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fayes-fics · 10 months

Text

Canvas

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: An art lesson with a different kind of canvas

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, body painting, oral sex (m to f), cunnilingus, vaginal sex, edging.

Word Count: 5.0k

Authors note: Sequel to Inspiration, but not necessary to have read before this. Unbetaed. This is a double request fill for @oureternalbond HERE and anon HERE. I decided to combine these requests as they were so similar (in essence, Benedict uses his wife as his canvas then smut ensues). I hope you enjoy <3

You find him in his studio, a glass conservatory he has co-opted for his artistic endeavours. He is barefoot and dressed only in black trousers and a white shirt, his braces hanging loosely around his hips, looking handsomely casual as he paints by candlelight, dusk settling in. It's then you spy his subject, the lovely arrangement of flowers you received from his family for your birthday last week. You wondered where the bouquet had disappeared to just now as you had wandered through your home—they previously had pride of place in your hallway.

“Stealing my birthday presents, husband?” you jest airily, leaning on the doorframe with crossed arms.

Benedict twists around and shoots you an apologetic smile. “Only the artistically meritorious ones, my love,” he responds, amusement laced into his tone. “Join me?” he suggests, waving his brush towards the empty easel beside him.

“I'm not certain I have anything close to the requisite skills,” you hedge. You have only ever attended his painting sessions as his subject or simply as a companion, mostly reading quietly nearby as he works—one memorable time, sitting naked upon his cock to provide the requisite inspiration. Your blood runs a little warm just at the mere memory of it.

“Art does not always need to be about skill. Enjoyment of the process is just as important, perhaps more so. Besides, I can teach you,” he smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling beguilingly. He never fails to convince you with that look.

“Alright,” you sigh fondly, straightening up and uncrossing your arms, “but you are not allowed to ridicule my attempt,” you argue, waggling a finger as you walk over.

He laughs and leans in to drop a kiss on your cheek as you draw up next to him. “I would never!” he promises in a bemused tone. “Everything you need is right there,” he nods to the supplies, “you have watched me paint enough times to know how to set up.”

His confidence in your ability seemed a little unwarranted, but you’ll give it a try.

___

“I cannot do this,” you lament about ten minutes later, looking forlornly between the canvas and the spray of flowers, disappointed in your less-than-accurate rendering. All you have managed is some stems and a vague version of the vase, which looks uneven.

“Nonsense,” he dismisses, “you are doing wonderfully for your first time, my love,” he adds patiently.

You twist around with a knitted brow to look at him. “Benedict, please… your flattery is obsequious. This is… not good,” you sigh, scratching your chin with the wooden end of your brush.

“Perhaps I can assist your efforts?” he offers, putting down his brush into a jar of water and placing his palette aside.

“Please…” you request gratefully.

A smile ghosts your lips as he rounds behind you, pushing you closer to the canvas, a hand landing on your hip under the arm you balance the palette upon, and the other curling around yours, holding the brush. His fingers are warm and soft.

“Now then,” his voice is rich and rumbles right next to your ear, “the first thing is to start with the colour there is the most of on the object, and then you can start to add in light and shade… are you quite alright?” he interrupts himself as you fidget slightly.

“All is well,” you reassure.

But it's a lie. The moment he stands close behind you, your traitorous body decides this is not an art lesson at all. No, it’s something quite different. Readying itself for him with quite remarkable speed and absolutely no effort on his part. Quite astonishing, really. You attempt to listen as he sonorously explains the method involved and makes your selection on the palette and brushstrokes over the canvas. But you are half-listening and half-participating at best.

His breath tickles the wisps of hair around your ears as he seems to lean in closer until he surrounds you with his long arms and body heat. He smells of his woodsy soap, and you have to tamp down the urge to twist your nose into his strong neck and inhale deeply. For a few minutes, he guides your hand, and you relax into the motion, enjoying the sensation of being so utterly engulfed by him much more than the act.

“Now, how about you try?” he voices, gently removing his hand from yours.

You stutter, realising you were not taking on board what he was saying, distracted by the striking mental image of him painting a glistening line across your collarbone, a bright golden streak over your bare flesh. You try to remember what he said and make a hesitant dab on the canvas, but there is a disapproving noise against your temple.

“That is not what I told you to do, now, is it?” he teases lowly.

“I do not know how to do it…” you confess in a breathy whisper. “Please guide me for a little longer, Benedict,” you implore.

“Were you listening to a word I said?” he asks, but it's not a disapproving tone. Not remotely. It’s a liting rumble, his face turning into yours so the tip of his nose nuzzles your earlobe, his breath hot on your jaw.

You suspect your lack of attention to his instruction may have been found out.

“People pay good money for me to teach them how to paint,” he breathes into your ear, both hands now on your hips, fingers circling over the diaphanous layers of your thin, silk gown. “And yet here is my wife, not even listening to her expert teacher.”

“I am… I…” you give up, knowing it's a pointless lie. You try a different tack. “I should hope you do not treat your other students in this manner?” you throw back, rocking onto your heels so the press of your bodies is greater.

“Indeed I do not,” he murmurs, and you inhale sharply as his teeth graze the shell of your ear.

“So perhaps this is somewhat unfair to me,” you posit, pouting your lips, knowing his eyes are watching you side on.

He chuckles richly. “Perhaps,” and he gently slides the paintbrush from between your fingers. “There is another method by which I can teach you all about the pleasures of painting.”

“Oh, and what is that?” you breathe, closing your eyes as warm lips land on your neck, that weak spot which makes you completely pliant.

“It requires a different canvas,” he whispers, his lips catching on your skin.

For a fleeting moment, you consider if he could read where your thoughts had skated only minutes earlier; again, you think of golden paint on your flesh. There is a faint ting as he drops the brush into a glass jar of water and eases the palette from where it is hooked around your thumb, and you do not fight it; just stand still and attempt to regulate your breathing, eagerly awaiting what he will do next.

Your heart rate spikes as deft fingers undo the buttons between your shoulder blades.

“You have such beautiful skin,” he sighs, his lips dropping warm onto the top of your shoulder as your dress relents and falls in a pool around you. “I want to paint you.”

