests over the next 6 months,” there’s a tinge of annoyance in his face, the closest to pouting you think a man like Sukuna can get, “so you’d better have fun tonight.”

You don’t know what to say. You had fun every night with him, and while it had occurred to you that this was definitely not a permanent arrangement you’d thought you just wouldn’t hear from him again one day. You aren’t sure if you’d have preferred that to having an actual warning for this last hurrah, and being told about it as it’s happening. Having Sukuna’s eyes scanning your reaction during the few seconds you have to process it leaves an odd feeling in your stomach, something he’s quick to distract from as he goes back to kissing your neck, hands travelling further up your legs, pushing them apart gently.

He has a last word on the matter, whispering into your ear as his palm meets your pussy and he hums happily at discovering you’d decided to forego panties.

“I know I will.”

A stop for food is a required occurrence on these nights. You were grateful for it, honestly, but shocked the first time Sukuna had shouted the name of a place to his entourage as you filtered from one club and into smaller groups to take separate cars to your destination. You had been beginning to think he wasn’t human with the way he tanked line after line and drink after drink. But you’d always find yourself reminded that he was indeed human as you pulled up to some dive or greasy burger place at some point in the evening.

Tonight is no different, with your odd crowd settled into the hard metal outdoor seating, eating your fast food. Strangers filter in and out of the door behind you, also soaking up the copious amounts of alcohol and drugs in their stomachs during the pit stop. The night air and lack of sweaty people pushing against you doesn’t feel like too much of an oddity though, with the rhythmic reggaeton blasting from someone’s car in the parking lot reminiscent of the vibe of the club you had just been at before.

Sukuna is pounding his second cheeseburger and complaining, as he always does, that it ’isn’t even real food’.

“Yeah, is that why you look like you’re about to lick the wrapper?” You ask, playing with the straw of your Sprite. This middle-of-the-night break was never enough to sober up, just enough to make it through the rest of it. On occasion you wouldn’t even stop long enough to sit somewhere, instead watching as Sukuna ate in the back of his hired car, acting like he’d been starved for months. You figured that it probably did taste especially decadent compared to whatever diet he was forced to adopt for training.

“If you have any suggestions of where I can get a clean meal at midnight without cooking it myself, I’m all ears?” He pulls your drink from your hands, finishing half of it with a hiss as if he hadn’t been putting far worse things in his body every night you’d been with him.

“Of course you don’t cook.”

He raises his brows at you, only slightly more perturbed than amused that you were implying there were things he couldn’t do. “I don’t need to cook, that’s what Uraume is for.”

Uraume blushes at being referred to in a way that could even be slightly construed as favourable and you’re shocked to find out that they had actually been his cook all this time. Why their duties also included waiting on Sukuna hand and foot you did not know.

“If you say so…” you turn your attention to your phone, checking messages, assuring friends you were both alive and conscious, waiting for the next round to begin as you get what might be your only moment of rest from Sukuna’s very much welcome but very much relentless onslaught.

As you respond to one person, then move to respond to the next, Sukuna glances down at your screen, obviously picking out the emojis listed above the preview of his last text to you. He sneers and gestures to your screen.

“What the fuck is that?”

“This?” You wave your thumb over his messages, and he points to the name you’d given him, drawing a shrug from you. “I mean, you’re ‘The King’ or whatever.”

“And the monster thing?”

“Yeah, that’s you.”

His brows raise higher, as he tilts his head forward and gives you a look as if he were silently reprimanding you for your choice of name for him. You have to laugh, as much as he bantered with you through the night, there were occasionally moments like this that would remind you he’d gone far too long having his boots licked. Particularly if a few emojis in place of his name seemed to bother him.

Then, something changes in that look. It has your hairs standing on end and your pussy stirring.

“You want me to show you how much of a monster I can be?”

He doesn’t need you to answer that as he stands, grabbing you by the wrist to pull you up with him. He starts dragging you into the restaurant, calling over his shoulder to the group as he does, “We’re leaving in 15.”

He pulls you through the bustling restaurant, past booths packed with people in various states of inebriation, some laughing, some singing, some making out. He drags you past the counter separating the hungry crowd from the overworked employees, rushing to stuff burgers into bags as numbers were shouted out. He guides you right into the bathroom, into a stall, and has your back pressed against the now shut and locked door before you know it.

You knew you were going to get it from the way he holds you captive by your upper arms, teeth clashing with yours as you open your mouth wide to accept his kiss. He’s moving fast, almost too fast for your body to catch up. It doesn’t need to though, as he only releases you long enough to undo his belt and pants and have his cock out and ready. Then you’re back in his grasp as he hoists you up and you’re held firmly by his hands on your ass as he lines himself up. You wrap your arms around his neck, trying to rock your hips into him despite the precarious position.

The head is slipping through your wetness, gathering slick as it catches at your entrance, but slides past where he wants it nestled again. The heat of it against your tender clit only gets you wetter, groaning and enjoying that alone until his eyes are snapping up from your pussy to lock with yours.

His glare tells you all you need to know, that you won’t be cumming on that cock without him, not right now. He pins you against the stall with his body, moving one hand from your ass to line himself up properly, rocking up to his toes to fill you without a care for stretching your tight pussy far too fast. He keeps you pressed there as his hips snap against yours, putting a hand on the top of the stall to fuck you harder. Your moans are high pitched, breathy, carried by the air being squeezed from you with each harsh thrust. Sukuna has his body pressed so firmly against you that you can barely get any air in and it’s all making your head spin, heat pooling in your stomach already.

The fluorescent lights are blinding, and as you look at Sukuna with his clenched teeth, curled lip, and intense stare you wonder if he always looked quite so crazed as he fucks you. Or if it had always been hidden in the dim lighting of all the clubs and cars you’d fucked in. Every so often his lids get heavy, and his glare slips as he watches your face while you unravel completely, and you wonder if he’s close, but then he’s snapping back into that scowl.

You tighten your arms and legs around him as he brings his other hand up to grip at the stall too, hanging on as he fucks you so hard your eyes are rolling back in your head. Then, he stops. Before you have time to process anything his voice is in your ear, in your head, pulling you from the depths.

“What’s my name?”

“What?”

His hips snap hard enough against yours that you’re left gasping for air. You can’t even respond and even when he returns to his previous punishing pace you feel like you’re going to fall apart any second.

“Say my fucking name.”

“S-sukuna.” He’s fucking you so hard your voice is shaking.

“All of it.”

“Ryomen Sukuna.”

“Louder.”

You want to be worried about getting kicked out of this place, but have to just trust the crowd outside this bathroom was too loud and too rowdy for you getting your guts rearranged to be noticed. Sukuna doesn’t appreciate the hesitation though, leaning back enough to put some space between your chests, forcing you to cling to him tighter as he uses your body weight to have you bouncing into his punishing thrusts even harder.

“Louder.”

“Ryomen Sukuna!” Your volume surprises even you as you’re now able to shout and moan with abandon with his weight no longer constricting your body.

It has his cock throbbing inside of you as you hold on tight, hands clawing at his back as he fucks you till you’re tensing around him, blinding heat ripping through you as you cream on his cock. Your senses are scrambled, ears ringing, eyes screwed shut, pussy pulsing so hard you’re barely aware of Sukuna pumping you full of his cum.

His thrusts slow as he presses you back against the stall door, hands settling back onto your ass to hold you tight. He’s back to giving you those slow, languid kisses you’d come to know so well - tongue deep in your mouth, teeth bared, nose sliding across yours as he presses his everything against you. He speaks low into your mouth as you start to clench on him again, this time in discomfort, arching and pushing at him so he’ll put you down before you teeter too far into overstimulation. He doesn’t release you though, instead increasing his thrusts even as you start to squirm and whine on his cock as the feeling is so intense it almost hurts.

“You won’t forget it.”

If he expects a response to that, he won’t get it. Your attempts to push off of him only help his long deep strokes as he fucks you through that intensity and straight into another orgasm that has you clawing at his back, shoving turned to pulling him closer, whines of discomfort turned to moans of pleasure. He was right, you didn’t need to tell him that, though. Not while you were cumming again, this time on his slowly softening cock.

He’s true to his word of taking 15 minutes as he lowers you down onto your shaky legs, and holds you upright against his side on the way back out to where the rest of your night awaits.

It’s not lost on you that you’re ending the night in the same club you’d first met Sukuna in. You wonder if it’s intentional. Then, you decide not to think about it, clenching around the fingers idly thrusting into you, stirring up the last dregs of cum that hadn’t yet slipped out. Sukuna is ordering the last drinks before the bar stops serving and the man working the VIP lounge pretends not to notice how you’re slouched against Sukuna, catching your breath after another rough fuck on the very same couch you’d had your first with him on. He finishes his order as he rubs his fingers along your walls as he so often loved to do while you twitch and pant and come back into your body.

Once the server leaves, he pulls his fingers out of you, settling his sticky hand on your waist instead. He wiggles his nose, sniffling and swallowing the drip in the back of his throat. It was late now, or early, and you’d decided you were on alcohol only for the last of it since the sun would be up soon and that only meant you’d be heading home. It meant you were slowing down, of course, but you knew it was time for that anyway. You sigh and let your head lull back, resting it half on Sukuna’s shoulder and half on the back of the couch as you watch him watching the room.

It was weird that you’d gotten so used to his face tattoos. It was weird that you’d gotten so used to anything about him, actually. The size and the strength. The swollen cartilage of his ears and scarring of his brows from years of fighting. The piercings, the hair… and the surprising softness of his lips, his thick straight lashes. It has you smiling, giving yourself a little mocking laugh at how you were actually looking at this giant monster of a man and thinking he looked pretty.

He looks at you, catching your smile, and smiles back. “I’ve fought men for laughing like that.”

You roll your eyes, both annoyed and glad that he had ruined that little private moment with yourself. “Well good thing I wasn’t laughing at you then, cornball.”

He loves doing that, reminding you of who or what he is, like you don’t know. Like you haven’t experienced his strength firsthand. Not like that though. No, his touches for you were hungry, aggressive even, but always with a little hidden reminder that you had won his favour. As the server returns with shots and bottles you allow yourself to think to yourself, just for a moment, that you’d like to keep that favour.

Only for a moment though, because you knew the score. Always had. You two had these nights out, and that was it. And now that they were gone, presumably so were you. You always got that same pit in your stomach when you found yourself wondering how many other people got these wild little months in between fights with him, or if you were even the only one during all of it. You were bouncing on his cock within an hour of meeting him, and you’d done worse since, so you had to assume the worst. You had to assume he probably wouldn’t be bothered to reach out to you once he was back to fucking around after his next fight.

Despite your attempts to bury them, those same thoughts flash in your mind again, once the club is closing and Sukuna’s hand is tightening on your thigh while you settle in for the drive home. You take a breath in, then release it, letting your worries go with it. You weren’t assuming the worst, you were being realistic. And you decide that the best thing you can do for yourself right now is get off on Ryomen ‘The King’ Sukuna one last time as a proper goodbye.

It’s a big ask of your body. You were always worn out by this point of the night, but Sukuna had gone all out this time, spending a little less time dancing and drinking and railing lines and more time railing you. It had made you realise that he might have been holding back just how insatiable he was before, something that was nearly incomprehensible with the way he’d leave you wincing every time you moved for days.

Still, you push past the soreness that had settled in already, and there’s barely any time between you climbing onto his lap like a needy little thing and him working his fingers back into your familiar heat. The hum of electricity over your skin has it feeling just as good as the first time and you can’t be bothered to worry about what the driver can see, not anymore. You’re straddling him, head pressed against the roof of the car, holding onto his shoulders to keep from sliding around as the driver makes his way back to your home.

“One more for the road, then?”

It was a bit late to ask now, with you panting into his mouth, trying to keep your tired body balanced on his legs. You don’t know how you’re still taking him after everything tonight, even just his thick fingers, but you know you won’t regret it tomorrow when you can barely move. You never do.

The thrum of pain is much duller than the throbbing of your clit as you ride his fingers, and he curls them just right to have you seeing stars. You rest your tired head on his shoulder, unrestrained moans joining the sloppy squelch of his fingers fucking your sore, stretched out hole. Just as you’re moments from being completely lost in another orgasm, you feel his other hand move from your hip and hear the familiar sound of his zipper. You can barely keep your eyes open as you look down at him releasing his cock, shaking your head hurriedly without lifting it from his shoulder.

“‘m too sore…” it’s more of a pathetic sounding whine than you’d like, but he was making you feel so good even with the sting of your abused pussy and you were well past the point of faking composure with him.

It only makes his cock throb in his grasp. “Then use your hands.”

That, you can manage. Though it’s not exactly easy for you to sit up with how much your body was screaming at you to just lie down and pass out already. You’re nothing if not persistent though, as you grip his cock with one hand. Then, assessing just how small your hand looks holding it, you decide to grip it with two. You’d become very familiar with it by now. Its girth, its bulging veins, the little silver piercings running up the shaft… but it was something else seeing it in the light of the rising sun. You aren’t dwelling on that for long as Sukuna tenses and has it throbbing in your hands.

“Spit on it.”

You purse your lips, gathering your spit in the front of your mouth, but before you do he clarifies his order.

“Nice and slow.”

You follow without a second thought, letting the spit slowly drip from your mouth where it lands on the angry red tip of his cock and slides down.

“Again.”

Something about Sukuna puts you in the mood for following orders, so you do just that, opening your mouth and letting it fall directly from your tongue. He groans, pressing his thumb to your tongue, sliding it over until you have more drool falling from your mouth, down your chin, and onto his cock below as you look into his hungry eyes.

“It’s a shame you’re too scared to suck my cock.”

Too scared. Were it earlier in the night, when you weren’t so worn out you’d take that as challenge enough to shut him up about it, but at this point all you can do is tread water. Instead you close your lips around his thumb, sucking that instead. His cock throbs again in your hands, reminding you to get to work as you start stroking him, swirling your fingers over the head each time your hands can reach.

His thumb pressing down on your tongue hard enough to pull your mouth back open is all the warning you get as your moans are loud and loose as he starts finger fucking your pussy again. You struggle to keep up, arms burning as you try to work him as hard and fast as he was working you. As heat builds in your stomach it only gets harder, but you persist even as you start to rock into his touch, eyes shut and mouth still open and drooling around his thumb and down his hand.

“S-sukunaaaa…” you don’t care how you sound, lisping out his name the best you can as your pussy flutters around his fingers.

Suddenly, he pulls his fingers out of you, gripping both of your hips tightly. You don’t even think about the pain of it at this point, you’d been adorned with those bruises from the first night you’d met him. You’re more focused on the loss of contact, your orgasm slipping away even as you continue pumping his cock.

He leans up, purring into your ear, “Gonna cum soon…”

There’s a question in there but you’re too fucked up to to decipher it so he presses you further.

“Sure you don’t want it?”

You whine outright, squirming on his lap, “I’m so sore.”

“Are you going to waste it then?”

His cock is throbbing in your hands, and your pussy is throbbing even as the cold air hits it, exacerbating the sting. Still, you want his cock, you want his cum, and you want one last orgasm with him splitting you open wide, so you lean forward, head pressed uncomfortably into the roof of the car, and slide yourself onto him. You don’t need the help anymore, but his hands are still locked onto your hips, guiding you, dealing you short thrusts upwards even as you try to slowly sink down.

When he’s buried deep your stomach clenches, letting out a shaky breath as you try to collect yourself enough to do more than rock your swollen heat on top of him. It feels like it’s going to drive you crazy with the way its warmth soothes the sting even as the girth worsens it. The stopping, starting, and turning of the car you’re in doesn't help anything, forcing you to counterbalance to have any hope of riding the length you’d never quite managed to grow accustomed to.

You’re exhausted, and if you’re being honest with yourself you were ready to crash about an hour ago. Lucky for you Sukuna’s strength and stamina are seemingly entirely unaffected by the drinks, the drugs, and the hours of dancing. He’s taking over easily, thrusting up into you and your heavy limbs are almost a help at this point, keeping you in place even when the power of his thrusts threatens to have you bouncing up towards the roof of the cramped car.

Once your breath is hitching and you’re almost hiccuping with each desperate inhale, he slides one hand up your back, pulling you up by the back of your neck so he can watch you unravel. You know that’s what he wants, to watch you mindlessly taking him, completely unaware of what you looked or sounded like in your desperate climb to orgasm, so you press your head back into the roof of the car. He lays his head back against the headrest, watching you, teeth bared in a pleased smile as you stick your tongue past your wet lips - begging him for a kiss in your own way since you were far past words.

He pulls you down, and the kiss is surprisingly light, surprisingly quick, the tip of his tongue only lightly brushing yours. Then his grip tightens on both your hip and your neck as he pushes into those harsh thrusts, hips snapping, teeth clenched as he looks up at you.

“Cum on my cock.”

His words are the last push over your peak before you’re digging your hands into his shoulders, moaning his name as you cum on top of him clenching and gasping and sighing. He doesn’t leave your pussy taking too many more hard thrusts than you can handle before he’s pulling you down onto him, giving you those final deep thrusts while buried to the hilt before he’s filling you.

You relax into him, head resting on his shoulder, jumping lightly when his cock twitches inside of you. Eventually, it softens, and you look out the window behind, recognizing where you are, and sliding off of him. You don’t speak for the last few short minutes of the drive home, because you don’t know what to say at this point. It feels like you might ruin something if you do, so you enjoy the silence, slumped into Sukuna’s side as you had been many times before.

Like any other time before, you arrive, the driver helps you out, and he makes sure you get to your front door.