Your breath hitches as he runs a knuckle down the notches of your spine; glad you didn’t bother with a chemise. Your eyes fall closed as he kisses your skin again and plucks open the laces of your stays. When the material slackens, he pulls the structured fabric away from your body and tosses it aside, his hands instantly cupping your breasts and pulling you back into him.

Your moan is wanton as you writhe, his fingers snagging your nipples as they pebble against his palm. One hand sweeps down to the little buttons on your silk underwear and deftly flicks them open as his other hand is busy, making your nipple into a stiff peak.

“Lay down, darling wife,” he murmurs, the tone laden, as your underwear slips around your ankles.

He gestures to the oversized double chaise conveniently covered in a heavy canvas drop cloth. It’s almost as if he planned for this. You hold his hand delicately as he assists you into a reclined position.

“Will you not be getting naked too, husband?” you coo, watching as he returns for a palette and brush.

“It would certainly make clean-up easier,” he smirks and rips off his shirt, tossing it aside.

Then he walks back to you, a slight swagger in his gait, knowing he has your undivided, breathy attention as your eyes covetously drink in his torso.

“Gold…” escapes your lips unbidden and stops him in his tracks as he towers above you.

“Gold, what?” his query warm, but puzzled as he places the art supplies on the floor next to the chaise.

“When I dream of you painting me, my body,” you confess, “it’s always gold.”

He leans over, his face etched with desire. “You dream of me doing this?”

“Yes,” you murmur, “Your cool, wet brush swirling over my heated skin….” you close your eyes and bite your lip, lost in the reverie of it.

“Tell me more,” he implores, his breath hot on your cheek, the chaise squeezing as he sits beside you. “Keep your eyes closed if it helps,” he adds, moving back; it sounds like he is fiddling with the supplies.

“You start at my neck….” you sigh, inhaling sharply when a wet ticklish brush lands right on the left side of your neck, then holds still.

“And then?” he prompts gently.

“Then… you do a swooping line over my chin to my other ear,” you breathe, gasping as he does exactly as you describe, the smell of fresh paint filling your nostrils, the feel of it wet and heavy.

“What is next?” his voice is dark and sweet now, goading you into more detail.

“Then you paint a line down the side of my neck, over here…” you gesture at your collarbone, “...then lower,” you end in a whisper, almost reluctant to admit how erotic your fantasies of him can be.

Nothing, however, can prepare you for those errant thoughts becoming a reality—the drag of cold buttery substance, each bristle a damp tickle as he smears a line to the swell of your breast, your eyes flying open to see his gaze heavy and intense on the task in hand. Your nipple pebbles almost painfully, even though he does not stray close to it, surrounding your breast with a golden loop, his pupils dilating, his breath hot on your skin, leaning close.

“Does that feel good?” he practically purrs.

You nod, feeling the wetness blotting across your neck at your movement.

Without asking you what happens next in your dream, he takes the initiative and traces a line around your other breast, the brush dipping into the valley of your breastbone before continuing. When you tip your head to see his handiwork, the metallic hue shines bright in the candlelight.

“May I use other colours on you too, my love?” his question is almost reverential in tone.

“I am yours, Benedict,” you sigh honestly, “do with me as you wish.”

Those words light an artistic and sensual fire in his eyes; he pushes up to kiss you, plundering your mouth with a possessive kiss. When he pulls away, you feel dazed, desperate for more, but you watch patiently as he reaches for another clean brush on the floor by his feet and selects a new choice from the palette.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs.

You do as he asks, aching to know what hue it is. You gasp as a broader brush runs across your skin, starting at your neck and sweeping down, shadowing the path of the other line already drying on your skin.

“What colour?” your curiosity getting the better of you.

“What is your favourite on me?” he teases gently, his strokes seeming to concentrate most on the sensitive skin under your breast, making your thoughts fuzzy, distracted—you know it's intentional.

“You look good in so many colours,” you offer; it's the truth. “I love your light gold cravat,” you add with a sigh, knowing he has already used that shade at your request.

“You are stalling, my love,” he points out with a bemused tone, teasingly flicking the ends of his brush in the spot closest to your underarm.

“Blue? You always look so handsome in every shade of blue, from navy to sky,” you guess.

“Oh, then that shall have to be next,” he lilts, telling you that you have guessed incorrectly.

You mentally flick through some of your favourite of his outfits, squirming slightly at the images you see, his brush still teasing. Then there is a lightbulb moment.

“Burgundy red!” you exclaim, remembering the waistcoat he wore on the day you met, the one that made you lose the power of speech, temporarily tongue-tied, never having seen a man wear such fine silks before.

“Well done, darling,” he compliments.

You open your eyes to see he has interwoven the harmonious shades in an exquisite arching design, truly using your skin as a canvas.

“Now lay still; there is much work still to do,” he instructs softly.

You settle into the chaise, your belly fluttering as he slips lower, daubing your diaphragm in intricate loops, trying to keep your breaths shallow for a still surface. He swaps brush again, back to gold, holding the other in his knuckle, the rich red loaded tip contrasting his pale skin.

When he sinks below your ribs onto your belly, you bite your lip, the light touch tickling you to the point of giggling. You try your best not to move, but when he glides over a sensitive patch, it bubbles out of you on reflex.

His gaze pings up to your face, a lopsided grin claiming his features. “Does that tickle?” he mocks gently. You can only giggle more in reply as he teases even lighter over that weak spot.

“Stop it,” you whisper, knowing how much he enjoys the tease.

“Never,” he responds lightly, lowering his face; you jolt as he lightly bites your bare nipple, and you cry out. “I veritably exist to tease you; you are so beautiful like this,” he whispers, pausing in his artistry, pressing you into the chaise with his body weight.

“Look at you,” you giggle as he pulls away again, seeing smears of pain across his chest.

“That is nothing. I expect both of our bodies will be a riot of colours by the time I am done with you, wife.” His tone is simultaneously light with mirth and dark with promise.

“Perhaps you should speed up,” you answer playfully; it may dry before you have the opportunity.” He laughs, teething your other nipple before refreshing the line.

“Not a chance.”

Just as your stomach clenches at the idea he will move lower, he grabs your right arm and concentrates his efforts there as if to elongate the burn of anticipation you feel. It's less ticklish until he swipes the crook of your elbow over your veins, making you giggle again, meeting his hazy blue eyes with an intense stare. Wordlessly he kisses your hand before swapping to your left arm, creating free-hand a mirror image of the pattern on your right. It's striking, and somewhat ironically, you wish there was a portrait of you looking like this, covered in his design.

As you are lost in your reverie of that thought, he slips lower on the chaise, and you gasp as he restarts the line at your middle and swirls down all over your belly. He employs a heavier stroke so as not to tickle as much, alternating the two, holding both brushes with ease between his long artistic fingers. You have to bite back a moan when one swoop goes lower, skating along the top of your pubic hair.

“Open your legs,” his voice low and decadent. Feeling a burning low in your gut, you draw up your knees a few inches and part your legs a fraction, keeping your feet together. “I said…” he grabs your ankle and plants it at the edge of the chaise, out wide, “...open your legs,” his voice dark, making you flush hot.

You meekly move your other foot to match the stance, now lewdly spread before him.

“Much better,” his voice rough as his gaze is heavy on your core. “Do not move,” he commands.

You pant lightly as he resumes, leaning in so close you can feel his breath on your inner thighs. He paints a line from your belly down over your hip and up your thigh. It's the longest he has done, ending with a flourish at your kneecap. Then he swaps the brushes and traces along the same path in the dark red.

“What of the navy blue husband?” you murmur, trying to keep your voice even, even though you feel a slight tremble in your body at the contrast of the cool liquid and the warm flush of arousal.

“All in good time. You should not rush an artist at work, darling,” he replies playfully.

“What if your canvas is in need?” you inquire quietly.

“Where does my darling canvas have a need, hmm?” he asks duskily, intentionally acting obtuse even as his breath puffs close to the place you want him the most.

He runs a line achingly slow down your inner thigh, looping under into the crease where your buttock meets your thigh, the odd feeling making goose bumps break out across your surrounding skin, the tilt of his face right above where you burn so hot.

“Here, perhaps?” he whispers, and you cry out as his warm wet mouth opens wide on your folds.

One of your hands shoots down to grasp his hair as he unfurls his tongue, swiping deep into your folds, lapping the overflowing well of moisture there. You stare down the plane of your body, watching the colour on your inner thigh streak across his clavicle and shoulder as he drinks from your body, pulling your pearl between his lips and sucking so hard you see stars. His eyes fly open and hold yours; his gaze is fiery as he swipes under your clitoral hood. His tongue dabs the most sensitive spot, the one that makes your leg want to kick out and go rigid from the intense sensation. Just as you start to writhe and moan, he pulls back. You pout in disbelief as he calmly returns to painting.

“How can you tease me so?!” you lament, chest heaving, hand falling from its grip on his chestnut locks.

He laughs and continues with his art, your concentration barely registering it, your heartbeat throbbing in your abandoned, swollen clit.

“Please, Benedict,” you appeal, absentmindedly watching him switch to the other shade.

It seems he is ignoring you as his brow knits in concentration, glancing at your other leg to ensure, as with your arms, it is an exact mirror. It's undoubtedly stunning, but somehow your interest in it has waned, all of your thoughts of needing his mouth back where it was.

You plead again and almost want to cry in relief as he seems to huff sympathetically and move so his face is again a fraction from where you want him. After one long, indulgent swipe through your soaked folds that has you gasping loudly, he stops, rears up and quickly climbs over your body, his lips landing on yours, damp and tangy with your desire. Shaking with unsated need, you whimper against his musky tongue as he kisses you deeply.

“Please,” your voice has a tremulant quality betraying your need, he has taken you to the edge, and the denial makes you prickle hot all over.

“Soon,” it’s a whispered promise, “your skin is too arresting of a sight flushed like this. I need to paint more upon this gorgeous canvas,” he sighs, leaning over to scoop up his brushes again.

“Benedict, please,” you writhe, letting your legs fall closed, hoping to rub against your clit, eager for stimulation.

“Open your legs,” he tuts as he returns his attention to you, parting your knees carefully with his hands, avoiding his handiwork. “If you keep misbehaving, darling, I shall not let you come,” he warns with an arched brow.

“Then I shall have to touch myself,” you sass, squaring your jaw in defiant playfulness.

“We shall see about that,” he challenges. “Give me your fingers.” Hazy, you allow him to encircle your wrist, only startling when large beads of wetness daub your fingertips. “There we go, navy blue,” he smirks, grabbing your other hand and repeating the action.

You stare at him dumbfounded, realising you cannot touch yourself now without a mess. That smug crooked smile is still there as you watch him crawl slowly between your legs before diving facefirst into you again, making you scream. You want to grip his hair, but with your fingers now dripping with navy, you feel you should refrain. However, when he loops his arms around your hips, you grab his wrists instead as they frame your thighs. Slathering streaks of dark blue on his pale forearms as he lashes you with his tongue, you calling his name.

He is ravenous, using his whole face to arouse your senses, the stubble of his chin abraiding your labia as he once again teases you, suckling your clit into his mouth, circling his tongue in firm strokes, undulating and spearing it just where you need, as if intuiting what you need at any moment, The tip of his nose is burrowed into your patch of hair, inhaling your scent as if he cannot get enough of your taste and smell, his primal behaviour just making your more wanton for him.

He moans, muffled encouragements into your cunt, the cadence vibrating up into your pubic bone. You stare transfixed at him, decadent, delicious, filthy, a debauched and erotic tableau, the skin pulling taunt over his high cheekbones as he consumes you. Just as your pussy starts to flutter, he pulls up and teases you, pursing his lips and blowing a slow puff of air over your overheated pearl. It's not enough and too much all at once, such a different sensation from his lathing tongue. He chuckles as you groan in frustration and grasp his wrists tightly, fingernails digging blue crescents into his flesh, hoping to incite him back into action.