You turn and look out at Sukuna, just as you had the first night he took you home. His window is down, his arm resting on the door, watching you standing there in the doorway. You don’t know what to do, or how to end the night exactly. That final fuck hadn’t felt final enough, so you just wave, as silly as it feels. Sukuna smiles, and you can tell from the way that his head tilts back that he’s done that little amused chuckle you’d earned from him so many times. He raises two fingers slightly, without lifting his hand from where it was.

You thank the driver, you close your door, you lock it.

And decide that’s enough.

-

CHAPTER 4

#reminder minors and ageless blogs get blocked #there is more but this could be read as the last chapter and I’ll see how it goes #my writing #jjk fanfic #jjk smut #sukuna #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #self insert #reader insert

[majorproblems77]

Hey Linked Maze fans! It's me! :D

Another update another ramble from yours truly! :D

I love the smol updates just as much as the large ones cause it gets me thinking ngl. Makes me wonder what's gonna happen next!

(Especially in situations like this)

Okay enough from me

A link to the comic page can be found here! Please do go and check it out and give it a lil reblog to show your support! It's wonderful.

Importantly!

Linked maze belongs too @linked-maze and its creator @frulleboi. if you've not seen it note that it's for more mature audiences! :)

without further ado!

You might not need snacks for this one, but get some water, I know you need some right now. Got some? Awesome, let's begin!

We start with this panel!

First off the saturation of the image, we know that wind's outfit is like blue blue. So it's interesting to see it so discoloured. Makes me wonder if this is how wolfy sees generally or if it's just in wolf form.

(Ha you thought I was gonna go straight to the sents right, nope :D)

But now I will

So we can see 3 colours here. A reddish pink, A purple, and cream? I'm gonna call it cream.

So this confirms something

Three people have had enough contact with this object to leave an impression.

And here we can see two of them

If im understanding this correctly, Red belongs to Sky. The purple belongs to this second figure who I am going to assume is Zelda.

Also who I can assume is Wolfie seeing this red in his eyes. A cool touch!

A visual representation of whose scent he is following I can only assume., which would defo be useful later. For like when we oh I dont know

Go looking for the cream-coloured scent owner?

This is the only frame we see this cream-coloured scent. So I'm gonna call this now and assume that this scent belongs to Angel or djævel. Probably Angel since she's the one we've seen wandering around collecting the hero's items.

He sniffin

it's the windy boi

I love him, your honour

Also totally not Wolfie pretending that sword isn't his.

It's not mine what are you talking about :))))))))))

I like this shot, it's very nice.

I am a little worried as to why Warrior looks worried. Surely he must know about dog scenes. and I feel like Wolfy has proven himself by now as to not be a threat to him.

Unless...

Do you think Warrior noticed Wolfy does not smell the sword handle? And smell the random fabric instead.

A sword handle would have the most intense smell of something right? Because of the sweat. So...

Warrior is wondering and now so am I.

This is the face of a man who knows something is up with that wolf

Man is trying to be a good friendo

Warrior dont apologise you smol cinnamon roll it's fine let the kids lead

The mix of the colours here is interesting.

(Totally not me zooming in on the coloured lines to see if I can figure out what colours they are made from)

I see mainly that pinky red here.

But something in me wants to say that there's a little bit of cream in here.

You think they are gonna use the sailcloth to find Angel later? That could be cool. Maybe get Wolfy to smell a bunch of items to build a scent profile for Angel so they can go looking for her later?

Just a thought! let me know what you think! I love doing these and it's great. Thanks again to @linked-maze for the permission to do this. I love doing them.

Thats all tho so I hope you have a wonderful day/night! :D

#linked maze #linkedmaze #linked maze analysis #zelda au #links meet au #loz au #lm twilight #lm four #lm warrior #lm wind #lm wolfy #comic analysis with major #ramble corner with major #suitable name for these #warrior looking like that makes me think #he's totally got suspision #he dont know #please do let me know what you think! #:D #I love talking about this #its wonderful

[deepperplexity]

Prompt: 10. Snow Prints

Pairing: Colonel Brandon x Fem!OC

POV: First, OC

Setting: Christmas Market in Town -> The Lake -> Dashwood Home (Not exactly following cannon, moving the time to winter and the manner Brandon visits the Dashwoods for the first time.)

A/N: I thought we’d take a little tiny break from the serial fics - I do feel I need a breath as it takes way more to write several serials at the same time than one shots (for me) 😂 Also, Brandon seems to be very loved this year, so thought I’d give him some more screen time so to say 🥰

I have perhaps spent too much time on this fic but it ended up flowing and turning into this 5k piece - anyway, I really hope you’ll have a splendid time reading this! We are nearing the middle of Rickmas2023 and I feel good about having been able to post at a decent time every day so far 😍👏 (Let’s hope I can keep it up all the way through 👀😂)

Tags/TW’s: Instant Infatuation, Forehead Kisses, Hand Holding, Accidental Meeting, Unintentional Invasion Of Emotional Privacy, Self Derogatory Thoughts, Classicism, Nicknames, Mutual Pining, Confessions Of Adoration/Love, Implied Future Marriage, Slighty Sassy OC, Chivalry, Poverty Hints,

Word Count: 5k+

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

Mrs Jennings laughed by a market stand down the busy street, Margaret squeezed my hand and I could not quite keep a smile from spreading across my lips as she giggled up at me. “She never stops, does she?” Margaret asked with that childlike twinkle in her eye. “I’m afraid not, Maggie,” I chuckled. “She means well, but I do think Miss Markle is quite over her matchmaking attempts, as most of us are.” “Well, you are free of it,” Margaret said with happiness, not knowing the knife it twisted within me. “Indeed, lucky me,” I said as happily as I could. Knowing full well she held little interest of pairing lowly me with anyone at all.

I was an orphan, a mere child-tender for the Dashwoods before Mr Dashwood passed and left the family in ruin - in every manner. Now I was a burden on the kind family, allowed to live with them and dine after them in exchange for not only taking care of Margaret but cleaning and tending to every manner of household chore whenever needed, teaching the child to read and write, to interpret texts as well. No pay given, but a roof over my head and food in my stomach. It was more than I could ask for given the circumstances.

“Mellie,” Mrs Dashwood called, “go buy us some mistletoes and meet us at home!” “Right away, ma’am!” I called back, squeezing Margaret’s hand before ushering her toward one of her older sisters. I trodded off, heading down the market street with vendors filling the space and air with shouts of prices and smells of Christmas. I weaved through the crowd, well-versed in not being in the way.

I found the right vendor and purchased the holly for the Dashwoods, laying them atop the bread and carrots in my basket before turning about. My eyes caught sight of a brilliantly red coat with black and golden details. It stood out in the throng of greys, browns, whites and beige clothes, none as brightly coloured — not even the greens and blues, all in muted saturation. A man of the military? My eyes slid upward only for my breath to catch. He was stunning in profile. Older, with slightly peculiar features — like his hooked nose and thin lips — but more handsome than any other man I had ever laid eyes upon. His grave features and remote manner of looking only made his features shine brighter in the afternoon sun which made the snow glisten on the rooftops.

I stood stock still in the middle of the street, a messenger boy ran right into me, knocking my basket out of my hand — breaking the spell I had been under by the man. I hurried to pick up the greenery, the cloth-wrapped bread, and frost-bit carrots, before scurrying away, throwing one final glance back before entering one of many narrow alleys. His eyes appeared to see me for a second before I turned and hurried away from the market. No matter how handsome the man was, or how my heart had stuttered at his appearance, he was no man for me. I was all too aware of it.

I held on tightly to the basket, the day was beautiful and with the bright sun and lack of wind I managed to keep warm. I sped up my steps as I cleared the town’s border, crossing over a field to take a shortcut through the woods beyond; then it would only be a matter of two more fields to cross, a small hill to hike up, and I would be home once more. I didn’t mind walking through the snow, the boots Mrs Jennings had given me upon winters arrival were far too big but allowed for three pairs of socks which kept me plenty warm as long as I moved about. I was thankful for her gift, even if it were only for them being too small for her but too big for anyone else to wear, and with their shafts reaching nearly to my knees no snow slunk within them even if I pulsed through it at the moment.

I reached the woods, feeling a need to look back toward the town where I had seen the handsome man I was sure to never see again. Even if no man ever finds me to his liking I can at the very least allow the oddity of daydreaming of it to keep me happy, should I not have at least that? I squinted against the direct sunlight as it sank, bathing the sky in orange and pink only making the glittering snow look further magical with the twinkling light of lanterns and candles coming from the town. “A military man, perhaps that would be a grand life.” Not that I shall ever know it for real.

I half giggled to myself, enjoying my little daydream where the man in red would smile sweetly at me and marvelled at the quietly spectacular view. It was interrupted when something came barrelling across the field, someone atop a horse riding at the utmost speed with snow spraying about them yet I could not see any details with the last bit of sun glaring me in the eye and turning them into nothing but a shadow.

I thought little of it, many cut across the field to return home, so I turned and kept walking while wondering what voice would belong to the man in red — a commanding one, an assured one, a powerful one. I could not imagine a man who looked like he had to speak in any meek or bright fashion. No, no a most strong voice ought to belong to such a gentleman.

“Miss!” I spun around in haste at the dark rumble of a call that was somehow heard so clearly. “Miss!” the man called again and I raised a hand to cover my eyes from the sun. My heart stuttered as the man in red came barrelling towards me, his giant black steed’s hooves made the snow spray in magical waves of sparkles all around him.

He halted the horse with great skill, going from a gallop to a near-complete halt in a mere two steps. “Miss,” he said again, his voice a rumble which seemed to shake my insides. “Y-yes?” I asked, bowing my head while curtsying deeply. The thud of feet hitting the snow-covered ground rang out and I looked up. He was a head taller than me, his shoulders stiffly held and his back utterly straight. He looked every bit a stoic gentleman as he inclined his head before reaching out his hand, holding a mistletoe.

“Sir, I— What is this?” I asked while looking between the man who made my heart run rampant and the greenery in his glove-clad hand. “You left this behind, miss.” “Oh… oh!” I rummaged around my basket and indeed, there were only seven when there ought to have been eight of them. “Thank you, sir. I apologize for the trouble you went through for such a small thing.” My cheeks nearly seemed to burn as he handed it over while I spoke and then secured the mistletoe under the towel covering the basket.

The man looked at me, his eyes sweet but his features stoic. “It was no bother, miss. I merely followed the snow prints.” But, I left none behind until I reached the field? “I’m grateful for your kindness and effort, sir.” “Colonel Brandon, miss. At your service,” he said and placed his closed fist atop his chest before bowing slightly. “Melinda Merryweather,” I replied, endeavouring to keep my cheeks from burning up under his stare. “Beautiful Honeybee,” he said in a quiet drone and my eyes widened. “Excuse me, sir?” “Oh, no, miss, your name. Melinda, of Latin origin, meaning sweet. Constructed of mel, meaning honeybee, and Linda, meaning beautiful.”

I was not proud of it, but I gawked at the man. He knew more about my name than me myself. I had been aware of the Latin origin but the meaning of it had never been told to me. “My mother did have a fondness for the buzzing creatures, they fill an important role after all.” “Indeed,” the man said, “there would be little in terms of flowers without them.” “Oh, I was referring to food, Colonel Brandon. Flowers are pretty though.” “Their honey?” “No, they pollinate far more than flowers,” I continued, the education I had been given as a child tender to the Dashwoods far beyond any I would have had in another situation. “You are a woman of education.” “Oh, no, sir. I have merely been most lucky as a tender of children for the lovely Dashwood family.”

I did my utmost to speak calmly, but my entire body seemed caught on fire, the flames growing stronger with each second in his company. Talking is not my issue, remaining silent is. I’m certain he sees me as a know-it-all by now. “Luck plays a grand part in life. I admit, it has not been so graceful to me until now.” “Oh? You appear a most lucky man, sir.” “I shall not ruin said image of me for you, Miss Melinda Merryweather.” What to say to such a statement?

I had no need to think of it though, the man bowed and mounted his steed once more. My heart skipped a beat as he turned the horse about. “Thank you again, Colonel Brandon,” I said and he smiled at me, my skin burned and my breath caught as the last sunlight left the world but it seemed all the brighter when he smiled. “I wish you the best, beautiful honeybee,” he said with a sudden softness to his features and put his horse into motion, setting off in a rushed gallop without looking back once while my heart seemed to race at the same pace as the black horse.

Never had I met a man such as him. He was different, in the most sweet and good manner. I ended up watching him gallop back to town, I simply couldn’t make myself leave before he was gone. Strange sensations filled my chest and the heavy basket in my hand suddenly felt light in comparison to the weight of the newness, or, perhaps it was the knowledge a man such as him were not meant for me. For someone like me. A colonel had little business with a child tender turned into some form of a maid and teacher of reading and writing out of the goodness of my employer of many years. As much as warmth for the man bloomed within me, a sense of hopeless longing grew as well.

***

“I’ll only be an hour!” I called toward the little sitting room where Marianne and Elinor sat, one embroidering and one playing on the forte, while I slipped my boots over the many layers of socks I had adorned. I loved Marianne’s music, and voice, not blessed with either skill myself. Books, poetry, and stories lay me far closer to the heart though.

Reading, writing, and weaving stories of my own were my pleasures. My loves. And the past week my poetry had turned longing and somewhat sappy, to be truthful. I needed a moment with nature, to take a breath and rid my heart and mind of the grand colonel who called me a beautiful honeybee before riding off in a swirl of snow.

I wrapped a second scarf over my shoulders and headed out, the weather was splendid but cold. The midday sun had the world in a sparkle, a winter wonderland to adore and enjoy. I took a deep breath of fresh air and set off down the hidden road few carriages traversed. I followed it down the hill and then began my trodding across the field to reach the ice-covered lake where I was sure the most wonderful view where to be seen.

I had no idea how right I was…

As I came over the little hill, a wonderful view indeed sprawled out before me. But nothing could compare to the man standing right by the edge of the snow-covered beach, holding the reins of his large steed in a loose grip. With the sun shining high I could see him most perfectly, even if he wore no red coat I would have known his posture anywhere. The air about him was that of a single kind. I had spent so many words on the man, writing poetry to expel the feelings I had endeavoured to suppress ever since I had managed to tear myself away from the edge of the forest where I had last seen him galloping away in haste.

I stood still, once more stuck looking at the man from a distance without him being aware, and I felt as if all the feelings I had sought to tamper down and rid myself of through poetry took over completely. Let loose by his appearance where I least expected him. Oh, this is not proper! This is lunacy of the acutest kind. The man is a colonel, for goodness sake. I was about to turn around, play the coward, and run away while my heart ran rampant. “Honeybee!” came the loud rumble of the colonel, stopping me in my tracks (not that I’d begun to actually move).

The sound of boots and hooves walking through snow filled the air as he neared. My mind blanked when his soft gaze landed on me and a small smile spread his lips most sweetly. “Colonel Brandon,” I said and curtsied while hiding my bare hands behind my back. A bit embarrassed I had no gloves to speak of when he wore such fine ones of leather. “What a wonderful surprise,” he said. “What brings you to the lake, miss?” “Oh, umh, well, I was merely out for a walk to— To clear my head a bit, colonel.” “Perhaps a coincidence, I am here for that exact reason. What troubles you, if I may enquire?” You . Not that I could ever admit to such a thing.

“My troubles could not possibly be of any importance to a colonel, sir Brandon.” “I would take great pride in absolving you of any trouble, honeybee.” His voice was honest, his gaze a bit harsher and his voice once more a line rather than a smile, and that nickname set my stomach into an absolute flutter. “Do not tease me, sir.” “Never,” he said while taking a step closer. “I am not a man who would trifle with a beautiful woman,” he continued, taking another step. He was almost too close, yet not close enough.

My fingers fidgeted behind my back, the ends of my scarf swaying lightly in the soft breeze. A gust of wind blew by and my scarf flew off, tumbling along the snow in soft waves. He was off after it before I had a chance to even react. “Colonel!” I called, feeling like a nuisance to the man. “Colonel! Stop! It’s my—” He bent and snagged the thin fabric, holding it up with the sweetest of triumphant smiles before he jogged back. My icy fingers covered my mouth to hide the giggle, or perhaps to cool the heat flushing my face.

“My lady,” he said with a slight bow while holding out my scarf for me. I suffocated the laughter bubbling within me at his theatrics and reached for it. He jolted and grabbed my hand before I could pull away. “No gloves? In this chill?” he asked, concern written all over his handsome face while mine contorted with shame and embarrassment. “Thank you,” I said and wrung my hand free. “For catching it, sir.” I draped it over my shoulders once more but he only tilted his head to study me closer.

“I ought to return,” I said after a moment of silence, a silence far too intense. “They are expecting me at home,” I continued and curtsied swiftly before turning on my heel. “Miss Melinda,” he called, “stay safe!” “I shall, Colonel. I’m quite capable!” I called over my shoulder before waving at him, picking up my pace while leaving deep prints behind which I knew he would not follow this time.

***

It was the tenth of December, another week had passed since I saw the colonel and my little notebook was by now full of poems all revolving around him, around what he made me feel and wished to expel. My silly little heart had no wits about her, my mind just as snagged on his handsomeness — his kindness a lingering torment when there was no world in which I could be anything to such a fine gentleman.

“Mellie,” Margaret whined, “you’ve been writing for hours!” “Huh? Oh, have I really?” “Yes!” she said with a certain oomph to her voice. I merely smiled at her, mustering up the courage to not show her anything at all. “Is there a reason I ought to stop for the moment?” I asked as she leaned on the desk where I had, indeed, been sitting for several hours as lunchtime had arrived. “Mama asked you to fetch a bird for dinner, it’ll be dark if you don’t go soon.” “Oh, oh right! Yes, of course,” I said while shutting my little notebook and standing. “I’ll head out right away.” “But it’s lunchtime, silly goose.” “Well, there will be no goose of any kind, or other bird, if I don’t get a move on, will there?” “I’ll make a sandwich for you,” she said and scurried off with the usual happy spring to her steps. “With cheese and peppers, how you like it!” she called over her shoulder and I smiled at her sweetness.