Instead, he shakes off your grip and swiftly stands up and roughly tugs at the buttons on his trousers, smirking down at you as you turn breathless again with desire, holding your painted fingers on either side of your head as he drops the fabric. As ever, he is without underwear, and even though his straining cock is a familiar sight, every time, it steals your breath and makes you pulse deep inside, just for him.

He prowls over your prone body, almost cat-like, admiring his handiwork. “You are my masterpiece,” the awed but somehow still achingly seductive tone he employs makes your hips cant up towards him, a reflex, your body seeking his.

Uncaring of the mess it will leave, you run your navy fingertips from his chest to his pelvis, curling a little to scrape your nails into the paint trails. It looks like animal claws—as if you are marking him, possessive. His response is a growl at you, hoisting your legs into the crook of his elbow and with a flash of something primal in his eyes, he surges into your weeping body with one swift thrust.

It makes you call his name. So loudly that you know the staff will hear it throughout the house. You don’t care—don’t care if they come running to check on your welfare and find you naked and decorated, pinned under your husband as he begins to fuck into you, so roughly the whole chaise squeaks and moves across the tiled floor. His body curled over yours, his large hand above your head gripping the raised chaise end for leverage.

Lost in the carnality of how he is taking you, your walls clinging to his plunging cock, you band your arms around him, smearing long finger trails down the contours of his back until you reach his buttocks and squeeze them covetously, encouraging him to push deeper, go harder, and make it hurt. The glorious, intricate pattern on your skin still tacky, causing your flesh to cling to his and smudge together, the blue on him with the gold and burgundy from you. Blotches and smears that look so vibrant on his pale skin.

“Are you close again, my love?” his question, a touch breathless as he thrusts into you.

You hiss your confirmation, eyes rolling as you grasp his cheeks again and force your legs wider, greedy for him, for more. For him to push so far into your body, it will feel like he’s always there, even when he’s not, like some internal tattoo of him carved into your being.

“More Benedict… please,” urgent now. It feels like all you’ve done for hours is plead with him, needing to release so badly your mind feels akin to madness, an itch in your brain that needs to be scratched.

But he slows, and you want to scream in frustration, his movements shallow, delicate, not the onslaught you need to take you over the precipice he has dangled you over what feels like countless times.

“I love to see this,” his voice husky, breath puffing hot on your face, “when you are so unbridled with need, darling. I cannot resist taking you so close and denying you: the wild look, your untamed desire. All for me.”

You move your hands from his behind and grab his jaw, uncaring that you plaster his face with blue fingermarks. “It's always for you, just you, Benedict, my love, my life,” you affirm, hoping that is what he needs to hear to finally release you from this heightened state of near delirium.

His responding grin is breathtaking, and he begins to plough into you in earnest, his gaze never leaving yours, eyes burning to witness the moment you break for him. The chaise protests loudly, the wooden feet scraping hard on the floor under his unforgiving pace.

You bite your lip and plead with your eyes, wanting his expert touch to push you over.

“Your fingers, please,” you implore, and suddenly three are shoved between your lips, traces of the bitter taste of paint there, along with the tang of sweat and the flavour that is all him.

“Get them nice and wet, darling,” he lectures, not slowing his pace. You greedily wrap your tongue around his invading digits and slather them in your saliva, drooling around him as his thrusts jolt your entire body. “Yes darling, that's it,” he encourages, and he snarls as you run an edge of teeth over his cuticles, goading him, loving to see him as lost in the potency of the moment as you.

Then with a look that always makes you breathless, he slides the fingers out of your mouth, and they snake between your bodies, finding your engorged clit with ease. You scream his name, and a few harsh flicks are all you need to tip over, clenching so hard around his cock that his hips stutter and he roars into your ear as you fracture around him. Waves of pleasure ripple across your body, almost violent, your muscles spasming, your limbs shaking uncontrollably after being denied.

Distantly, as if through cotton wool, you hear him cursing and growling your name, teeth pressing into the cord of your neck as he curls around you with one final jerk and a loud, guttural groan, he stills, his body stiff, a vein pulsing heavily in his neck and forehead as he empties into you, warmth blooming deep inside you as he spills. Shortly after, he collapses onto his forearms, bracketing your body, mindful not to squash you under his weight as he pants, heaving breaths, his chest bumping yours with each ragged inhale.

You don't say words; just trail the remaining blue paint on your fingers across the skin of his shoulders, connecting the collage of freckles there into a slanted star-like shape. Below a certain point, your bodies resemble a rainbow; the detail he built so carefully now merely a smudge of lively streaks.

“Did you enjoy your painting lesson, my love?” his tone whimsical as his breathing returns to normal.

You giggle and push up to plant a kiss on his smiling lips. “You know I did, Mr Bridgerton; you are a wonderful teacher,” you wink; his responding laugh makes your whole body jiggle under him.

“Now to get clean,” he hums drolly, his grin lopsided and winsome. “I believe we may need to share a bath.”

“Or swim in the lake,” you posit jokingly, rolling your head to look out of the large glass panes, down across the moonlit grass to the water beyond. When you tilt your head back, his look is priceless. His eyebrows shoot up, and that grin grows wider.

“I love how you think,” he gusts, and you squeal as he scoops you in his arms bridal style, and before you know it, he has elbowed open the French doors and is carrying you to the water’s edge.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @Mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau

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calummss · 10 months

Text

Perimeters | Thomas Shelby

masterlist

summary: you were only supposed to get thomas shelby’s signature but got his signature one night stand instead

pairing: fem! reader x thomas shelby

words: 3.8k

a/n: confident reader!! also i’m sorry but i had to reuse some smut bc i’m simply unable to write good smut atm. please don’t take great offense :/

Small Heath was far from a perfect little town; no greens, no blues, no singing birds, no smiles. Grey skies, dying wilds, only lips pressing together, everyday the same, every day becoming more clouded by the smoke of fire. Industrialised goods being made that half of the town couldn’t even afford.

Your newly bought shoes you only bought a couple of days ago didn’t last long. Dirt and shit on the streets claiming their place on them as soon as you stepped onto the ground. Unfamiliar streets that weren’t used to a member of the Young family to step onto. Claimed territory of the Shelbys. Shelbys were starting to cover every corner of Birmingham like rats. Infesting the city sewers, canals, streets, buildings. Shelbys were starting to take over and your father couldn’t have that.