I was out of the house a few moments later, hurrying towards town once again to get a bird for the family for the evening. Given how cold it was, one could have bought several and just had them in a box outside - they’d keep for weeks if the weather remained. But, again, I was not one to complain about some walking. I was rather fond of being out like that, truth be told. Truth be told, huh? More like give me something to take my mind of the man in a red coat, with a sweet smile, and soft eyes, and— Stop. Just, do not think of him. Simple as that. It was not , however, simple as that.

All the way to town, then through it, and back home again, I thought of the man. When I went down the hill to the house he was really the only thing I thought of at all. The fact I managed to keep my wits about me enough to see snow prints of male shoes unlike any other prints was a miracle. As the Dashwoods had company, obviously of the male kind, I walked around back and took the small servant entrance almost straight into the kitchen.

“Cook, here, I found a fantastic goose for dinner. It’s missing half a wing but the butcher gave me a great price for it.” “My, my, my, that is a good bird,” Cook replied as I held the naked goose up. Plucked and ready for cooking. She grabbed it and my cold fingers flexed with an ache to them. The thing was heavy and with the evening chill I struggled to get my blood flowing again for a moment while undressing my outside clothes only to put on a new scarf over my shoulders and thicker slippers on my feet rather than the boots and tripple socks.

“Here,” Cook said and handed me a tray of tee with some biscuits on a plate. Four cups on it, but it was the pretty china so the fourth one certainly wasn’t for me and Margaret didn’t drink tea. “Who’s visiting?” I asked. “Oh, some upstanding man, the boring type if you ask me. Tense looking. Too old for any of the Dashwoods too, no idea why the lady entertains him for so long.” “Long?” “He’s been ‘ere since one, came right after lunchtime.” “Well, perhaps he fancies one of them, or one of them fancies him. Is he rich?” “Very much so, Mellie.” “Well, there you have it then, Mrs Dashwood couldn’t send a rich man away — no matter his looks or age when she has two daughters she needs to wed.” “Indeed, but we both know the lady cares too much about what her daughters want to ever force a marriage.” “True, maybe she can force a marriage with a rich man upon me?” I laughed, both cook and I perfectly aware I wished for no such thing and nor would it ever happen either. No, love would be my biggest reason for marriage — riches were good, but love far outweighed it in every way.

As I came closer to the parlour I heard Marianne speak, asking whoever was visiting to read another. I didn’t know what she referred to but I gently pushed open the door, not making a sound as I backed in to not wobble the tray. “Snow prints—” My heart stopped in my chest. “—were followed, a path—” My fingers trembled. “—he ought not have taken. She was below—” The tray clattered to the floor, the china breaking and shards scattering all over the floor as I heard Colonel Brandon read my poetry, about him !

“Mellie, goodness me, are you alright?” said Mrs Dashwood with a shriek. I slowly turned, seeing the man who I had written those words for staring at me with wide eyes and slightly parted lips, Marianne sat far too close to him. He was a captivating reader, I could not fault her for her investment, yet my heart ached at the sight of the two.

“I— That’s—” “I gave it to him,” Margaret said with a beaming smile. “You write so well, Mellie!” she kept going and Colonel Brandon looked between me and the notebook containing my most inner thoughts in his hands. His eyes turned wider, his face paled and I felt my insides twist as he stared at me again.

Tears stung my eyes, the shame and embarrassment, the hurt and fear, the ache in my chest at the betrayal of the child I thought so highly of. “Excuse me,” I blurted out before bolting out the door, not staying to clean up the mess. “Mellie!” called Mrs Dashwood. “Mellie, what—” called Marianne with confusion in her tone but I was out of earshot for her sweet, clear voice. Such a contrast to the Colonel’s, so perfectly matched.

I ran out through the kitchen entrance, past Cook who prepared the infernal bird, and out into the snow lit up by the climbing moon as early evening had arrived. “Honeybee!” came the voice I dreaded to hear. “Stop, please!” he called and I stopped, my hand on the gate at the end of the backyard and my slipper-clad feet deeply buried in the white coldness below.

His running steps reached me, and the crunching of snow and slightly panted breaths filled my ears. Warmth wrapped around my shoulders as he hung his coat over me and I spun around in shock at the action. He was stood in only his vest and shirt, the biting wind tossed about his beautiful hair but all I really saw were the sweet, kind eyes staring at me.

“I never knew,” he said quietly while taking a step back. “Knew what?” I asked, attempting to not inhale deeply as his scent wafted up my nose. The perfect scent, the warmest and most comforting of scents. “That is was your beautiful poetry I was reading, the child gave it to me, asked for me to read something out of it. I thought it belonged to one of the ladies present in the room — and they did not object,” he said while looking most forlorn, nearly distressed. “I was not even aware you resided with the Dashwood household.” “I have for many years,” I said. “Marianne will be a perfect match for you,” I continued while thinking of their voices, the way she sat right beside him on the sofa.

Colonel Brandon stepped closer. “I have already found my match,” he said. “I asked you not to tease me, sir. And you said not to be a gentlemen who trifled with women.” “And I have not,” he said, his eyes hardening while coming far too close, forcing me to look up at him. It was all in my head… Only in my heart, not his. Perhaps, perhaps he is merely a most kind man? I have little experience with those.

“Honeybee,” he said, snagging my attention anew. “I have not, and will not, trifle with you, tease you. I am too old for games and life far too dark as is for me to make it any worse.” “Sir!” “I speak true,” he declared. “A gentleman such as you ought to be more aware of your own handsomeness.” He blanched at that, blinking at me before a timid smile stretched his lips in a manner that looked as if he were unable to control it.

“You find me handsome?” “What woman in their right mind would not?” “Oh, I do believe you may be a woman of singular taste, honeybee.” I gasped, gaping at him. “I beg your pardon? Are you accusing me of something?” “I am not a favourable option for most beautiful women, such as yourself. I am well aware of it. My riches perhaps an aid in seeing past it, or my standing in society.” I gasped anew, a mixture of an exhale and a laugh of disbelief.

“You are terrible, sir. You may wish to know I had no idea who you were until you introduced yourself, even then, I am new to this part of the county and have had little to do with the upstanding citize n so I am not aware of your riches. I do recognize the bravery and skill you possess to climb up the ranks, but any silly nilly knows such things,” I said with both hurt and irritation at the man who twisted my insides with warmth and want. “I apologize, miss,” he said, his face held in some sort of shame at the assumption he’d held of me perhaps. “No need, I am but a servant of no importance or value.” “What a foul thing to say…” “Truth is sometimes.”

Time stretched on while we stood in silence, simply looking at each other. “Miss Melinda, your poetry,” he began while looking at me with something I could only describe as respect, perhaps even admiration, “it is most beautiful, passionate, deep .” The change of subject threw me for a loop, a man such as him ought to hold no admiration of any kind for a woman such as I. “Like your voice,” I whispered before I could stop myself. I had thought of hearing my words in his voice, there was no way not to when his voice was such perfection. He chuckled. “My voice is to your liking?” “Everything about you is to my liking, as far as I’m aware. Sir .” I couldn’t help the sass, or the way my face had hardened while my insides were in an uproar over the man. I had to protect myself from the rejection that was sure to come despite his sweet words. It was only a matter of time, surely.

Yet, it did not.

His hands cupped my face, the gesture most intimate and highly improper. “If you are ever made aware of a trait of mine that is not to your liking, I will be very much obliged to correct it, to your liking, honeybee.” “W-What do you mean?” I asked, my breath tumbling out in a shuttering way. “Would you object to me?” My eyes widened while his finger stroked my cheek. “Object to you? Sir?” “I am beyond happy I caught a glimpse of you, heard the vendor call for you about the holly, and found your prints at the edge of town. I rode around quite manically to find you, you know. Following those snow prints, it was the best decision I have ever made.” “Colonel… Stop, we cannot, it’s not proper.” “Propriety can take flight and be on its merry way, honeybee. I have my heart set on you, my beautiful honeybee who writes the most captivating of poetry and smiles with nothing but honesty in her eyes. I have my heart set on you, Melinda Merryweather.” “It was about you…” I whispered while my skin burned under his touch. “Me?” “Yes… For weeks now, I’ve tried all I can to rid myself of these feelings and thoughts…”

Brandon viewed me with a mixture of torment and joy, I chuckled nervously while he released my face and grasped my hands. His coat slid off my shoulders as he tugged me closer — gently — and the cold December air wrapped itself around me. “Would you allow said feelings to grow? Fester? Become an irrevocable part of you?” “Colonel…” “I am already lost to you, honeybee. Allow me the chance to make you happy,” he asked kindly, his hummingly dark voice nothing but an endless promise of said happiness. “Yes. Yes, please,” I whispered as tears of relief and joy wetted my cheeks. “Honeybee… Beautiful Melinda… My Melinda,” he said before he leaned in and kissed my forehead with force, his thin lips perfectly warm against my chilled skin. “You shall not regret this, I promise you my all.”

We leaned back, my heart was aflutter and my stomach a warm ball of knots, and I could not help but smile at the sweet gentleman who had captivated my heart so easily. “I fear any regret I may have will be only a reflection of your own, Colonel.” “Christopher,” he corrected. “My name, is Christopher, honeybee.” “Christopher.” “How sweet a sound you make it. I shall wish to hear it every day for the rest of my life.” I only nodded at that, too stunned to speak when he so brazenly declared I was to be his for all time to come. I held no objections to that as his hands squeezed mine with warmth, his kind eyes a balm to my soul and his smile a thing of beauty far beyond the sparkling snow all around us…

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

A/N: Oh how I hope you enjoyed this One Shot with our dear Brandon 🥰 I had so much fun writing this, and it did indeed turn out to be far longer than I had planned but I enjoyed each word I wrote of this 😍👏

IMPORTANT: Tomorrow I’ll be picking up a story from Rickmas2022! You do not have to read it before reading this years parts, but I do recommend it to get the full story. I will do a small recap before diving into the new parts too. The fics I will be continuing is 14. Icy Roads & 15. Frosty Glass (yes, it’s Hans and Anna-Louisa who are making a comback by super popular demand 😂👏). I've yet to start writing it but, well, guess it'll be a late night today 👀👍

Q: You can only choose one hot drink to consume during December: Coffee, Tea, or Hot chocolate? A: COFFEEEEEEEE all the way for me 😂☕

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[Dec:2023]

#rickmas2023 #rickmas #colonel brandon x oc #colonel brandon fic #colonel brandon #alan rickman #rickmaniac #sense and sensibility 1995

[inamindfarfaraway]

I can perfectly picture a Batman: Wayne Family Adventures two-partner that properly introduces Harvey Dent, Two-Face, their relationships with Bruce and vice versa. But I can't draw in the slightest. So I'm going to script it and you'll have to use your imagination. It’s a little longer than the average WFA two-parter. But given how many thoughts and feelings I have about Harvey, I’d say it’s impressively concise. For me. If you like how I write Harvey, I recommend my fanfic spotlighting him as a teenager, compared to which I must warn you this script is positively fluffy. Read it on AO3 here! If you want to draw any of this, please tell me in advance and use the updated original post or the AO3 fic, not necessarily your reblog.

A Second Opinion

Part 1

[Panel one. Vertical rectangle, full screen. Nighttime. The exterior of an abandoned building that is notably more decrepit on the right side, Two-Face's current base of operations, from a distance and high angle. The Batmobile is parked outside. Bruce as Batman is seen on the rooftop from behind, striding stiffly toward the skylight. A speech bubble floats in the air above him.]

Barbara: Are you sure you don't want backup?

[Panel two. Barbara as Oracle watches with a frown of wary concern at her desk in the Clocktower.]

I know these confrontations are very personal for you -

[Panel three. Bruce leans over the skylight seen from below it, about to kick it in. His fists and jaw are clenched, teeth gritted and eyes narrowed sharply; even for Batman on a mission, he's in a bad mood.]

Bruce: I'm fine. I have him right where I want him.

[A speech bubble floats in the space below the panel.]

Harvey: I have him right where I want him!

[Panel four. Fade into a flashback. In stark contrast to the dull and dark blues, greys and blacks of the present scene, the flashback panels are full of light, saturated and warm colours. Harvey Dent stands at a round red table outside a café on a sunny day, beaming. He's a handsome, sturdy man with neat, short black hair, a semi-formal brown suit and wide brown eyes. He was seated, but has risen and slammed his palms down on the table in his enthusiuam. Slightly low angle, like the camera is on the table, and to the right so we have a better view of his left side. A gold wedding ring gleams on his finger. His introduction box reads: ‘Harvey Dent, District Attorney. Gotham’s best lawyer, technically and morally.’.]

And think of the implications! If the Salvatore Maroni can face justice, so can anyone.

[Panel five. He paces a little behind his chair, gesturing animatedly. Motion lines trail and curve around the other way behind him. His right side is now in profile. Same angle, but pulled back to see over the shoulder of a younger Bruce wearing a nondescript black shirt.]

If his empire can crumble, so can any criminal organization or corrupt institution, no matter how powerful. This trial could be a beacon of hope for Gotham. Proof that the law can actually help people, that the spirit of it is alive.

[Panel six. Opposite Harvey, Bruce is sitting comfortably. He has notable eyebags and less light in his eyes than Harvey, but smiles in earnest admiration.]

Bruce: I think you're right. Maroni used to own the city, but ever since you, Jim and Batman started working together...

[Panel seven. Side shot of both of them from Bruce's right and Harvey's left, showing them down to their legs. Bruce leans forward. Harvey has sat back down. In the background, their memories conjure a vision of Batman and Harvey shaking hands before the Bat-Signal. The figures' lower halves fade to translucent above and behind their real counterpart's heads. That Harvey is smiling too and the one leaning forward, while Batman's mouth is a flat line but his eyes are soft.]

things have changed more than I could have imagined.

Harvey: I just hope we can keep it up. Maybe in a few years, Gotham won't need a Batman.

[Panel eight. Close-up on the right half of Bruce's face, a narrow vertical box in the upper left section of the screen. His expression is of shock and vulnerability, although he isn’t offended. He has simply never considered being able to end his crusade before. Panel nine. A bigger square containing his entire face and taking up the rest of the screen.]

Bruce: Do you really believe that?

[Panel ten. Closer front shot of Harvey at eye-level. We can now see that he actually does have bags under his eyes. He's more pensive and his smile drops.]

Harvey: Yeah. I mean, Bats is a great guy. I don't want him to just disappear. But his methods...

[Panel eleven. Deep shot. Two petty crooks run through an alleyway at night while Batman looms behind them atop a ledge, a huge, hulking silhouette crouched animalistically with piercing white eyes and clawed fingers raised to pounce. The scene is somewhat abstracted to highlight the criminals' emotions. The alley walls seem to be closing in on them and Batman's curling cape flows into the surrounding darkness. Angle is above the very small-looking criminals, but below Batman such that his striking, soulless eyes glare right at the reader. Harvey's speech bubbles are in the top left and bottom right corners, framed by the blackness.]

fighting violence with violence and terror with terror... they're hardly ideal, are they?

[Panel eleven. Harvey places his right hand on Bruce's left arm in pride, who is too busy processing to return his smaller, softer smile of personal affection. Side shot from Harvey's left and Bruce's right that cuts them off at the torso.]

In my opinion, the work you're doing with the Wayne Foundation does better at lowering crime rates in the long run.

[Panel twelve. Over-the-shoulder shot again, Harvey's this time to show Bruce full of love, relaxing and leaning into the touch.]

Bruce: Well, in my opinion, you're a better person than me or Batman.

[His second speech bubble descends into the empty space.]

And I’d love to see the day Batman can retire.

[Panel thirteen and fourteen occupy different vertical halves of the screen and the same horizontal space for half of their lengths, the former higher, the second lower. The first shows Harvey from the right cut off at the thighs, in a courtroom, delivering some kind of unwritten passionate declaration; on his left and in the background, the defendant, the aforementioned crime boss Maroni in a nice black suit, holds an opaque bottle labelled as cough medicine and smirks viciously. The second is a close-up of Harvey’s head on the floor. Only the right half of his face is visible, the left turned away, and he is howling in unfathomable agony, tears streaming down his cheek. The stem of his speech bubble reaches down to the top of panel fifteen. This is a straightforward frontal shot of Bruce in the present. He stands tense and grim, poised to throw a Batarang with his right arm. Silver moonbeams shine through the broken skylight. Layered in front of the panel’s top border and behind Bruce, Harvey’s scream appears to ring through the cowl’s bat ears and extends continuously offscreen in extra large, blood-red lettering. The bubble fades around it to make it stand against the background.]

Harvey: ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Bruce: Two-Face.

[Panel sixteen. Same angle of Harvey and Two-Face. The left half of their face is ravaged by raw, pink chemical burn scars and has a bloodshot eye with burned lids; even their right eye is sunken and shadowed with a menacing glint; their hair is the same on the right, but bleached white, longer and wild on the left; they wear an angular, elegant suit divided vertically in alternating black and white. They’re smiling smugly, posture calm, confident and commanding. Their right hand aims a pistol at Bruce, and the camera. The other hand, bereft of a ring, holds their two-headed coin. Their introduction box reads: ‘Harvey Dent & Two-Face. All the drive. Fractional sanity. Half the morals, or less.’. The outlines of their speech bubbles are smooth as usual on the right and rough and scribbled on the left when both alters in the system are in relative cooperation - a dual consciousness referred to as ‘H/TF’ in the script - completely smooth when the still goodhearted, but deeply troubled Harvey is speaking alone, and completely irregular for the much more merciless, callous Two-Face personality alone.]