You were supposed to meet up with Thomas Shelby, go over the drawn up contract and sign the agreement to not take eithers perimeters. Given the shithole you were standing in you doubted if you ever wanted control of a place that looked like it did what it’d please. You only met Thomas briefly a few years back. Back when you still lived with your mother just outside Small Heath. The infamous Peaky Blinders had always piqued your interest. You often caught glances at him, his dark raven hair, blue eyes like the first water, lips so plush. The wave of smoke that lingered long after he’d gone, pervasively invading your head. You were interested in the past. Even now if you were being completely honest.

‘Miss Young.’

You turned around to meet a young boy, a mere ten or nine, the peak of his cap falling below his eyebrow line, propping it up every few seconds. Dark streaks across the bridge of his nose, similar stains smeared on his jumper and shorts.

‘I will take you to Mr. Shelby.’

‘How kind of you.’ You smiled at him, following him as the boy started to walk the direction you had just come from. ‘Lead the way.’

The boy didn’t say anything. He stayed silent for most of the walk, only the crunching of dirt and gravel accompanying your thoughts. You definitely hadn’t missed the stench of Small Heath. The look of it either. You detested the past entangled between the bricks. That was what made it so abhorrent.

Not long after and you both came to a holt, right in front of the Garrison’s doors.

‘He’s inside.’ The boy said, turning away, ready to leave.

‘Thank you and hold on just a moment.’ You replied, rummaging your coat’s pockets.

Pulling out a chocolate treat, you gave it to him.

‘Thank you.’

‘Go home now. Go somewhere safe.’

With that he left.

Opening the door, the familiar squeaking of the floors echoed through the room, a hidden figure behind the glass fixing himself a drink. Your hand reached for the second door, a small jingle of the bell disrupting the silence of flowing liquids and shifting upon the old wooden floorboards.

‘Couldn’t even fetch me yourself, could you.’ Pulling off the gloves you were wearing and held them in one hand, taking in the Garrison interior.

It sure had changed a lot since you last set foot in it. It was very red and very gold, not the typical colours that fit around Small Heath and definitely not the colour palette of Thomas Shelby.

Thomas stopped pouring, bringing his lips to the glass, his deep cough bringing you back. ‘I know you.’

He looked as good as the day you left Small Heath. His dark raven hair now fading to a grey, similar to the smoke he was dragging from his cigarette. Dark suit, dark hair, dark soul.

‘I am not sure you do, Mr. Shelby.’

‘I remember everyone’s faces,’ smoke left his lips. ‘Marianne’s daughter? Hung up washing every other day. Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays.’

‘I prefer not to speak of the past.’ You cleared your throat, sitting down on a bar stool, placing your gloves on the counter.

And just like that your mind thought even more of him. What his hands would feel like on your skin, his lips on yours, what it would feel like to hear your name on the tip of his tongue in amorousity. What would his face feel like in your hands as you pulled him closer, him snaking his firm arms around your torso trying to pull you closer.

‘You look different.’ Thomas took a look at you: hair done, dress, mink fur coat, lips coated a wine red, heels that cost more than a house on Watery Lane.

‘I much prefer this look.’

Thomas stayed silent, grabbing another glass and poured a hefty serving of some whisky that he was sipping himself. The amber liquor left a burning sensation, warming you up, the need of your jacket fading as your temperature rose. Thomas refilled it as soon as you placed it back down.

‘What has your father come up with?’

Reaching for your briefcase you had brought with you, you took out a stack of papers, placing them onto the counter next to the whisky glasses, turning them so he was able to read through it. ‘This contract states that each area that is currently controlled by Peaky men and Youngs will continue to belong to them. Neither party is allowed to take territory,’ you pointed your pen onto the sheet of paper, ‘infiltration of any kind is prohibited as well as causing crimes in each other’s perimeters.’

Another shot fired down his throat. Wetness coating his lips, lips licking the last drops of gold.

‘I will give this a good read before I sign anything. I’m sure you understand, Miss Young.’

‘I understand completely. We were sure this would happen so just have it signed by the end of the week. Mail it. And please, call me Y/n.’

‘What happens if I don’t sign it?’

‘Well I wouldn’t know,’ you chuckled, taking out a cigarette for your own.

Before being able to reach for your pack of matches, Thomas had already burnt a stick, holding it towards you.

Taking a long drag you let the hot smoke fill your lungs. ‘I’m simply acting as an ambassador. I prefer not to get my hands dirty.’

‘But your eyes.’ Thomas tossed his bud into the empty glass, bracing himself against the counter, his darkened eyes staring a hole into you.

‘What about them.’

‘They like to get dirty.’

‘I’m sorry?’ You tapped your cigarette, the corner of your lip curling.

‘Do you want to fuck me, Y/n.’ His eyes went through you like a blast of his, his directness almost causing you to choke on your drink.

Puffing out the smoke you had inhaled you leaned forward, ‘I mean I came for the signature but I wouldn’t resist if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ You tried suppressing a laugh, ‘have you looked in the mirror?’

Thomas turned around to face the Garrison’s mirror, briefly meeting your eyes, staring at his reflection.

‘What do you see?’ You slowly got off your seat, walking along the bar, your hand dragging along the counter to meet him behind the wooden wall that had separated you too many times.

He turned around facing you, raising his eyebrows with an unreadable look on his face, the type of face that let people know that Thomas Shelby was a man to reckon with.

‘Nothing.’

‘I see a good looking man,’ you carefully placed your hand on his cock, covered by the fabric of his trousers, another border you wanted to cross.

His hand shot up to grab your face, pushing you against the bar’s wall, the slam of the wood sending a short wave of tweaking pain down your spine, covered by his thumbs pressing into your jaw, almost hindered you from moving completely, heat rushing down to your cunt as you finally had gotten Thomas’s touch you craved since too long. Remembering too many night you had spent with your hands between your legs, moaning the name of a man you had thought paid no attention to you.

‘Is this some kind of trick?’ He hissed, his torso closing in on you, your chest filling with heavy breaths making your chest move against his, arousal dripping down you like damp hair after a steamy shower.