H/TF: Bats! Let us guess: you didn’t bring any backup because you have a self-righteous hero complex about us in particular?

[Panel seventeen. Closer frontal shot of Bruce scowling and hunching his shoulders in shameful concession.]

Two-Face: Good. Those Robins are nothing but trouble.

[Panel eighteen. Long rectangle panning down the room. Bruce and H/TF are in the background as H/TF gesture with their left arm to two men dressed like high-level businessmen in the foreground, tied to chairs with a gun pressed to each of their heads by H/TF's identical twin henchmen. The captives are bruised, cut and slumped in exhaustion.]

H/TF: Now, take one step toward us and the hostages get it. Don't go feeling sorry for them. They work for Oswald Cobblepot. His reform is fake -

H/TF and Bruce: Obviously.

H/TF: And they've already told us everything.

[Panel nineteen. Horizontal side shot from Bruce's left and H/TF's right, to frame the hostages between them.]

H/TF: But if you go after us, you'll lose your best lead on his criminal activities.

Bruce: And people will be dead.

H/TF: Yeah, whatever.

[Panel twenty. Close shot of H/TF from the left. They look left, contemplating their coin in their open hand. One face is corroded and blackened by acid, the other shiny and clean, both visible as it's drawn in a motion frame while spinning.]

You say that making our decisions based on chance is irrational and unhealthy, but believing in free will isn't all roses either. So many tough choices.

[Panel twenty-one is small box in the middle of the screen capturing the impact of the Batarang knocking the gun out of one of the henchmen's hand. H/TF's speech bubble floats in the space below it.]

There's never a win-win, is there?

[Panel twenty-two, a vertical rectangle. In the lower foreground and to the right, a gleeful H/TF bolt to the slight right of the camera, relishing both their escape and how unhappy their enemy is. In the background, Bruce restrains the armed henchman with a bolas while knocking the unarmed one out behind him with a backhanded blow. His cape billows with his rapid movement.]

At least the coin lets us be unpredictable!

[Panel twenty-three. Angle is essentially Bruce's POV. H/TF glance over their right shoulder, showing their unscarred features twisted in mockery, and sarcastically wave with their gun. They're just beyond the doorway.]

By the way, we're very good at getting two things done at once. You might wanna check your car.

[Panel twenty-four. Outside. Bruce's shadow falls from below the border diagonally over the Batmobile. Its tyres are slashed. Its fuel is leaking out into a puddle underneath it. In the next panel, we see him at eye height past the front end of the car. He has fallen to his knees, head hung.]

Bruce: Oracle? You were right. I need help.

[The black sheen of the Batmobile fades into a flat black background below. But then, within the darkness, floats a speech bubble.]

Barbara: You've already got it.

[Panel twenty-six. The first two sentences are in a bubble at the top, connected to the final sentence’s one dead in the middle. She's viewed from behind at a low angle looking up at her computer monitor. Her shoulders are assertively squared. Her security camera footage is split in two; Bruce and the crippled Batmobile are in the left window and H/TF's getaway car (also black on one side and white on the other) racing along a road in the right.]

We've been gathering intel. We know where Two-Face will strike next - and you know him as well as he knows you. Let's make a plan B.

Part 2

[Panel one. Distant establishing shot of a brightly lit black-tie gala in a vast, ornate hall, the tasteful decor dominated by white, light blues and silver. A caption informs us that this is 'The Cobblepot 'Charity' Gala'. Oswald Cobblepot is in the heart of the crowd, shaking hands with some official. Bruce Wayne is within earshot, but nearer the double doors. Panel two is a lower, tighter horizontal rectangle where Oswald and his guests are staring at the camera with tiny black dots for eyes in alarm at the doors slamming open. H/TF’s shadow falls over the floor. Panel three shows that Harvey and Two-Face have invited themselves, holding an assault rifle in both hands. Three smaller vertical panels on alternating sides of the screen show the doors being locked by pairs of Two-Face's minions in contrasting, complemetary outfits and wielding guns. The bird’s eye view of panel seven makes it clear that the guests are surrounded and trapped. Panel eight cuts back to H/TF.]

H/TF: Good evening, scum and enablers. We're -

[Panel nine takes us closer to focus on their - or rather, Harvey's - surprise.]

Harvey: Bruce? What are you doing here?

[Panel ten is a frontal shot of Bruce, like the camera's been reversed in the same position. His confusion is an act, but his concern is real.]

Bruce: I'm the richest man in Gotham and this is a high-society gala. What are you doing here?

[Panel eleven. Side shot that doesn’t show the scarring. Harvey lowers the gun, eyes softening as Bruce reaches out to him.]

I thought we agreed that you still needed treatment.

Harvey: I…

[Panel twelve. Frontal short. Remembering his mission, Harvey loses a degree of control and the two embittered alters lightly push Bruce away and point the gun straight ahead at Oswald with a glare. Motion lines trail from their arm.]

H/TF: That doesn’t matter! What matters is taking down the Penguin!

[Panel thirteen. Oswald presses a hand to his chest, somehow at once mortified and supercilious. You can hear the melodramatic sad violin. Beside him, his associates are cowering and aghast.]

Oswald: Why, everyone knows that I’m reformed. Attacking me when I’m doing good just proves how far you’ve fallen.

[Panel fourteen. H/TF snap at him furiously, and their speech bubble is large, spiky (still with the different texturing) and has a red outline for emphasis. Their eyes are stylized as flames; their right eye’s flame is orange and the left’s blue. Bruce is giving Oswald an intense sidelong glare. His lettering is smaller and his bubble's outline dashed to indicate that he's speaking under his breath.]

H/TF: SHUT UP!

Bruce: Shut up.

[Panel fifteen. Wide low angle shot up into the shadowy rafters. Damian, Dick and Tim are hiding in their vigilante identities and watching the scene below intently, at the ready. Their speech bubbles are dashed as they’re whispering. Damian is tense like a coiled spring, hand is on the hilt of his sword. Dick’s facial expression is blatantly disdainful of the villain in question, but his position and body language are calmer. Tim is all business.]

Damian: Shouldn’t we -

Tim: Not until the signal, remember? We don’t want to escalate and endanger the civilians.

[Panel sixteen. Close-up profile shot of Dick.]

Dick: Yeah, I hate Two-Face, but Bruce has got through to Harvey before.

[Panel seventeen. H/TF aim their gun with their right hand as their left reaches into their pocket to take out their coin. Their jaw is tight in composed ire. Diagonal angle to show Bruce on their right, overlaid by the gun. HT/F's speech bubble is near their head, but Harvey's is under the panel-dividing horizontal line of the gun.]

H/TF: You have the right to remain silent, forever.

Harvey: Bruce, get out of here.

[Panel eighteen, a square. Bruce is alone in the frame. He folds his arms, Batman's stern, steely presence creeping into his expression and posture.]

Bruce: Whatever you're willing to do to those people, you can do to me.

[Panel ninteen. Same composition with H/TF. They frown, the unscarred features looking regretful while the scarred ones look annoyed and disdainful.]

H/TF: Fine. Just stay out of our way.

[Panel twenty. Close up as they flip their coin. We get the blurring motion displaying both sides again. The next panel is a repeat shot where Bruce’s right hand snatches the coin in midair.]

H/TF: HEY! Give it back!

[Panel twenty-one. Extreme close-up, narrow horizontal parallelogram focused on Bruce's defiant stare. His speech bubble floats close underneath.]

Bruce: No.

[Panel twenty-two. He holds the coin out of reach. The camera is angled over and to the side of Bruce's left shoulder, to put as much visual distance between his outstretched right hand and H/TF as possible, Bruce's body in between them. H/TF’s left hand is balled into fist around the lowered gun while their right gestures like they’re arguing a case in a courtroom. They look resentful, but also coldly resigned. The speech bubbles can extend out of the panel. In the backgroud, some of the guests are depicted as simplified, featureless figures.]

H/TF: They aren’t worth sticking your neck out for. Nobody in Gotham is -

Harvey: I learned that the hard way.

Bruce: And I’ve learned otherwise. This won’t make things better, Harvey.

[Panel twenty-three. Two-Face fixes the gun on Bruce with a sadistic, unhinged snarl that’s distinctly his own.]

Two-Face: Listen, Wayne, I don’t care for you a bit. Give us our coin back or I’ll -

[Panel twenty-four. Bruce raises an eyebrow.]

Bruce: But what if it’s good heads?

[Panel twenty-five. Two-Face freezes. A ‘Twitch’ sound effect is at the corner of his right eye. Panel twenty-seven. A henchman aims his own gun with nervous eagerness.]

Henchman: I'll get your coin for you, boss!

[Panel twenty-six. The vigilantes leap down from the rafters. Dick's already thrown a Wingding to disarm him that flies downward rotating and seems to cut the shape of the panel, which has a tapering lower end.]

Dick: No!

[Large red 'BANG!' sound effect between panels. Panel twenty-seven is a small box in the middle of the screen showing the Wingding knocking the smoking gun away a split-second too late. Panel twenty-eight. Bruce and Harvey in the background and the bullet in the foreground are centred. Harvey slams into Bruce and knocks him down with his full weight, briefly putting himself in the path of the bullet.]

Harvey: Bruce!

[Panel twenty-nine. Long, vertical rectangle panning down from above the vigilantes standing in dramatic heroic landing poses at the top of the frame, wearing varyingly emotive expressions of shock, to Bruce lying propped up by his elbow and Harvey on his hands and knees at the bottom. The discarded assault rifle hits the floor between Harvey and the vigilantes with a 'Clatter' sound effect in yellow, uneven text. The coin slips out of Bruce's hand with a motion line to rest between him and Harvey. Panel thirty. Angle at eye level with Bruce and Harvey. Bruce sits up. He stares at Harvey with shining eyes and the beginnings of a smile as he processes what just happened, and what didn’t precede it.]

Bruce: You saved my life.

[Panel thirty-one. Angle is behind Bruce’s head. Harvey avoids eye contact, showing Bruce his unscarred profile. He’s solemn and though he too has a relieved hint of a smile, it doesn’t reach his eyes.]

Harvey: You never stop trying to save me. It was the least I could do.

[Panel thirty-two. Harvey’s POV. Low angle, tilted up at Bruce on his feet, offering his hand to help him up. We can tell that it’s Harvey’s perspective with both eyes because the left half of the image is dim and blurry due to the damage the acid did to his left eye. The speech bubbles are exclusively on the right.]

Bruce: It isn’t too late, Harvey. You can still heal. You can get better, be better.

[Panel thirty-three. Close-up on the right half of Harvey’s face, a narrow vertical box in the upper left section of the screen. His expression is of tentative, wary hope and raw vulnerability. He has wanted to end his crusade throughout its duration, but never been able to. Panel thirty-four. A bigger square containing his entire face and taking up the rest of the screen.]

Harvey: Do you really believe that?

[Panel thirty-five. Side shot that now only shows the side shot of Harvey’s face. Bruce kneels down be closer to eye level with him.]

Bruce: Yes. Always, I’ve been where you are. Feeling like you can never be more than all your pain and anger. But if you want a second opinion, I think you’re a better person than you know.

[Panel thirty-four. A square in the middle of the screen. Harvey’s right hand reaches out to Bruce’s waiting one, but lingers, tense and trembling, above the coin. Panel thirty-five. Vertical rectangle. Harvey shrinks in on himself, hunched over with his face buried in his arms and hands clutching his hair; perhaps he doesn’t trust himself not to pick up the coin and give Two-Face a means to make harmful decisions, just can’t make another choice of his own or both. Around him blackness with spiky, scribbled inner edges consume the screen like reality is fracturing or dissolving, or some all-consuming destructive force is coming for him.]

Harvey: Just… just take us to Arkham. We deserve it. We need help.

[The black extends, replacing the white background. But then, within the darkness, floats a speech bubble.]

Bruce: You’ve already got it.

[Fade into panel thirty-six. Horizontal rectangle. Distant, high angle. The black lightens to purple and becomes the night sky, which is warming to pink at the first moment of dawn. Harvey is handcuffed, about to enter a police car on his right. A cop is escorting him. However, Bruce has his left arm around his shoulders and they’re both in relatively good moods, similar to how they were in the flashback.]

Harvey: When did you get so optimistic, Mr Gothic McBrooding?

Bruce: Someone has to be. And hey, I had a good teacher.

#i would DIE AND GO TO HEAVEN if somebody drew any of this #the tone of wfa makes a softer happier bruce and harvey friendship story that they desperately need fit so well! #GIVE US THE HURT/COMFORT #but then again #at this point i kind of don’t want wfa to give harvey more focus because they won’t do it like this #featuring: #harvey being a fundamentally good person! #harvey and bruce being best friends and soft with each other! #bruce’s faith in harvey getting rewarded by the end! #two-face also having good intentions and targeting other criminals as a dark mirror to batman with none of the restraint #bruce being a foil to both harvey and two-face with several thematic verbal and visual parallels between them #a tragically hopeful flashback to before the maroni trial! #bruce having guilt and trauma over harvey that makes him especially vulnerable when they clash! #the objectively best two-face suit design of half-black and half-white #harvey and two-face knowing batman so well (without even knowing that he’s bruce) that they can very effectively outwit him #babs as oracle being cooler and doing a better job than bruce (offscreen but still)! #two-face’s hatred of all the robins! #dick’s hatred of him right back! #harvey dent #two-face #bruce wayne #batman #bruce and harvey #batman: wayne family adventures #wayne family adventures #bwfa #wfa

[caffeine-clouds]

Sonic Inspired Outfits - Style/Fashion Tips (Sonic the Hedgehog)

Starting off with the main man himself! Wondering what's going on? (intro post here) I did my best to make these looks natural - which means that you wont look weird or get bullied for wearing anything. These are normal normal clothes, with a bit of style. Part One - outfits that I think Sonic would wear

Sonic's vibe is loose and sporty - with a bit of a rebellious side (and some sk8ter boy) - simple and stylish - he's definitely one of the ones with the comfiest outfits to wear. We've seen Sonic wear things on his top half, but this boy religiously refuses to wear pants. Ya'll don't have that luxury though - you're wearing pants. Let's start with the colours we know work amazingly on him - red and white, same as his signature shoes. You want red to be the dominant colour with white acting as more of an accent. Combine that with the sporty and comfy style (we'll get to punk later) we have some examples of what you might wear: (jackets work great paired with a simple black or white T and black or white pants, don't pair the red and white T with a red and white jacket, it's just too much babes):

Want something more fem? Got you covered! (I don't think the text on the last one is the vibe tho - but you can find similar pieces without it)

Alright! Enough of red and white you cry - so what else? Greens and purples work great with Sonic's blue. However, these shades cannot be too saturated - lean into a darker or softer palette. And how about we finally get to a bit of sk8ter boy, aye?

Part 2 - outfits that invoke Sonic So, actually wanna look like the blue guy himself but not look ridiculous? Right this way. The major rule is - do not go overboard with the blue, you do not want to look like a blueberry. Denim is great to capture Sonic's cool vibes and is an easy way to incorporate blue into an outfit. A blue jacket with a white top can emulate Sonic's fur and his beige stomach (beige tops... eh, not really recommended imo). A blue crop top can do the same thing! Whites and greys are good neutrals that can help to break up the blues. You can also add a dash of black, red, and green - but keep these to a minimum - as Sonic doesn't have much of these on his design.

And finally - accessories! Just going to share some that I think would be neat. Tip - gold is best for jewelry in Sonic's case! To represent his gold rings and gold buckles on his shoes. Also, why not get yourself something resembling Chip's bracelet? :)

And there we have it! I hope that at least one person found it mildly interesting. If there's a character you wanna see next - send 'em in my inbox! :)

#sonic character outfit inspo #sonic character outfit ideas #sonic the hedgehog #sth #sonic kin #sonic aesthetic #sonic fashion

[verawhisk]

my drawing process (thank you @pepper-ika!)

i draw and colour for a long long time. i don't do the traditional sketch + lineart + colour -- sketches are hard to line, they're kind of time-consuming and usually they end up better than the lineart, so i just draw like normal and clean it up before colouring. i start at the head and end at around the feet, kinda like a person showering (lol). here i'm using your typical pencil brush you can find in any standard art program.

a tip i got from another artist was to colour using a thick, opaque pen brush that varies a lot in width. it saves a Lot of time. before they showed me that, i made the mistake of using a soft, painterly brush to colour my art. it hurt my wrist because i had to press really hard to get flat colour -- when all that time i could have just been using a pen brush! also, i start with soft colours because they're nicer to look at.

2. i do colourful midtones like redness in the skin or maybe a blue five o clock shadow if they have one. from this point onward, i use a flat square-ish brush combined with a painterly smudger and a soft airbrush.

i read somewhere that you should apply perfume on the moistest parts of your body so i kind of use that same idea when drawing redness. usually i do it where skin meets skin: folded arms, a crunched back, closed hands, and that place where the thighs touch the buttcheeks, lolol. and of course: the nose, lips, and ears. it makes the skin look real and warm and lively!

3. i lay down my shadows and lights, usually in that order. and at this point, i'm throwing extra shadow on wrinkles, fat, bumps, lumps, etc. a body without rolls is like an angel without wings!

also i smudge like CRAZY here. just like how it's impossible to have "too much gravy" on your chicken, it's impossible to have "too much blending" when you're drawing skin. blend that ish.

when it comes to the colour of the shadows, i always make shadows the base colour but darker and more saturated, and i move the hue a little to the left (for example: orange goes to red, green goes to yellow, purple goes to blue). i do that with, like, every colour. i can't tell if it's lazy or not but at this point i'm too scared to ask.

4. finally i make some minor adjustments like liquifying to fix lopsided eyes or oversized heads/hands. when i was in high school, my art teacher would say "great, but watch the size of the feet, hands, and neck," lolol. he was right ofc. when i go "hm... that looks a little weird," i have to trust that gut feeling because when i do fix it, it ends up looking way better. here is a horrifying gif illustrating that.

AHH!!!

alternatively you could do a messy line and color, then do a whole paintover like i did here. this is awesome for details because you dont have to go back and change the lineart - you just paint over and add whatever you want and redraw the line to fit it.

i dont really use the different layer modes that much. in this one i used a gradient map of the drawing as an overlay. idk if that really does anything major but it does create a new range of colors to play with. i also used a multiply layer to cast a big shadow over the card (layer 8) because it has this tiiiny little pattern that would be a pain in the butt to draw shadows over. everything else is pretty standard.

(and no i dont name my layers... yes i will be changing my name and moving countries)

another thing worth noting: i use airbrushing A LOT. i remember reading somewhere that using airbrushes is like. a cardinal sin. it’s not, man. it’s great. airbrushes and smudging are dope and i use them all the time.

i hope you found this helpful! have a great weekend <3

#long post #art tutorial #art tips #my art

[girl-next-door-writes]

Make The Yuletide Gay.

Characters: Steve Harrington x Reader 

Summary: When Steve spots a familiar face at a party he had been forced to go to he is caught between feeling elated and devastated.  

Word Count: 1140 words 

Prompt: #13: A is torn between making fun of B’s ugly Christmas sweater and admiring how good they look in it. 

The loud fake laughter pierced the air, the insincerity saturating every inch of the venue. Expensive glasses filled with expensive alcohol clinked as the self-congratulatory conversations echoed, the same well-groomed men patting themselves on the back as they bragged about how much money they had made in the last year while their overly made-up wives or mistresses hung on their every word. The buffet over-flowed with seafood and suspicious looking pate that may or may not be the cause of near future stomach issues, all presented perfectly like something out of a magazine.  

Crappy Christmas music filtered through the inane chatter and Steve shifted uncomfortably. This party was not his thing, but his father had insisted, more than insisted. There were times he wheeled his son out to project the image of a ‘family man’, those were the social events Steve was forced to attend in order to stay on the right side of being disowned. He was told where to be and what to wear, which is why he was standing on the patio of this rather grandiose house which felt more like a staged set than a home. Every inch of this place was carefully dressed to project wealth and success, but it lacked personality or warmth.  

Sipping his lemonade; his father had made sure his son was the designated driver for the evening; Steve found his eyes roaming over the crowd, avoiding eye contact lest that encourage someone to talk to him. He had learned long ago that the best way to survive these events was to be seen but not heard, avoid conversation and definitely avoid Mrs. Weatherly and her wandering hands. That last lesson had been learned over the past year.  

He felt a presence in the room before his mind caught up with what he’d just seen. As if playing his recent memory back in slow motion, his head whipped around as his heart began to race. His eyes lit up as he spotted a familiar figure, one he wasn’t entirely sure was real because he had been wishing for them to be there. Perhaps it was his hope that had conjured you, but as you turned, your eyes scanning the room, he realised it was you. Steve had no idea why you would be here, at this godforsaken party, but a wide grin broke across his face as he realised he now had allies here, that he had a genuine reason to spend more time with you.  

That elation was short-lived, however, when he realised exactly what he was wearing, what you were about to see him wearing! His eyes flitted down to the hideous Christmas sweater he was sporting. At first glance, someone might think it was just an intricate pattern on bland colours, but he knew you would give it more than a glance. You would see the tiny dancing reindeers and snowmen wearing jaunty hats and think he was a total loser. Suddenly, he didn’t want you to see him, wanted to blend into the background and disappear, but the universe just wasn’t gonna give him a break.  

Your eyes met his, and for a moment he thought he saw your face light up, before you schooled your expression into mild curiosity. You meandered through the crowd, each step bringing you closer and closer, and Steve felt heat rising in the back of his neck. This was it, this would be the moment when his loser status would be confirmed, and he would be forced to accept the reality that you would never be interested in a guy like him. 

“What’s a guy like you doing at a party like this?” You asked with a playful smile. 

“Shouldn’t that be my line? He asked, folding his arms over his chest in an attempt to hide his sweater.  

“Oooh, you admitting you use lines? How does that work out for you? Are they all incredibly cheesy?” 

“I am hurt that you think I would be that kind of guy.”  

“The kind of guy who might ask if my legs are tired because I’ve been running through your mind all day? Or the kind of guy who might ask if my daddy was a thief, because he stole the stars and put them in my eyes?”  

“Hey!” Steve chuckled, raising his hands in self-defense, “I would never use either of those lines. I might ask if it hurt when you fell from heaven, but that’s a classic.”  

You raised your eyebrows, laughing along with him as you looked him up and down before your eyes widened and jaw went slack. “Wait. What are you wearing?”  

If the floor could open up and swallow him, that would be perfect right now. His skin felt clammy, his body entirely too hot despite the cool breeze in the air.  

“Man, it’s like one of those magic eye pictures. I’m now wondering if you wear stuff like this all the time and I’ve been too caught up in the chocolatey goodness of your eyes to notice. Or maybe it’s the hair. You’ve got a lot going on right here.” You said as you waved your hand in the general direction of his face. 

Steve wasn’t sure if he should be flattered by the compliment or if you were just teasing him. “Well, it takes a lot of work to have hair this good.” He smirked.  

“Time, effort and hairspray, that’s what that takes.”  

“I’m glad you appreciate my effort.” He mentally patted himself on the back for how smooth he sounded just then, maybe he could take your attention away from his attire.  

“So, back to this lovely festive ensemble you have on today.” You grinned and he realised you had not been distracted at all.  

“Do we have to? Can’t we talk about your outfit? You’re looking lovely today.”  

“Nice try, but you have dancing reindeers.” 

“My dad-” 

“Your dad picked out your outfit? Oh, Harrington, this interaction is just the gift that keeps on giving! You’re lucky I don’t have a camera on me because Dustin would lose his mind over this.” 

“Seriously? You would tell Henderson about this? Ruin my street cred completely, thanks.” He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help mirror your smile. You always looked so pretty when you smiled.  

“Nah, I couldn’t tell him about your dorky sweater, because then I’d have to tell him that you actually make it look good.” You heard your mother calling your name and your smile flattened a little. “I’ve got to go mingle for a while, but hopefully our paths will cross again. I have to tease you about those adorable snowmen.”  

Steve opened his mouth to say something, but you were turning to leave. He had to admit, he hated you leaving him, but he did kinda enjoy watching you walk away.  

#Steve Harrington #Steve Harrington x reader #Steven's Greetings #gndw fic

[soulofapatrick]

Freckles and Sketches - Tommy Miller x reader

Summary: The reader lives in Jackson and she's an artist so she draws Tommy all the time because she has the biggest crush on him. One day he finds her sketch's and compliments her on it and they kiss

Words: 1.7k

Warnings: None 

Notes: @roscqk​ came up with this awesome idea and I just had to write it

Y/N’s POV

Drawing was how I got through the crappiness this apocalyptic world, I hate talking about what I see everyday so I draw it. I have sketchbook upon sketchbook filled with faces of those succumbed to the virus and they will always haunt me but at least they will be remembered in the crumpled pages of my books. 

Ever since coming to Jackson my drawings have become tamer, less and less clickers and runners appearing within the pages and more living and breathing faces. The towns folk are worn and weary and each one has their own story, some bloodier than others but every one is saved to be able to come back to on those days the nightmares take over. Every single sketchbook is stuffed under my bed in three old suitcases, all six years on the road and the year here. 

Two people had become the focus of my drawings over the last year both for different reasons. First was the loud and sarcastic girl who welcomed me with surprisingly open arms when I arrived, despite being four years my younger: Ellie Williams. Upon meeting her I fell in love with her face from an artistic point of view as it was so soft and drawable but there was a maturity beyond her years sharpening every feature. Her freckles smatter her rosey skin and despite the sharp curve of her jaw she’s all soft features and her eyes. They’re so satisfying to draw but I’m never able to find the exact colour pencils to get them right. They’re clover green but there’s something else behind them, like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders despite being nineteen. 

Then there’s Thomas James Miller aka. Tommy. He was the first person I met, finding me lost in a blizzard and offering me a safe haven. In retrospect I was stupid for agreeing so quickly but my pack wasn’t fully waterproof and I wanted to get my life’s work out of the foul weather before they were damaged beyond being saved. The man atop the beautiful russet horse was also breathtaking, the dark curls and dark eyes drawing me in like a magnet. Then the feel of his firm body underneath my hands that were splayed across his chest as he cantered back to town to get us out of the whipping wind and the saturating snow. 

That was a little over a year ago and now I’ve found myself a place in the bustling community that is Jackson. Tommy and Maria gave me a small place to myself and Ellie let herself in one day, being my new neighbour and that was that. I joined Ellie on patrols and spent the free times we had sketching, either her or my surroundings. Ellie’s father figure, Joel, would invite me to dinner every Monday and Thursday and we spent the rest of the evening talking and they pair would leave me to the sketchbook in my hands. Neither mentioned it if they caught me glancing between my book and them over and over again as I imprinted them to some part of history that would last longer than any of us. 

The Monday meals were also with Maria; Jesse; Dina and Tommy. It was after one of these meals I began to draw my hearts’ deepest desire, curled up in the armchair with my knees up so my sketchbook could lean on them and Tommy was smiling so wide as he listened to some of those ghastly puns Ellie was making. She was sat on the floor by my feet as if knowing I needed to see his face to etch it to my memory. I wanted to hug her right there and there as I never had to speak around her for her to understand everything. This was my first drawing of Tommy and by far not my last one. His freckles and the creases around his eyes when he laughed quickly becoming my favourite things to sketch, his curls coming up a quick second. His eyes always gleam with hope and promise of a better tomorrow and I cling to it like it’s a secret between the two of us except only one is aware of it. 

I hate using my voice. I don’t speak if I don’t have to and everyone in town knows it. I don’t see the point in talking if there’s nothing worth saying as words are powerful things and in the wrong hands can do so much damage. I think it’s why I started drawing, pictures can’t hurt as much as words. No-one in town has heard me speak except Ellie and maybe Joel once and that’s how I like it. I’ll speak if I need to but that’s it.

Ellie knows of my sketchbooks as she walked in on me one night. I was on the floor with multitudes of the little black books scattered around me and I was cradling one to my chest. She had never said a word, instead moved a few aside to settle on the floor next to me, gently prying the tear stained one from my death grip. It was open on the last drawing I had ever done of my older brother and it wasn’t my favourite revelation. It was of him on the floor, eyes empty and a gun in hand, bite mark evident on his forearm and his brains… everywhere. Ellie didn’t say anything but put the book down and pulled me into the arms where I spent the rest of the night crying everything I had bottled up in the pages. 

She hadn’t told anyone about the suitcases but would stop by after almost every patrol taken without me and I’d let her grab a sketchbook, flip to a page and would listen to the story of that person. If I never knew them I’d make it up, wanting every memory of these clickers to be human ones not the mindless monsters everyone became after. 

Today felt wrong, the nausea in my gut had me drawing the nightmare that plagued me. It was Ellie in Elliott’s place but her throat had been cut and I felt like I was going to throw up. It has me throwing on the first clothes I find and running next door, knocking on Joel’s door until I realise no ones opening it so I sprint down the road to Tommy’s. This time the door swings open and there he is, curls messy and face softening when he sees me, asking what’s wrong but I’m turning and walking away as it’s not Ellie. Tommy calls my name and I stop walking, pacing back and forwards in the snow waiting for him to get his shoes on and close his door behind him. 

His touch is soft and electrifying all at once when he lightly grabs my hand to stop me pacing him and face him so he can ask, “What’s wrong?” 

I don’t reply, gripping his hand tighter and leading him back to mine. I need to show him my worries as I don’t want to word my fears as it’ll make them more real. Tommy doesn’t utter a word, just following me inside mine and tilting his head slightly in question when we stop in my room. I reluctantly drop his hand, grabbing the sketchbook that was haphazardly dropped on my bed and flipping through it to show him my fears. He takes it and then is pulling into a surprising hug that has a small sound escaping my lips but I melt into it, resting my head on his chest and letting my eyes slip shut as I breath in that sweet and familiar scent of burnt coffee, hay and vanilla is everything Tommy. 

“Ellie will be okay baby girl,” He coos, carding his long fingers through my hair and I want to open up everything to him. He hasn’t ever called anyone else ‘baby girl’ and it’s not like I haven’t seen the sweet and longing looks sent my way it’s just I’ve never been able to believe I’m not imagining them but the way he’s holding me shows me everything I need. 

I’m breaking away, sitting on the floor and he follows suit when I look up at him in waiting, Then, after a deep and shaky breath, I’m heaving the suitcases from the safety of under my bed, unlocking them and watching his face. Surprise is the first emotion then something gentle as he glances over at me, whispering a quiet, “Are you sure?”. He waits for my approval and I nod so his umber eyes skim over all three suitcases before he’s reaching for a new sketchbook. I can feel my heart in my chest as he flips through it, panic building when he stops on a certain few pages. I reach for his arm, unable to see what has him so suddenly breathless then he’s turning his face to watch me an unreadable emotion in those gorgeous eyes. 

“Do you mean everything it?” He’s asking, the book in his hands lowering enough for me to see he found my admittance to my feelings for him. I feel my chest constricting and I can’t meet his stare, preparing myself for the inevitable rejection. Instead, soft lips press against mine and I’m gasping, eyes flying open to see his freckles in high definition with more visible at this closeness, “You don’t know how long I have dreamt of this. I have been love with you since Ellie introduced you.” 

“You love me?” I ask, my voice rough and quiet from not being used and his eyes widen again before they soften even more than ever before. 

“Your voice is beautiful, you should speak more. You’re beautiful and I am so in love with you baby girl.” 

“I love you too.” 

He’s kissing me softly again and right then and there I know I’ll be okay. The world might have ended but mine is just beginning and maybe he’s right: maybe words are worth it. If it makes him smile like that maybe it wouldn’t hurt to use my words as well as my drawings. Maybe everything will be okay. 

#Tommy miller #Tommy miller x reader #Tommy miller x y/n #Tommy miller x you #Tommy miller fluff #Tommy miller smut #Tommy miller angst #Tommy miller fic #tommy miller fanfiction #Tommy miller oneshots #the last of us #the last of us 2 #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fics #the last of usfic #the last of us fluff #the last of us smut #the last of us Tommy #Tommy tlou #tlou x reader #tlou x Tommy #Gabriel luna

[sweetstarling]

Day1 of SpookTober: Forest Games - Diasomnia x Reader A dance Amongst Many

Day one of this lovely autumn month, sadly a couple days late but regardless the day is delivered; A lovely experience with the faes of the valley for this day.

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~𝕯𝖔𝖜𝖓 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖆𝖇𝖇𝖎𝖙 𝕳𝖔𝖑𝖊 𝖂𝖊 𝕲𝖔~

Thin layers of honey glazed leaves till crisp swiftly dancing to the floor brushed with dense lemon curd saturated intensely until twigs cracked and held no more, releasing a beautiful song into the wind of nostalgia. Layer upon layer of crystalized honey carpeting soaked strands of forest; A songbird released a tune echoing into the melody of honey, crisp steps joined in a waltz with the continued joyous laughter as more and more leaves collapsed leaving a trail of lemon dew.

Your movements briskly giggled with the noise of moaning trees, branches of dust like years yearning to give out upon another season.

Patches of blossoming mint tea caressed what should've been naked trees, a silhouette of a familiar hue graced the markings of age calmly and without a tremble upon the distance from the ground; Thin strings of magenta glossed over scarlet blood-stained orbs with a tint of amusement and a release of a song, 'That child of man could run until dawn', a thoughtful almost humorous remark left sharp canine jaws. Perhaps, the vampire-Esque individual was right though another thought caressed his mind in a sudden rush of anxiety, run until dawn or run until they tred into a fairy ring.

A shadow lurked over the pools of blood moons as if fear were grasping him by nightmare silked gloves, evaporating into the air before reappearing once more to watch your steps further and further into deer raging grounds. tree upon tree suddenly blessed by fae ability only to shield for some time, gazing from side to side, the young master was out of sight as if a curse embellished them, the valley was home to many thorns of circular portals if you were to fall in,

a curse worse than one the sorceress cast.

Glazing your fingertips over natures fruits of colour, a set of horns sparked a freezing electric spark between the cells of your skin, a metallic breeze touching the tip of your tongue in shock like the sudden shower of blood flavouring your insides on the days you happen to injure yourself. Grasping tightly onto the newfound texture, regardless of the discomfort, you had finally caught the dragon fae amidst the game.

An arm slithered around you bringing you to a slight stumble upon contact until you were on the bed of the valley, a carpet of damp aftermath tickled your skin through layers of cloth, Gems of forest green sunk into your heart only to drag your close into an embrace of shielding you away from the caws of the knights.

Silver-tinted swords interlinked with flurries of moss scavenged amongst the thorns in search of the crown and a trail of roses blessed by dawn only to be met with a Cheshire-like grin painted by sharp canines and pools of blood.