‘Isn’t a woman ever allowed to simply fuck a man because he’s pretty to look at?’

His eyes held yours, his forehead inching closer as his lips hovered over yours. His hot breathing ricocheting off your red lips, breaths of smoke mixing pervasively.

‘One night.’ He whispered, his lips so close you could almost taste them.

‘One night.’

Barely a sound escaped you before he cupped your face, his lips colliding with yours and his force pressed you even further into the wall. Your bodies pressed together against the wall, breathing heavily as his lips marked their way down your neck. You could taste your shared breath of smoke, feel the pounding of your heartbeat as you fumbled to take off one another's clothes.

Heat arose from your stomach to your chest and spread out your entire body. You waited a few seconds before giving into his touch and parting your lips to kiss him. He deepened the kiss, as if trying to reach the back of your throat. You hungrily kissed him back, tongue pushing past his teeth. The bristles of his stubbles scratched against your flushed cheeks as you gripped his head firmly, as to keep him from escaping.

Tommy’s left hand travelled down your figure to grab a hand full of your ass. A moan escaped your soft lips making him groan in lust.

Tommy’s lips smashed against yours, pushing your body on top of the counter, clearing everything in sight. His arms found themselves to your lower back, your hands tangled in his coal hair.

‘Thomas,’ you mumbled out a concealed moan.

His lips and teeth gently sank into your skin whilst his tongue was rubbing against your delicate skin. Your arm was thrown over his neck, your hands playing with his hair. He moved down to your shoulder removing the strap to gain more access to your body. Your continuous moans filled the room mixing in with the muffled sounds of men fighting just outside the Garrison.

‘If I had known you were this pretty under your bruised body and dirty drapes, I would’ve fucked you sooner.’ he stared into your eyes, before lowering his head to your naked chest.

Tommy's wet tongue made contact with your hard nipple, gently blowing onto it. His tongue glided on the outskirts of your tits, kneading them thoroughly. You hissed at the pleasure you were receiving. His teeth found their way to your nipple gently nibbling, his wetness increasing your arousal..

‘You like the way I touch you, don’t you?’ you could feel his smirk against your skin.

You nodded, feeling his hand make its way down to your cunt. Tommy’s finger went along your slit, earning a twitch from your body. He parted your lips with his index and middle finger and started to explore your already wet pussy.

‘We haven't even started, and you're soaked? Just for me,’ he chuckled. ‘What a good whore you are. You're only this wet for me.’ he pushed his fingers inside of your pussy, making you arch your back.

‘Does this feel good? Do you like my fingers inside of your wet cunt.’ Thomas spoke into your neck.

‘Yes, yes it feels s-so good.’ you moaned.

His lips kept him busy at your neck and collar, leaving dark marks. He began to pump his fingers out of you slowly, too slow for your liking. Your hands grasped his wrist, nails digging into his skin, trying to ask for more.

‘Such a needy little whore. Aren’t you satisfied?’ he cocked at you.

You barely had time to take another breath, before he attached his mouth to your already aching cunt.

‘Fuck,’ you yelled out, grabbing a fistful of his blond hair. A deep moan escaped Tommy’s lips, sending vibrations through your body.

He added another finger going even faster than his previous pace, curling his fingers, hitting your spot, making you lose it. He continued to pump his fingers in and out of you, making you cry out in euphoria. With every forceful hit you felt your orgasm draw nearer and nearer. It felt like a knot inside of your stomach was going to explode any second and he took notice of it. Just before you could release your screams, he pulled out his digits and grinned. But before you could argue with him, he re-attached his mouth to your clit and started to swirl his tongue in every possible direction, gathering more moans that left your lips. Your hands were grasping his hair, whilst your toes were crinkling and your back was arched. The sequins of your green mini dress pressed into your skin adding to the pleasure.

‘Please just make me cum,’ you whimpered.

His hand shot up and grabbed your neck tightly, forcing you to look at him. He put pressure onto your throat, leaving you to gape at him, his chest rising with each breath he took.

‘What did you just say to me?’

‘Can you please make me cum.’

‘From the moment I touch that wet little cunt of yours, you are mine. My property. My whore. So I get to decide when you cum. Understood?’ he growled.

You nodded.

‘Speak up when I ask you a question!’ he got up on his feet and towered over you, dark eyes staring into your soul.

‘Yes sir, I understand.’ taking a huge gulp, you watched him take off his pants and jumper.

His chest swelled with air as he trailed his finger down to the base of his cock, twitching under his own touch. Your breath hitched, trying to get as much oxygen into your lungs, as you watched him come towards you. His hand still stroked over his hardened shaft, collecting a small speck of pre cum.

‘On your knees.’ he said, and like a well trained dog, you obliged.

Grabbing your jaw, thumb gently rubbing over your lips. You were at eye level with his cock, and it was bigger than expected. ‘There we go.’

‘Do you want this?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’you answered, feeling your cheeks heat up.

‘Yes, what?...’

‘Yes, Sit, I want your cock.’ you said.

Growling, he pushed the head of the shaft past your lips, hitting the back of your throat.

Tommy tangled his fingers into your messy hair, eager to push in deeper. You swallowed around his throbbing member earning a huffed moan.

‘You like that don't you,’ he thrusted in and out of your aching jaw. ‘You liked being used for my cock don't you.’

You nodded, not being able to speak, but he didn't like the non verbal communication.

He pulled out his cock giving you time to breathe.

‘I said, don't you?’

‘Yes Sir, yes! I love being used for your cock.’ you gasped out for air before he slid back inside of you.

You pressed your tongue against his shaft, trying to satisfy him.

‘So, so eager for me, aren't you, pet.’ he groaned.

His hands found their way to your hair and pulled your head back, allowing him further access to your throat. A mixture of tears, saliva and cum were streaming down your face, but he didn't seem to mind, deep groans continuing to escape his deep-pink lips.

‘Such a nasty whore. Look at you. Pathetic’" he glanced down, staring into your eyes. ‘You look so good taking my cock. Maybe this will teach you something about manners.’

A pool of cum was now dripping below you. You couldn't help it, you were so turned. You needed him. Before you could register, your head was yanked up.