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I hope you enjoyed,lovelies, this post was based on a game I would play as a child, seeking each other in a forest alongside being inspirered by the aesthetic of sleeping beauty

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #diasomnia x reader #twisted wonderland diasomnia #twst diasomnia #diasomnia #twst malleus x reader #twst malleus #malleus draconia x reader #malleus x reader #malleus draconia #twst lilia x reader #twst lilia #twisted wonderland lilia x reader #twisted wonderland lilia #lilia vanrouge #sebek zigvolt #twst silver

[bivproject]

She’s happi :)

This is her final outfit of sorts. Or, at least, the main outfit of her finishing arc. So I wanted it to look like such! Now hush hush because none of the following are finished designs, they’re either concepts or WIPs. But this is the idea of the evolution of her dresses.

The first one is very her: very fun, frilly and youthful. It’s got pretty fabrics, bright, saturated colours and a big, poofy silhouette with ruffles like waves and lace like sea foam. It’s shorter to allow for movement, and in that reminiscent of a child or ballerina’s dress of this rough time. This is the time in her life in which she was the happiest and most playful, and I want that to show.

There’s technically supposed to be a fourth dress here in between the first and second, which is just a somewhat desaturated but still light-coloured dress. Perhaps a bit less poofy. Just as short, through.

Then comes the sea green. A bit sickly looking. Messy, disoriented. The ultimate depression dress. Lotta feathers for decor, but more in the “plucked bird” genre of things. The crinoline like the birdcage. Just me going ham on symbolism since she doesn’t have to be presentable in this outfit (she isn’t seeing anyone except her sister in this time).

And then lastly the deep blue. It almost looks black if not for the blue highlights. Full length dress. No ruffles, no frill. Rather simplistic, especially in terms of Marina.

After her runaway, I wanted her to go back to light colours to show the load that’s off her shoulders, as well as to represent her new start. But I didn’t wanna do saturated colours, as she’s still far from where she used to be. This whole time I’ve also put her in big dresses to represent how she wasn’t afraid to take up space, which was a juxtaposition to Coralina’s slim design. Talking about Coralina,

I wanted this whole outfit to a poor man’s attempt at a Coralina inspired dress, with Marina’s own touch on it.

The dress is still wider than Coral’s is, and still has a trace of those vertical ruffles from Marina’s own first dress as well as that shorter look (albeit not quite as short). But it’s got Coral’s yellow-ish accents, except paired with Marina’s personal colour: blue. This is the dress she starts wearing after reuniting with Coralina, so it only felt right for her dress to mimic her, as Marina remembers her. (I haven’t designed Coralina’s latter outfits yet, but I like the idea that they start to lean slightly more in the direction of Marina’s outfits as she grows into her own skin a bit.)

I wanted Marina’s dress to be a return of hope and happiness, but also a bit more humble and mature while still definitely being more youthful than her 3rd deep blue dress. Oh, and of course, the return of the bird symbolism. The three, free feathers. The bird has flown, leaving all but feathers behind.

#oc character design #character design #original character art #original characters #oc project #ocs #writing project #original character #oc #art #oc art #digital art #princess marina #behind the scenes babble

[andywinter16]

Hello again! I say bingo! date night with Libertus and Nyx! Thank you very much in advance! :D

 Hi again! @stars-chan :D Uuuuu, I had some cute ideas for these boys and their date nights! Let´s dig in :D (also hope you don´t mind that I made the reader neutral? I just want everyone to enjoy :) ) I am also sorry, it took me so long ( work and other projects kept me away) 

galadh words used: 

*alowene - heart of hearts

tewe týchy - my luck

tewe selenaís- my moon

Libertus Ostium: Little Galadh echoed laughter of it´s inhabitants. In the air was happiness that was´t felt since the fall of Galadh. It was magnificent sight to whoever found it´s way down there. Whole district lighted up with colours of a banners, air saturated with exotic perfumes and spices. The refugees of Galadh dressed in their homeland colourful garb, hairs styled into intricated braids. Merchants were shouting from their stalls to attract customers, lively as ever those people of Ramuh. You were so fascinated with the Rain´s festival, you stumbled over and started to fall down. Luckily two strong hands covered in scars catched you first.

 “Well, look at you, I just turn over for a sec and you´re off somewhere!” teased lightly, his warm breath brushes over your neck. “I am sorry Lib, it´s just ... I never saw Little Galadh so alive before. Also” you turn around in his tender embrace,” you look so stunning in your celebration garb, how would I not fall ?” you winked. Libertus cheeks turned dusty pink. Nobody would believe you, If you told them that this man blushed so easily at your genuine compliments or act of kindness. He kissed your forehead softly, adoration obvious in his stormy eyes. “ Then what are we waiting for alowene, the night is too young. I want to show you all that Rain´s festival has to offer.” 

He lets you go from his embrace, and puts his arm around your waist. Always so protective of his precious. Lib let´s you lead to whatever stall catches your interest first. He was mesmerized when your eyes lit up like a child in toy store when you were trying something new. Your mood was so contagious, Libertus wasn´t even grumbling much, when some food wasn´t completely authentic. There was also lot of festival games like water rings, pin the coeulr´s tail or hidden marlboro. Lib excelled especially at the last one, from which he won you a big plushy Marlboro. You dubbet it affectionaly Libertus the Second. At his raised eyebrow you just simply explained: “When you´re not home with me I get lonely , so I could at least cuddle him” Lib envelops you in needy hug, glarings slightly at the plushie. “Now now tewe týche, you have a real deal right there” You laugh at his antic, kissing his temple softly. 

Libertus then took you on one of the bigger terrace in the district. It was around midnight. There were prepared comfy chairs for spectators for whatever show was suppose to happen. (You had some idea) Lib sat down pulling you with him into his lap. His warm was comforting in the chilly night. “And now for the best part.” Like from another world sparkly fireworks began to appear in the sky. You were so mesmerised by the sight of the lights. Libertus felt tug at his heart when he watched you, he shall cherish this moment till his last breath.

Nyx Ulric: “Nyx,” you whispered” why are we again sneaking around the halls of the citadel on our date night”? your silly boy flashed you a mischievous grin. You were currently hidding in one of the niches behind heavy baldachin. When the Crownsguards passed by your spot Nyx took your hand and lead you to the jammed door. It leads to dimly lighted hallway lined with paintings. “Nyx, seriously what are you planning, you goofball?” you were naturally curious. 

For these past few weeks Nyx was either deployed on frontlines or busy with other Kingsglaive duties (and let´s be honest having to work extra shifts for insubordination). You knew what you were getting into,no one really said it wouldn´t be easy. You felt like at some point that maybe he was avoiding you. What if he had found someone else? Those ugly thoughts flodded your mind, even though you knew they were silly. Nyx blessed be his hearth and intuition, stops in his tracks. “Tewe selenaís, what is wrong?” he scoops you closer, your forehead touching in a familiar gesture. “Nyx, it´s ... nevermind, just me being silly with my thoughts” you cares gently his scarred face. He doesn´t buy it in slightest. Instead Nyx pushed the door open, revealing hidden gem inside the walls of Citadel, the royal gardens. It catches your breath away. “Oh, and there I thought it was me, who stealth your breath away.” he grins like a cheshire cat, crashing your lips together. “Now come on, I didn´t bribe Luche with my chocolate, just for nothing” grumbles a little. The thought of Nyx parting with his chocolate and giving it to Luche was so amusing. ( Luche was well known for his sweet tooth, especially for chocolate)  You went hand in hand with Nyx through the beautiful well kept garden. The path was lined with many deciduous trees mainly beeches, oaks, elms some of which you didn´t even recognize. The air was full of fragrance from the various flowers that grew here. Nyx pointed at one of the flowers that catched your attention “ That´s hydrangea, it is native flower on our islands. Galadh is perhaps inhospitable, but these thrive there like no other”  he explained briefly. Your walk ended at little pond whose surface glittered like jewels in the moonlight. Around him were lovely ducks sleeping.

“Please, have a seat sweetheart”  he softly smiles and gestures to blanket with pillows. It was lighted with candles, plates were full of delicious food and on the sides were prepared glasses with beverages. “Nyx, that´s ... oh my god, I am  truly speechless. You put so much effort into it, love”  Nyx treated you with a blissful smile. You both dined in silence, enjoying each other's presence.

“I hope whatever plagued your mind is gone” he started sheepishly” I know these few weeks I wasn´t the perfect boyfriend for you. I was scared Y/N, every damn  time i left your embrace for a war, I was afraid i wouldn't come back to you. I had to get it right in my head first. And it was thanks to my friends that I didn't make the worst decision of my life.” The kiss he gave you was different from the previous ones, he put all his love and adoration into it. You melted into him, every dark thought forgotten. You then laid on the blanket and looked at the stars, hugging each other lovingly. Because these moments are worth any hardship.

#ffxv #ffxv kingsglaive #nyx ulric #libertus ostium #fluff #bingo ask #writing prompt #I hope it doesn´t feel rushed #is this even fluff? #maybe little bit angst? #People bribing Luche with chocolate is my Canon stuff #I believe my Lib is more OCC that I wanted #okay maybe Nyx too #nyx ulric x reader #y/n #libertus ostium x reader

[gingerteaonthetardis]

If you still want prompts (and no pressure if you’ve got a billion) but a combo for ‘tactile’ and ‘under the influence’ could be fun. Use whatever pairing you feel most inspired for!

well, thinky. i was nattering on about four and this is the reason why... hope you like! (forgive any extra mistakes; i didn't exactly have the aid of your eyes looking over things for me. ❤️)

read on ao3.

-

|| Somewhere on the planet Ranx, 2116 CE. ||

Rose dipped her finger into the simmering cauldron, where crystals like caramelised sugar clung to the sides in evidence of substantial heat. Fragrant steam billowed around the surface in a lambent cloud.

The digit came away violet—a rich, saturated colour like she'd only seen in the deepest hearts of nebulae, and several shades darker than the potion itself. Surprisingly, it didn't burn.

"Is that good?" she asked, glancing up at the crone who stood hunched nearby. The cauldron—and the dusty old cottage that housed it—belonged to her, as did every ingredient that had gone into the stuff now coating Rose's skin. She gave no answer. "Or… bad? Maybe kind of a mix?"

Nothing.

Which just figured. The woman's answers had been dodgy from the start, and now, they seemed completely unforthcoming. Rose had never considered herself a particularly sceptical person, but this scenario was straining the limits of even her credulity.

There was no way it would work.

Still, she had to try.

"Right," she said, mostly to herself. "Nothing for it, then."

Wrinkling her nose, she cupped her hands together and plunged them into the potion. The heat prickled at her skin, the consistency making the liquid cling and drag at each hair follicle. It was thick, almost like wax.

It stung, but she didn't stop until she'd scooped some up in her open palms.

On the surface, it had a faint golden sheen and carried the scent of something sweet—something familiar—

Hopefully that's good, was her last thought before lowering her head and parting her lips, drinking deep before the liquid fell back through her fingers.

|| The TARDIS galley, date unknown. ||

The day had been the kind that called for a drink.

Not that he drank, as a rule. In fact, he tended to advise against that kind of thing on the TARDIS, considering the ship's tendency to—well, become surreal at a moment's notice.

He refused to use the word "malfunction," if he could help it. It just seemed rude.

Still, despite his better judgement, he was seriously considering pouring himself a little glass of ginger beer—with two spheres of ice, just how he preferred it—when a woman came stumbling through the door in a vague puff of colourful smoke, muttering curses.

"Sh-shit—what did you put in…?" she was saying, trailing off the moment her head lifted and her eyes caught his. To his surprise, she gave a dizzy smile. "Oh, didn't see you there!"

Given the state of her pupils—so wide and dark as to be plainly visible at ten paces—he was surprised she could see anything at all. Still, he said, "And yet, here I am."

The woman giggled like he had told a very amusing joke. "Right, s-sorry, could you—I mean, if it's not too much trouble, would you tell me… where, exactly, I am?" Her delivery of the question was slightly slurred, and the Doctor cocked his head. Was she drunk?

In a sudden huff at seeing this stranger in the carefree attitude he'd meant to enjoy himself, he replied, vaguely, "In my kitchen."

What?

Kitchen, of course, wasn't the word for the TARDIS galley. Not remotely. In fact, it was a word he'd never used to describe the room a day in his lives.

His brow scrunched in self-recrimination.

"Really!" she cried, taking another unsteady step forward. He felt he ought to reach out and help her, but made no move to do so. She'd somehow—quite impossibly, he might add—broken into his ship, after all, and there was no reason to aid her in her intrusion. "A kitchen! I take the witch's potion and it lands me in a strange man's kitchen."

Being neither strange nor a man, the Doctor took some offense to this. But the woman didn't seem to notice; she was too busy shambling toward the table, where his bottle of ginger beer sat untouched. And there was the more important matter at hand:

"A potion, you say?"

"Yeah, and a pr—a pretty useless one, apparently," she answered, picking up the bottle and running a thumb over the label. "It was s'posed to show me—hic—someone I'm—I'm looking for."

He couldn't tell if her accent was thickened by inebriation, or if she just sounded like that in general.

"And… who might you be looking for?"

At his words, the woman's head lifted once again, and she pinned him with an calculating look. Her pupils appeared to be getting back to normal—normal assuming she was human, of course, which was rather a big assumption—but her eyes remained glassy, gleaming with a shattering and refracting light, like a cut gemstone viewed through water. The grin that burst over her face was as crooked and impish as it was unexpected.

"Somebody with," she paused, "really great hair."

Her eyes fixed on his—admittedly rather impressive—mop of curls.

He felt a smug smile beginning to work its way over his face. "Really."

"Extremely very. Just—incredible hair. And so soft," she added dazedly. Then, it was like something was taking her over, moving her without her own conscious will, because she dropped the bottle unceremoniously back to the table—ka-thunk—and took several steps toward him. "'Course, I used to wind him up, 'cause he took so long getting it all ready and sticky-uppy in the morning. So many hair products! He used all the hot water, too. Infinite timesh—hic—ship, yeah? And somehow he still ran out the taps! How's that work?"

"Problem with the thermal sieves," he answered. "I'll get round to fixing them eventually."

And then, he realised. "Hang on, timeship?" he cried, at just the same moment she said, "Doctor?"

In an instant, she was lurching towards him again, and he ought to have been skilled at mistrusting people at this point; it ought to have been an embedded trait—but he still, somehow, found himself reaching out and steadying the woman, only to be quite tremendously startled when she fell forward into his arms and clung to him like a limpet.

"Oh my God," she was saying, her voice pitching higher with every word. "It worked. I mean, you're the wrong you—or, I mean, you're still you, of course, but—Doctor!" She practically laughed his name, and it was an inexpressibly joyful sound that rattled his ribcage where she was pressed. "God, you feel nice."

And if he'd had any doubts before that the woman was three sheets to the wind, they disappeared the second she pulled her head back—and then pressed both hands to the center of his chest, right over the dip of his solar plexus, before dragging them down until her fingertips scraped his stomach through his Oxford. He wasn't sure whether he was glad he'd foregone the vest today or not.

She repeated the process several times, then began feeling her way down his arms, over his shoulders. An altogether odd experience, though not unpleasant, and she seemed transfixed by her foggy explorations.

"You're rather a—well, a tactile sort of person, aren't you, to get this cosy this fast," he pronounced when she'd finally pushed the fingers of one hand up under the collar of his shirt, running along his trapezius.

She seemed abashed, but made no move to stop. "It's just, you look so—so good!" she cried, and then, laughing, she corrected herself. "That's—I meant to say—you're in good shape, not…" Pausing the efforts of one hand, she made a vague, dismissive gesture. "Not covered in blood or anything."

He frowned. "Am I often covered in blood when you see me?"

That seemed to strike her as yet another good joke. "Sometimes, but then again, so am I!"

It was, he had to admit, a disconcerting image.

The woman, for all her oddities, had a kind of vigour to her. A brightness, which lit her features and made her generously doled out smiles feel almost calculated to stimulate the production of dopamine in his brain. He didn't care for the mental image of her covered in blood.

The possibility still remained that she was dangerous—that all her talk of blood and witches and potions was indicative of some tendency toward the darker things in the universe. She could be an ally of his enemies: goodness knows he had many.

She could even be an enemy herself. One from his future, perhaps?

But some stubborn part of his brain resisted the notion. It wasn't that he couldn't believe those things; it was simply that he didn't want to.

The prospect alarmed him. He was unused to not believing things merely because he didn't want them to be true.

"You do realise," he finally said, "that I still don't have any idea who you are."

This, finally, brought her roving hands to a stop.

She was just running her fingers along the nape of his neck, tangling in the loose curls there, when she paused. The pressure of the touch made his skin tingle with the urge to rise in gooseflesh, but he suppressed the impulse. She didn't quite let go of him, but her face visibly fell, lines forming where there had been none. He felt in an instant that her age was not what he might've suspected it to be.

"Oh," she said, rather weakly. "Of course. I hadn't thought of that."

He felt obliged to remind her, "You also appeared on my TARDIS out of seemingly thin air. Which is impossible." Impossible for her, he did not say, if she really was only a human woman under a witch's spell.

A limp smile tugged at her lips. "And yet," she murmured, tipping impossibly closer, "here I am." The movement seemed unconscious on her part, and had altogether unexpected results.

Because—the impression which had been forming suddenly finalised, and the Doctor understood without a shadow of a doubt that the person in his arms with her hands in his hair was his future.

There were other possible explanations, naturally; he was a man of science and ought therefore to have given them due consideration.

But some things were simple, or perhaps, irreducibly complex.

She was his future. He could feel it. It was as simple and as complex as that.

And there was also the matter of the TARDIS key.

He spied it hanging on a chain from her neck, shifted free from her jacket on the momentum of her body. Shiny coppery gold, it was daubed with a fat, glittering droplet of some violet substance which did not move, but which swirled with the unmistakable light of time.

Witch's potion, indeed.

That was pure, uncut temporal particulate.

"Here you are," he agreed, softening. And then, after a moment: "Are you going to continue?"

"Continue what?"

"Being tactile." The woman's mouth popped open in clear surprise, and he couldn't help but grin. "You see, I've worked it out and you pose no danger to either of us, so I thought I might let you finish before I set you to rights. You'll likely wake up back where you started, thinking this was all a dream."

This time, his skin prickled very insistently at the urgent convulsing of her fingers in his hair. "A dream—is it a dream?" she asked in wonderment. He thought it was a little endearing, how the effects of the Vortex had her struggling to keep up.

Then again, a dose that strong would be enough to get even the steadiest sort of person pissed as a newt.

"Not precisely. More of a vision. A spatio-temporal projection."

"A projection," she whispered, looking inexplicably sad.

"That's how you got onto the TARDIS: you couldn't really be here, but you have been before, and that's more or less the same thing."

The woman frowned. "But I can feel you." Her words were accompanied by a determined tug. It was obvious she really was very attached to his hair, in the corporeal realm as well as the abstract.

He didn't mind.

"That's because our timelines are physically linked, and there's the… witch's potion, as you said, to help things along. You clearly already know what I feel like, and it's becoming apparent to me that I will, at some point, know what you feel like." He smirked at her baffled expression. "Call it a presentiment."

"Right, so…"

Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, the woman worked it over in serious thought. Each bat of her eyelashes seemed to fan more aureate sparks over the warm brown surface of her irises. She really had to be very inebriated, but was composing herself rather well, considering.

"I guess, that means—can I—?"

"Yes," he agreed, not knowing what he was agreeing to.

When she pushed up onto her toes, hands braced about his neck and lips pressing soft into the corner of his mouth, he got the idea.

She whispered an apology. "Aim's off. Bloody potion."

"It's perfectly all right, er—I don't know your name."

"Not s'posed to tell," she answered, a little scolding. "You know better, Doctor." Her aim was improving, however, and therefore, his interest in other subjects was beginning to wane.

The woman was sweet and solid in his hands, and she tasted like something sugary—and, in glorious counterpoint, more than a little like unspent time—the intake of which became his sole focus for a good long while.

That, and the varying pressure—the give-and-take—at which he was not terribly practised, but which he felt very willing to learn.

A thought occurred to him. "Do we often—do this, when you see me?"

The woman smiled. Just a little, knowing thing: an answer in itself. And then it turned sweet, a little wistful, as she said, "Sometimes, yeah—when we're not covered in blood."

Before he could decide whether that worried him or not, her lips found his again, and the issue was put very firmly to one side.

He did eventually begin to wonder if her back hurt from stretching to reach him, or perhaps her neck, from tilting it back invitingly—if, possibly, her toes ached from standing on them so long—and he'd come to the decision that they were going to have to either stop—a dreadful idea—or sit down to equalise their heights, when—mid-kiss, and with her one hand still working his hair into a state of havoc while the other slipped back beneath his shirt collar—the woman simply…

Simply disappeared.

In a puff of smoke, violet and indigo, just as she'd arrived.

His lips felt bruised, almost tingling from the sudden absence of pressure, and without her weight holding him down, his centre of gravity abruptly shifted. He stumbled forward, leaning against the table while he caught his breath.

His respiratory bypass hadn't even kicked in until now, he'd been so caught up. In her absence, the practicalities came flooding back.

He'd had a visitation via psycho-projection and Vortex consumption, and the visitor had snogged him. Thoroughly.

The Doctor tipped his head back and laughed.

Romana was never going to believe him.

Left in the now-empty space was the bottle of ginger beer, the single glass containing two melting spheres of ice, and a scent on the air.

Ozone, burning. Crushed violets.

The woman was well and truly gone.

Back to his future, presumably. He sighed, a bit wistfully. He'd never even asked her why she was looking for him…

The Doctor thought maybe he wouldn't bother with the drink after all. Things seemed to be getting surreal enough without it.

|| Back on the planet Ranx, 2116 CE. ||

Rose came back on tiptoe, her heels lowering gracelessly back to the packed dirt floor of the witch's cottage. Her head was positively splitting. Everything was too bright to her sensitive eyes, even the odd werelight of the witch's concoction, still simmering and swirling away before her.

The Doctor had seemed not to think it was really any kind of potion, but had given her no clue as to what it actually was she'd been meddling with.

It took several seconds for her to place the crone again, who was grinning through greenish teeth across the cauldron.

Rose's hands lowered to her sides; they felt oddly bereft without a tangle of hair beneath them, and there was a kind of soreness in her muscles from holding her arms up for such a long time. He really was very tall, that particular iteration. He had at least an inch or two on her own Doctor.

She pressed her lips hard together, so as not to blush at the comparisons she couldn't help but make.

"Well," she said primly. "That did not go as expected."

For once, the witch seemed inclined to answer: her needle-point incisors flashed as she asked, "You want more? More time?"

Rose held a hand to her mouth, sealing her lips. More time.

All around her, the air seemed thick and heady with the roiling heat of the potentially dangerous not-a-potion, and yet, the temptation to drink more—to see if she could reach out again, get another foothold, stay longer, see more—loomed large.

But…

"Better not," she said, letting out a breath. Her head cleared a little. It wasn't as simple as stealing time, not if she was to find a permanent way back. "I'll just have to find another way to see him."

Armed with this determination and little else—except, she smiled, for the lingering candy-sweet taste on her tongue—Rose thanked the witch, and turned her back on the cottage.

She felt content in the knowledge that she'd at least, for a moment, been with him again. That she'd seen him, touched him. Kissed him again. After so long…

And it would not be the last time.

#pspspspsps come get your classic doctor and rose fix #this is just my typical nonsense: classic edition #fourth doctor #rose tyler #fourrose #timepetals #dw fic #my fic #lotsofthinkythoughts #abbey.txt

[tiny-vermin]

essek takin a swim :)

ref from this picture of lil nas x (n thank u to sol who reblogged it and encouraged me to do this piece!!!)

get it on inprnt :DDDD

#man i hope these colours are the right saturation!! #more of an exploration of the textures rather than Essek #but hey #aaa idk if its too messy #cyrign shitting sobing #essek thelyss #critical role #critical role fanart #verms stuff #verms cr

[kitty-av]

Ok, so I think I have finished ghost designs for my clones after they pop up in the zone after their destabilisation •^•

I also have color for them now - roughly at least. I may change hues or values at some point because I just mostly used this one pack of markers with nice saturation, and so if I ever decide to draw them digitally things will definitely change at least a bit.

But yeah, here they are, my bois but ghost addition:

I drew this man once on a sticky note and once on notebook paper, I added them both because I think both sketches have their charm. Dorian is no longer naked, so I had to incorporate his original design in more subtle ways like the belt. And his colours are generally the black and white of his original appearance.

I gave him a new hairstyle because I was already going for a glow up vibe, and I thought it'd look nice. I gave him some green in the hair because I wanted more green accents near his face just in case the detail on the suit ended up distracting away from it. Also hair streaks are cool.

Lastly, I was so proud of myself when I realised I could make the DP symbol into a tie accessory, the joy I felt when I randomly happened to sketch it like that was just... A lot.

Gotta love feeling smart for doing small details right OwO

This man. This man gave me a lot of trouble in the colour department. I already knew I wanted Dante in a comfortable/ casual outfit because he's the art guy of the squad, but after I figured out what it's generally going to look like, I realized that the whole green/yellow/blue triad looks great on paper... But it actually looks awkward in paper.

The markers I picked were giving me very few options because the green was dark, so I brought in another lighter one that didn't have a brush tip ( hence the roughness in some sketches ) and began to play around with the different combinations and with the way they'd look near the blue ( hence the swatches around the clothing )

In the end I settled for darker on the inside, lighter on the outside. After that I decided my man had way too little blue and thought it'd be cool to also give him blue in the hair to help tie the color together a bit more. It worked, but I like my sketch without the streaks more than the one I did with them, so I'm showing both.

Other than looking like a sunflower, the man's dark and green on the inside is also kinda his original colour scheme. His eyes were red as a Skelly, but I ditched that because I like my yellow/blue/green scheme and I wanted to keep it consistent.

This guy was the simplest to figure out because I already knew I wanted him to look the most superhero/ready for action one out of all of them. I gave him a uniform looking suit because I thought it'd probably be better for flying around and being tiny but also stylish.

I have multiple sketches of this lil man ( one in my own ) because of how simple and quick it is to actually pose and draw this man out of all of them.

I think this works because he's also quite expressive and mischievous so if he's easier to draw I can maybe push the outline and expressions more to show his emotions.

Also elf ears and fangs because that way he looks like a tiny fairy or sprite and that's very chaotic. You see him and you know he's a mischievous boi.

His hair is fire because why not, fire hair is cool. That's probably why they gave Dan fire hair too, it just looks nice.

Though for Dominic it's more of a general ' this guy is a free spirit ' vibe rather than a ' I am intimidating and very scary ' vibe.

He's red because I just thought it fit and it would help him stand out against the green of his brothers ( and also his own green from when he was a clone ) OwO

I think this is everything I wanted to show for now so yeah, I hope you guys like them (ㆁωㆁ) Have a good day/night!

#danny phantom #phanart #dp clones #danny phantom art

[caraelora]

A Game in the Making: Part VI

Following up from a couple of posts ago, discussing Hellblade: Senua’s Sacrifice, thinking about this game made me consider the tone of my own game a lot more. Hellblade has a dark fantastical feel, exploring psychosis; and thinking about Alex, when I picture it in my head it’s saturated with bright colours to showcase the Swinging Sixties, but also feels like a film noir. I suppose that makes it sound like a highly stylised and slick spy piece like Man From U.N.C.L.E or… Austin Powers? No. Not Austin Powers, but I'm sure you know what I mean. I hope.

Although I picture the game visually exuding 1960s pop culture, I still want that darker tone to it. After all, it does follow a woman experiencing trauma. Her husband is killed and she seems to be the next target. What she discovers further down the line in the game is traumatising in its own right for anyone, I would say. I think if i want to develop the game concept further I would need to find a balance in tone for sure. The Swinging Sixties was a revolution, it was politically charged but also culturally exciting and fun. Displaying that within the context of a dramatic story could be challenging because I still want this game to feel real, as if it was happening to a ‘modern’ woman, but I also want to immerse the player in sixties aesthetics and sensibilities. If it’s done right, I think this could gain traction amongst gamers in the same way that Mafia 2 did.

I still really love Mafia 2.

I know I also want to incorporate a choice the player has to make within the game that doesn’t change the ending of the game, but shifts the tone of Alex. It’s something I’ll go more into detail in the proposal.

All in all, thinking about different games for the blog has really helped shaped the tone I want for Alex so far.

#interact21 #video games #gaming #senua's sacrifice #mafia 2 #1960s #film noir #austin powers #man from uncle #nostalgia

[tran5rightsos]

Stalking for Art Students

Summary: An extremely pretty stranger catches Michael's train to uni every morning. What's he supposed to do except draw him at every opportunity? At least he doesn't have a crush on the nude model.

Genre: Contemporary

Relationships: Mashton, Cake

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Word count: 4541

Author’s Note:  For @cakelftv @5sos-fic-exchange. It's here! The 5sos Fic Exchange of Winter (or summer) 2021! Kirby, I hope you enjoy the silliness I made for you, this was so fun to write.

Leave kudos?

Michael wasn’t a perv. Luke liked to joke that he was, call him a stalker, but anyone in Michael’s position would do the same. In fact, many artists did exactly what Michael did. It was good practice, impromptu lessons in capturing ideas quickly at a moment's notice.

There was nothing weird about drawing the beautiful man that caught Michael’s train most mornings on the way to uni. He was an artist. His brain was wired to notice pretty things, the desire to replicate them on paper was in the fibre of his very being and besides, anyone would agree that this man had a face worth studying, with prominent angles, pouty lips and sharp eyes all framed by dyed red curls.

The curls were Michael’s problem this morning. Hair really wasn’t his forte but he couldn’t keep acting like he needed more practice with those massive biceps. He wasn’t yet ready to give up on finding excuses to stare at picturesque strangers on the train, though, so… curls.

Michael swapped his pencil for his black brush pen, a popular choice among his favourite comic artists, and went over the grey with bolder shading. His early sketches were all in pencil; he hadn’t yet had the confidence to ink them but now that he knew he’d see the guy most mornings and have plenty of opportunities to draw him as many times as he wanted, he wasn’t as afraid of fucking up.

In fact, the expectation of seeing the stranger was great enough that Michael had even set aside some of his coloured markers to keep in his travel supplies where normally he wouldn’t bother with anything more than lead pencils, black ink pens and erasers. As the linework of the current portrait dried, Michael went over one from yesterday, a sketch of the back of his head, with red. The waves were all wrong, but the saturated colour drew attention from the haphazard linework.

Michael wished the tattoo on the back of his neck was better, though. Some kind of bird of prey, wings outstretched. There was a larger version of it at the bottom of an earlier page in his sketchbook, one he’d taken down when he’d found himself standing right behind the guy one morning, intrigued by the choice in ink.

Michael finished the warm skin of the guy’s neck, capping his pen. The colours weren’t quite true to life, but they were true to the feeling of the stranger. That was his job as an artist, his teacher had told him in high school when he’d been upset over his shitty attempts at realism. Anyone could learn to depict things realistically, but only an artist could portray feeling.

Luke, the classmate that always had a coffee ready when he reached campus, was a fucking god at portraying feeling. Plants were his area of expertise, but somehow he could make a bunch of lavender look cheery, sexy or mournful. Michael only knew how to do dramatic.

“Morning, stalker,” Luke greeted when Michael arrived, handing him his coffee.

Michael rolled his eyes, taking it and giving Luke his sketchbook. He’d steal it in class later if he didn’t surrender it now. “Pretty sure stalking requires some level of following people around. I only see this guy on the train.” And around campus sometimes, but he wasn’t about to add fuel to the fire by telling Luke that the guy was a student here.

“Eh, you’re still a creep,” Luke replied, flipping to the most recent page.

“I need practice with hair,” Michael pointedly told him, “Calum doesn’t have any.”

“Calum has plenty of hair,” Luke argued with a pout.

“How can you get on my ass about this guy when you’re the fuckhead who has a crush on our nude model? That’s gotta be some kind of dumb cliche.”

“At least I know his name and actually talk to him,” Luke quipped.

“We all talk to him. So he doesn’t zone out and fall asleep again.”

“What’s all this?” Luke asked, gesturing to the notes around the page.

Fuck.

“Ideas,” Michael said tightly.

“Ideas.”

“It’s good practice,” Michael told him, “You come up with ideas about what traits and shit you’d give the character based on their appearance.”

“Right.” Luke cleared his throat. “Broody,” he read, “Classy, knows the tango, tragic assassin backstory, takes no shit…”

“Give me that.”

Luke held the book out of reach, giggling. “Woah, hey, I’m still reading! Keeps suit clean, not afraid to get his hands dirty, hypnosis, hates kids—”

“Shut up and give it back.”

“No, I’m invested!” Luke protested with a grin, “Is hypnosis his superpower?”

“No, he’s just really good at getting people to talk with eye contact,” Michael explained, grabbing at the book half-heartedly. At least Luke couldn’t keep reading it like this.

“What about this tragic backstory? Did assassins kill his parents?”

“No, he lost someone when he was an assassin, so he quit and put his skills towards getting revenge.”

“Doesn’t sound very good-guy.”

“He’s a villain.”

“Ooh!” Luke wiggled his eyebrows at him. “You do have a thing for bad boys, huh?”

Snatching back the book, Michael shook his head.

They’d reached the visual arts block, the weird blue sculpture just outside attempting to distract everyone from the fact that the building itself was fucking ugly. Michael had to give it points for effort, even if he wasn’t quite sure what the sculpture was supposed to be.

This morning’s lessons were mainly focused around using impasto medium to paint still lifes of fruit, which of course had Luke thriving and Michael trying not to pull his own hair out. Still life itself wasn’t so bad, drawing comics required knowledge in all kinds of subjects, but he couldn’t help but feel that learning this kind of painting was a huge waste of time for him. Comics were much more two dimensional than this.

“At least we have that new unit today,” Luke said when they were out having lunch, “Printmaking? That sounds fun.”

“You’re just trying to be nice, your painting looks fucking amazing.” He jabbed at a gravy-soaked chip. “It’s not even done. Paintings are supposed to look like shit before they’re done.”

Luke appeared to be ignoring him, staring at something over his shoulder.

Michael snapped his fingers at him. “You okay there?”

“Is that the guy you’re stalking?”

“What?” Michael looked over his shoulder, almost dropping his fork when he laid eyes on the beautiful stranger from the train, “Holy fuck.”

“It is? You didn’t tell me he goes here!”

Michael turned around, ducking his head as if he could hide himself. “Shut the fuck up,” he hissed, “Stop looking at him.”

“He’s coming over here.”

Peeking over his shoulder, he realised that Luke was right.

The stranger smiled and gave them a wave as he approached.

Michael gave him a nervous wave back.

“You take my train,” the guy greeted as he arrived, pulling up the other seat at their table, “I’ve seen you drawing? I’m Ashton.”

“I’m Michael,” Michael squeaked. He cleared his throat.

“I’m Luke!” Luke offered his hand with a grin.

Ashton accepted it, returning the smile. “What are you guys doing?”

“Eating lunch.” Michael wondered if he should offer some of his chips. Would that be weird?

Ashton giggled. “No, what are you studying here?”

“Art!” Luke eagerly told him, “Michael’s a great artist, you should see his sketchbook!”