‘Look at me!’

Your eyes shot up and stared into his eyes.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ he moaned loudly before releasing into your mouth, slowly pulling his cock out of your aching mouth.

‘Swallow like the little slut you are.’ he ordered.

You swallowed his load, which tasted bitter and sweet, with a hint of saltiness.You opened your mouth, stuck out your tongue, showing him you obeyed.

‘What a good little fuck toy you are.’ he smirked at you before ordering you to sit back on the bed.

‘Do you deserve to cum?’ he asked.

‘Please Sir, please let me cum.’ you begged him, ‘I need to cum.’

Tommy laughed, tracing his fingers along his cock. ‘And what will you do if I let you cum?’ He snickered, clearly finding the sight of you rather amusing.

‘Anything!’ you breathe out, not realising how bad you needed him.

‘So desperate for me.’ He trailed on. ‘Lets see if I can make an excuse.’

He lowered his body towards the floor and moved to your neck where he started placing wet, sloppy kisses below your earlobe. His tongue drew down to your stomach.

‘Just make me cum.’

Immediately regretting your words, your eyes shot wide as he stopped and retrieved his head from your stomach.

‘Watch that filthy little mouth of yours or do I have to fuck it again!’

A hot sting was burning up on your cheek. He slapped you.

You shook your head smiling. ‘I'm sorry Sir, it won't happen again.’

‘You filthy whore, you like it.’ he narrowed his eyes, gripping your chin. You were silent.

In a matter of seconds, he raised his hand and brought it down to the opposite side of your face, sending your head to the side. You winced in pain, knowing it would leave red marks for at least 48 hours.

‘Fucking whore.’ and in one swift motion he struck you straight in the jaw, making you see tiny black spots.

The taste of liquid metal dripped onto your tongue, and out of your mouth, hitting your chest. Blood. When your eyesight came back to normal, you saw Thomas watching you, chest falling heavily.

‘I hope that taught you some manners, otherwise I'm going to have to continue,’ he gritted through his clenched teeth.

‘Yes sir, I have learnt my lesson.’

‘Now tell me, what do you want me to do?’ he asked, watching your eyes trail to his cock.

‘I want you to fuck me.’ you said, not being able to withstand it. ‘I...I want you to fuck me me.’

‘Of course you do, little whore.’ he pumped his shaft faster, groaning.

Thomas placed you on the counter, brushing the tip of his cock against your opening. You wanted to roll your eyes and swear at him, but you couldn't. Instead you bucked your hips back, trying to give him a better reach. He grinned before placing his knee between your legs, before thrusting into your core, making you yelp out.

‘Fuck!’ you shakily whispered. That one thrust was able to stretch out your wet cunt.

Your face was held in place with Tommy’s hand, forcing you to look at him again.

‘Quiet, pet.’, he said. ‘Or did I say you could talk?’

You shook your head.

‘Then stay quiet.’

He continued to pump in and out of you, moans muffling into his chest. The room filled with the loud slaps of your bodies colliding.

‘You're so fucking tight.’ he grunted into your neck. ‘It's like you were made to make my cock. Look at you, taking my cock like the good, filthy, little whore you are. My pet. My fuck toy.’

Suddenly the door to the Garrison opened.

Arthur and John stepped into the room as Tommy’s cock continued to pound into you.

‘Thomas,’ Arthur coughed, his lips pressed together as he uncomfortably tried to look away, at John, hiding away before slowly turning to witness the sight. ‘Y/n…’

‘Don’t worry we won’t look,’ John said, making his way across the room, both of their eyes not leaving your body.

You glanced at them, having felt their lingering eyes on you.

‘Arthur,’ a soft moan escaped you as you gazed at him, watching make his way to the backdoor.

John snickered, aggressively throwing himself at Arthur.

You took a look at John, the knot in your stomach tightening, ‘John!’ You cried out in euphoria, as Thomas pulled you into a climax, sending your body into shudders. He kept on thrusting, overstimulating you, until moments later, he reached his high as well, filling you up with his cum.

Tommy slid his cock out of you and stared down at the sight of you. ‘What?’ he scoffed. ‘You think I’m done with you? After what you just did?’

Arms steadying your body, you were pulled off the counter in a swift motion, ass against Tommy’s cock as his hand wrapped around your throat pulling you close to him.

‘I’m done with you when I say I am. Understood?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘We will now leave…Sir.’ John snickered.

Before you could think about sneaking a glance at them, Tommy’s cock slipped back into your pussy. You threw your head back in pleasure, biting your bottom lip. Waves of pleasure hit your body like a tsunami ready to destroy everything. Every nerve in your body was on fire and engulfed your entire body.

‘Open your mouth.’

Opening your mouth you stuck out your tongue and stared into his eyes smiling.

‘Such a good fucking slut.’ He hissed in pleasure before spitting in your mouth.

‘Swallow like the good girl you are.’

Swallowing his saliva you stuck your tongue back out, grinning in seduction.

Your orgasm was coming close and washed over your body in no time. Panting, you rested your back against the wall not being able to move just quite yet.

‘Such a good girl.’ he said, as he slid two fingers up your throbbing cunt, collecting your juices. ‘Taste yourself.’

As he commanded, you opened your mouth, letting the fingers slide into your mouth, tongue wrapping around his digits, sucking off all your cum. Pulling his cock out of you, his lips brushed against you once more, the taste of one night fading into addiction.

‘One night.’

‘One night.’ You caught his lips once more before he left, surrounded by your clothes, just as alone when you got there in the first place. Just as alone in your past. Always and inevitably alone.

703 notes · View notes

lutinsdolls · 3 months

Text

Core + Core refresh redesigns

Clawdeen - I feel like Clawdeen doesn’t have an established fashion style and she doesn’t have a consistent color palette, it really bothered me. So I blocked out her color scheme and used more blacks: I wanted to give her an edgier look, similar to her OG design in G1, but also respecting her G3 version by keeping her bomber jacket.

Draculaura - I never liked her original outfit: I feel like there’s too much pink and not enough black, I don’t like her headband and her cloak. But most of all I despise those shorts! And also I feel like using patterned designs on the original dolls feels too cheap. I think that her core refresh is a vast improvement from her first doll, but I still wanted to change some things.