“Is that it?” Ashton asked, pointing to Michael’s book.

He snatched it off the table. “No.”

“Aw, don’t be shy Michael,” Luke goaded with a pure evil grin, “They’re really good!”

“It’s fine,” Ashton laughed, “I’m doing music.”

“Wow, what’s that like?” Michael asked before Luke could embarrass him further.

“So good,” Ashton gushed, “I’ve loved music all my life, it’s such a deep, visceral expression of the human soul, you know?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Michael agreed, “Do you play anything?”

“Drums.” He laughed. Ashton laughed and smiled a lot when he spoke. “I know, I know, but it’s just got such a rich history, you know? I bet percussion was probably the earliest manifestation of music in our history. Aside from the voice, of course.”

“Totally.”

“Are you coming to the nude drawing session today, Mikes?” Luke cut in.

Michael gave him a confused look. “Yeah? Gotta make sure you’re getting enough practice with ass muscles. You’re getting good at them.”

Luke flushed.

“They offer that here?” Ashton asked, “That’s cool. You know, the human form is the origin of a lot of visual art. Easy to see why.”

“Yeah, Luke loves it.”

Luke glared at Michael.

“Our model’s pretty good, even though he can only come in once a week.”

“You only have one?” Ashton asked.

“Yeah. Kind of a shame, to be honest,” Michael admitted, “He’s great, but he only has one body type. Not a lot of people come to sessions anymore.”

He nodded, then checked his phone. “I better head off. Good meeting you two.”

“You too!” Luke returned, wiggling his eyebrows at Michael.

Michael ignored him. “See ya, man.”

“Broody,” Luke commented as they watched him walk away.

“Huh?”

“He just takes no shit.”

Michael groaned. “Shut up.”

“I was fully hypnotised that whole time,” Luke continued, “You reckon he can tango?”

“I hate you.”

“I bet he’s an assassin on the side.”

Printmaking looked interesting, as Luke had said. He’d immediately picked out some sketches of peonies to fix up and turn into prints while Michael had designed a superhero breaking through a window. Although it was fun to occasionally step outside their comfort zones, they both appreciated the opportunity to use what they knew best to experiment with this new medium.

Michael was quick to suggestively elbow Luke when Calum walked in, Jane announcing that, while class was over, they’d be holding the usual Tuesday figure study session next door. To Luke’s horror and Michael’s amusement, Calum felt like hanging out with them before they went in.

“What are you guys up to?” he asked, pulling up a stool next to Luke.

“Um, printmaking,” Luke told him, eyes bugging out of his head in alarm as Calum leaned closer to peer at his work.

“Those are good,” he said, nodding at Luke’s flowers.

“I gotta carve them out on this,” he said, showing Calum the square of lino he’d transferred his design onto.

“Sick. Show me when you’re done, ay?” he said, giving Luke a thump on the back before getting up to head to the storage room and undress.

“See ya,” Luke called after him, looking horrified when Calum grinned back.

“See ya?” Michael teased.

He ducked his head, quickly packing away his supplies. “Shut up.”

Luke had been hopeless at figure drawing when the semester began, eventually confiding to Michael that people had always frustrated him; one wrong line and the entire drawing was shit, he’d said. These days, Luke was incredible… at drawing Calum. Somehow, there was still something distinctly floral to his figure studies, something in the linework or the shading or the colours in his paintings that reminded Michael of the softest petals in Luke’s sketchbooks. Luke’s Calum was pretty.

Not that the real Calum wasn’t something to appreciate, Michael thought as he idly shaded his balls. For this pose, he was standing with one foot propped up on a box, giving Michael and Luke a spectacular view of everything. He had the smile of someone laughing on the inside, a broom handle in hand that Michael was turning into some kind of sci-fi spear. He hoped his Calum looked as cool as the real one.

“Is that a stripper pole?” Michael whispered, frowning at Luke’s sketch.

“No.”

“Yes it is.”

“Well, I had to turn the broom into something,” he huffed.

Michael grinned. “Hey Cal, do you dance?”

Luke gaped at him in horror.

“Like at parties?” Calum gave a small shrug, but held his pose. “Sure?”

“No, like exotic dancing,” he explained with a grin.

Calum grinned back. “Why, you looking for a lap dance?”

“Aren’t we all?” he replied, smiling at Luke, who appeared to be trying to hide behind his easel.

“You’re a monster,” Luke whispered to him.

“I’m flirting on your behalf,” he whispered back, “You should be thanking me.”

The timer beeped and Calum relaxed, shaking out his arms and legs a bit. Luke pretended he wasn’t staring at his dick.

Michael would remember the next few days as utterly mundane. Ashton would give him a smile every time they saw each other on the train and Michael would try to be a bit sneakier about drawing him, but ultimately not much changed until Wednesday.

Blursed Wednesday. Michael couldn’t figure out if the universe was trying to bless him for appreciating its beauty or curse him for being a weirdo, so he decided to play it safe by calling it blursed.

Determined to catch him off guard, the day started out normal. He woke up, prepared for the day, waved to Ashton on the train, banged out a few sketches of him and went to uni. They were starting a sculpting unit, so Michael agonised over what he could make into a sculpture while Luke drew lilies. Things took an odd turn after lunch, when Jane announced that there would be a figure drawing session after class.

“Isn’t Calum busy on Wednesdays?” Michael asked. Maybe his schedule has cleared up a bit.

“No, not Calum,” Jane explained, “A new guy signed up, I can’t remember his name, though. So be nice, guys!” she said to the class, “We don’t wanna scare him off, yeah?”

Michael nudged Luke. “She means you.”

Luke rolled his eyes.

“I hope this one’s got a different body type, though,” Michael said thoughtfully, “It would be funny if he was like Calum’s twin or something.”

He was not Calum’s twin.

Michael nearly fell off his stool when today’s model walked in. The first thing he noticed was the dark red curls.

“Oh, hey Ashton!” Luke called, waving.

Ashton looked at them and grinned. “Hey, Luke! Fancy seeing you here! Hey, Mikes!”

Michael gaped at him. Ashton from the train was their new model?

“You know what you’re doing?” Jane asked Ashton.

He smiled. “Yep. I’m all set.”

“Just sitting poses today,” Jane told the class, “All five minutes at most, so he doesn’t get tired.”

Michael barely heard her. Ashton was shrugging off the gown he was wearing, one from their closet of model props, revealing everything. Calum had started out in underwear, going nude after a few weeks once he was comfortable with the environment and the class. Ashton seemed to be utterly devoid of shame.

“Mikey,” Luke murmured, “If you don’t hit that, I swear to god I will.”

“Stop staring at his dick,” Michael hissed. His disarmingly impressive dick…

“He’s our nude model,” Luke said, taking to paper with his charcoal the moment Ashton was seated on the stool at the centre of the room and the timer was set, “We’re supposed to stare at his dick.”

Although Luke quickly sketched out Ashton’s shape, doodling a few sunflowers as he went, Michael kept looking from Ashton to his page, completely lost. He barely managed to outline his form before the timer went off, reminding him that his time to appreciate Ashton’s body was incredibly limited. He might never model for them again for all Michael knew. He might get so creeped out by Michael’s staring that he took a different train to uni every morning.

Spurred on by this realisation, Michael focused on the details, the things he didn’t already have in his sketchbook. Ashton’s hair looked incredible, but it was his soft tummy Michael needed to etch into his brain now, the way his thighs curved from his hips to his knees, the dimples in his back.

The session was too short. Michael barely understood the way shadows fell in the curves of Ashton’s back before the timer rang for the last time and Ashton stood, picked up his gown and slipped back into it, cruelly hiding away that incredible body. Ashton smiled at him and Luke as he came over as if he hadn’t just hit Michael in the heart with a hammer.

“How was I?” he asked, “This was my first time modelling, so…”

“Yeah, you did alright,” Luke told him, “Your body’s completely different to Calum’s.”

Ashton came around to see Luke’s page. “What are the flowers for?”

Luke shrugged. “You seem like a sunflowery guy.”

“Can I see yours?” Ashton asked Michael.

“Uh… sure?” Michael replied, sitting back to give him room.

Ashton whistled. “You made me look hot.”

“You are hot,” Michael said before he could stop himself.

Ashton grinned. “Aw, thanks, buddy!”

Luke grinned evilly at Michael.

Luckily, Calum still showed up for his modelling session next Tuesday and Michael was able to take the opportunity to tease him relentlessly. Unluckily, Ashton came back again the next day, exactly as comfortable without a stitch of clothing on his body as he’d been last week.

This time, though, Michael was ready. He’d been using last week’s sketches to draw Ashton in more dynamic poses, fighting superheroes and shit, and noticed where his knowledge of his body was lacking. As Ashton got comfortable on the floor, surrounded by the class, Michael eyed his calves and got sketching.

“Lotta people here today,” Luke murmured.

Michael glanced around, realising that he was right. “Guess they wanna see the new model.”

Most of the class used to come to Calum’s sessions, but attendance had been going down for a while, maybe as people got bored with his body. The only people who’d come to every session since the beginning of the year were Luke and Michael.

“You know he has a dick, right?”

Michael glanced at Luke, then looked back at his sketch of Ashton’s legs, a blank space where his dick and balls should be. “I’m not a perv,” he grumbled.

“It’s a nude session,” Luke reminded him, “We’re supposed to look at his dick.”

“We’re supposed to look at all of him,” Michael corrected, pulling his sketchbook out of his backpack. He flipped to a page featuring villain Ashton in a skin-tight costume punching a squid monster, erasing his legs and redrawing them with real Ashton’s legs as reference. “Stop being weird.”

“It’s weirder to not draw his dick,” Luke replied, “What do you have against artful nudity?”

The timer rang and Ashton shifted to lay out more, dick prominent. As Michael wondered if he was trying to torture him, the door opened and a tall Maori man walked in, frowning at Ashton before looking around the room, eyes settling on Michael and Luke.

“Who’s that?” Michael asked Luke as the guy headed towards them.

“Who, Cal?” He looked at the guy. “What are you doing here? I thought you had work.”

“I got today off!” The guy smiled at Luke, giving him a thump on the back as he leaned in to see his sketches and Michael realised that it was indeed Calum but clothed. “Lookin’ good,” he gruffed.

Luke smiled bashfully. “I’m still learning.”

“I was talking about you,” Calum said with a grin, lightly tugging at Luke’s hair, “Do something different with your hair?”

Almost going red, Luke mumbled a, “You too.” He stared at his sketchpad in horror. “I mean, you… You look good too,” he floundered.

“This guy bothering you?” Ashton called, grinning.

Calum eyed him. “New guy treating you right?”

Luke nodded. “He’s alright.” With a mischievous glance at Michael he lowered his voice. “Mikey has a crush on him.”

“I do not.”

“He made him a superhero.”

“Super villain,” Michael hissed, “And it’s normal to use real people as inspiration for your work.”

“Did you make Calum a character?” Luke asked pointedly.

 “Yes.”

“Really?” Calum asked interestedly.

To prove the point, Michael flipped through his sketchbook to find the page, handing Calum the book.

“Oh, sick! Am I like Spider Man? Crawling around on ceilings and shit?”

Michael shrugged, throwing together a quick sketch of Ashton’s current pose. Calum didn’t tend to lie on the floor, so it was useful practice.

“Can I look through this?” Calum asked, pulling up a stool between Michael and Luke.

“Sure,” Michael replied.

Calum showed Michael a page of Ashtons. “When did you do all these? I thought he just started last week.”

“On the train,” Luke whispered conspiratorially, “They catch the same one every morning.”

“Huh. Is that why he started modelling? ‘Cause of your drawings?”

“He doesn’t know Michael draws him,” Luke explained with an evil grin.

“He’s got the kind of face artists wanna draw on the train,” Calum mused, frowning at Ashton, then Luke.

“Luke gives people flower-sonas,” Michael blurted a bit too loudly.

“What’s a flower-sona?” Ashton asked.

“No I don’t!” Luke said.

“Do I have one?”

“Uh…” Michael leaned over to see Luke’s sketchpad. “Sunflowers!”

Ashton grinned. “Like the ones you drew last week? Nice!”

“Do I?” Calum asked in a tone that almost sounded nervous.

Luke huffed. “Jacaranda.”

“What’s that?”

He turned to the table behind them to grab his sketchbook, opening it to a page and giving it to Calum. Calum accepted it, leaving Michael’s on the table.

“Wow.”

Luke had painted a portrait of Calum, wreathed in small, cool purple flowers.

“These are jacarandas?”

“Yeah.”

“And they remind you of me?”

“It was for colour and composition practice,” Luke said quickly.

“I dunno what that means, but it’s fuckin’ sick,” Calum replied in wonder, “Can I…”

“Yeah, sure.”

They fell into relative silence as Calum flipped through Luke’s book, notably giving Luke way more compliments than he’d given Michael even though he knew almost nothing about flowers. Michael loved plenty of compliments, but he took comfort in getting ammo to tease Luke with later.

“Hey, how are those flowers going?” Calum asked suddenly. “From last week? I wanted to ask yesterday, but I had to run off to work right after the session.”

“Oh, I’ve got a few prints done!” Luke told him, “I have pictures on my Instagram.”

Calum took out his phone. “What’s your name?”

As he looked Luke up, the timer rang for the last time and Ashton got up to stretch and put his gown back on. He came over, giving Calum a friendly smile.

“You’re the other model?”

“Yeah, Calum.”

“I’m Ashton.” He leaned to peak around Michael’s sketchpad. “Can I see?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Grinning, he stepped around to Calum’s side to get a good look. “Lotta legs?”

“Yeah, I… didn’t really get them, so I focused on them this week.”

“And sunflowers!”

Luke smiled at Ashton. “Yeah! They suit you.”

“You said you’re on Instagram?”

“Yeah, a bit of it’s my art, but it’s kind of a mix of stuff.”

He nodded, then looked at Michael. “Do you?”

“Yeah, uh…” Michael patted his pocket for his phone, taking it out to open Instagram. “What’s your name? I’ll follow you.”

Ashton helped him find his profile, promising to follow back once he got home since he didn’t have his phone on him at the moment.

“Lotta lemons,” Michael commented, scrolling through.

“Yeah, I’ve got a tree at home,” Ashton said, examining Luke’s sketches, “A little one.”

“Got any spare lemons?”

“Yeah, I’ll bring you a bag tomorrow.”

“Really?”

Ashton grinned. “Yeah! Little guy’s been working hard, I’ve got stacks of them at home.”

“Nice!” Michael put his phone away to return to his sketch pad. He wanted to touch up a few of the drawings before going home.

“Is this your sketchbook?”

Michael frowned and looked back, finding Ashton leaning on the table, staring at Michael’s open sketchbook.

Shit.

He hurriedly got up to take it, but it was too late; Calum had left it open on a page of morning train sketches.

“I draw people on the train sometimes,” he explained, trying to casually rub his head, then wondering why the fuck he was rubbing his head.

Ashton pointed to the bird silhouette at the bottom of the page, smiling. “That’s my condor!”

“Yeah, you know, it was, like… inspiration or whatever. Sometimes you just get inspired.”

“You’ve got like a comicky style going on here,” Ashton said, “Is that rude to say?”

“No, it’s… what I’m going for. I wanna do comics. One day.”

Ashton grinned at him. “Can I be in one?”

Michael laughed awkwardly. “So, you’re not, like…” Incredibly creeped out and considering never doing nude modelling again? “I’m not stalking you or anything. You’re just visually appealing.”

Ashton pouted. “I like to think I’ve got a good personality too. Are there others?”

Michael glanced at Luke for help, but he had stopped packing his stuff up and was grinning like he couldn’t believe one of his reality TV shows was playing out in real life right before his very eyes. “A few?”

“Can I look?”

“Sure.”

Fuck. He’d meant to say no. It was too late to change his answer now; Ashton was already pulling the book towards himself to flip through.

But he didn’t flip through. He turned to the first page and examined it for what felt like several months before slowly turning to the next, taking in every shitty drawing before moving on. The worst part was that Michael had started that book when the semester began, so the Ashton drawings appeared early and had been almost daily additions since then. Michael had no idea how many there were, though he had to say that he’d never filled a sketchbook faster than he was filling this one.

Apparently bored with the lull in conversation, Luke resumed putting away his pencils and sketchpad.

“What are you doing tonight, Luke?” Calum wondered.

“Hm? Oh, uh… not a lot?”

“You wanna get a drink?”

Luke blinked at him, mouth slightly agape. “A drink?”

Calum shrugged. “Yeah. There’s a bar down the road I’ve been thinking of trying.”

“A drink. Yeah, okay.” He glanced at Michael, but Michael was as helpful as Luke had been for him. “Yeah, I just gotta drop off my stuff at… home.”

“Alright. Are you nearby? I’ll come along.”

Luke looked lost for words for a moment. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

He suddenly seemed in a much bigger rush to pack up, clumsily knocking the sketchpad to the floor. Calum immediately dropped to pick it up for him and Michael rolled his eyes about how weird they both were. Grinning like a dumbass, Luke took his bag and art folder and nearly ran out, pulling Calum along.

“These are really good,” Ashton said, finally emerging from Michael’s last page of drawings. He gently closed the book and handed it back to him with a grin. “I didn’t know you found me so inspiring.”

“I mean… you know…”

Ashton laughed. “Right.”

“So what are you doing today?” Michael blurted before he could stop himself, “I’ve got like a few hours before my train leaves, so…” He didn’t, but there was another train that could get him home that night.

“I was gonna get Italian for dinner after this,” Ashton said, invitation in his eyes, “Today’s payday, so…”

“Can I tag along?”

Ashton grinned. “I’ll put on some clothes.”

#my fic