I personally dislike when dolls clothes feel plastic-y, I like touching the fabric so it really bothers me when I see so much plastic.

I decided to give her more ruffles ( a nod to her G1 doll ) and to keep the gilet but I changed the shirt underneath to incorporate more white in the design. I LOVED the hat! It reminds me so much of Lydia Deetz so I kept it.

Frankie - while their design is one of my faves in G3, I wanted to give my own spin to it. Their color palette is based on their G1 doll, I’ve always liked Frankie’s grungy look with all the tartan and the stitches. I also wanted to give them a more androgynous look, I was torn between giving them a long half skirt or not, but in the end I gave them pants. I wanted to give a more scholar, preppy look but with darker colours. I don’t personally like the pastels on Frankie.

Cleo - I feel like her og doll is cute. BUT PLEASE GIVE OUR GIRL PANTS!!! I don’t get why g3 dolls can’t wear pants ( not shorts ).

Anyways I based my design on 70s clothes, I was inspired by ABBA’s outfits in all of their shimmery glory. I also changed her palette from light blue/gold to turquoise/gold. Also, please give her bangs back.

Lagoona - okay so I’ll start by saying that G1 Lagoona was my favorite and my first ever doll so I had to get adjusted to her new design.

I’ve grown to like it, but some things keep bothering me:

Her skin-tone needs to be a cooler pink. I get that we already have Draculaura but she looks sunburnt and too human with a warm pink. It clashes with her blue legs and it’s so distracting.

I also never liked the black in her design, even in G1. But while the use of blacks in G1 was cohesive and balanced, the blacks in G3 feel so out of place. I changed her shorts and gave her an hibiscus flower instead of pearls in her hair ( a nod to her G1 doll, I always loved that detail ).

#dollblr #doll collector #mh #monsterhigh #dolls #monster high g3 #monster high #monster high redesign #g3 clawdeen #g3 draculaura #g3 lagoona #g3 cleo de nile #g3 frankie stein #clankie #doll restyle #doll redesign #redesign

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btdemaru · 11 months

Note

hi could you do the obey me characters reaction to like a male mc with long hair/piercings and is just really into like goth/mallgoth type fashion/makeup/music in general?

Obey me! Brothers X M!Goth reader

Note : idk much about this style/fashion so please i apologize if it's not correct! I tried doing alot of research of what the style looks like tho

Warnings : -

🖤 Lucifer

Would love your style alot, i like to think that he'd love to match with you from time to time. And will be intrigued to see your piercings, even perhaps asking to see it up close or touch it.

He loves every goth style that you choose and will not question you and no matter what part of the style you prefer.

Lucifer does listen to the music you play and sometimes would ask if he can join in or share headphones/airpods (ykwim).

If you do your makeup, he'd secretly glances at you from his desk. Probably trying to be subtle too 😭

💛 Mammon

Will swoon. Will be lovestruck. Will be in awe. Mams in LOVE.

of course this mf wouldn't show it (it's obvious though). Would ask alot of question like your color palette or why you like this style and basically just loves to hear you talk about it.

He doesn't mind metal/dark music and is open to listening to the playlist you have or even the one you made for him!

If you try to get him going to the cemetery or basically doing some scary stuff like even going to a so called 'haunted house' or a scary escape room it'll be a huge no no for him, even if he did go mams wouldn't be much help as he'll only be loud.

Will try to do your eyeliner (if you wear) or eye shadow but fails miserably making your face look all bad and messy makeup everywhere.

💙 Leviathan

He wouldn't mind, not big on it but he doesn't judge or hate it. Will let you do your thing, he doesn't know much about it so he'll ask you a few things to cure his curiosity.

Doesn't really listen to the music you do but isn't opposed to trying, turns out he actually does like ot after playing a song or two.

If you have a tongue piercing he'll zone out while staring at it. Totally not thinking about you using it on hi-

💚 Satan

We all know he likes to read, so when you walked in the room he's already analyzing your style all the way back from the first originated in the '80s following the punk subculture of the '70s.

Compliments you from your hair to piercings to makeup and clothes or even your boots.

I dont think Satan really listens to music but he does like to write/read and literature generally so maybe dark poems are things you guys can do.

man probably can't stop looking at you and would buy you jewelry or matching silver rings.

🩷 Asmodeus

Literature isn't really his thing but probably watches and admires you while you're doing it.

Will try matching you clothes with his own color palette and asks your opinion on it.

Asmo thinks you're hot. Definitely. 100%.

He's the type to bring you bouquet of black or red roses (whatever you prefer really), or even do your hair

Feel free to do his hair in return or putting your style of makeup on him, he'll take alot of pictures and posts it with the caption that you did the makeup.

Music? Yes. Listens to any music you play if he's in the mood he'd even asked for a a little makeout

🧡 Beelzebub

He doesn't mind it tbh, since i like to think that his twin also has a similar style.

50/50 on the music, he prefers pop punk but open to any music genres you exposed him to.

Would ask if you could do his eyeliner. (He moves alot) so you practically have to do it again and again for it to match so it's not lopsided.

Beel still loves you no matter what style you wear or what you do/listen to.

🩵 Belphegor

DING DING DING. love at first sight.

Belphie always asked you to dress him up or pick his clothes jusy cause he's too lazy to do it himself 💀.

Blasts music together while he just lays there like a dead person while you do your makeup/hair

Would always crawl to your lap whenever you're doing literature or writing about some gruesome poems he'll be there just deep asleep.

Doesn't really bother to go to those creepy dark places unless you're the one carrying him.

Would fiddle with some of your piercings if it doesn't hurt you.

--------------------------------------

Again im so sorry if there's a mistake i did about goth styles while writing this.

497 notes · View notes

ilguna · 6 months

Note

Hello! For the event could I please have prompt 7 from the expired medicine list with Finicky or Katniss, whichever one you think would work best! Thank you and congrats on 3000!

☼ cerulean pt1 (Finnick Odair) ☼

warnings; swearing, a harassment accusation, whore used derogatorily.

wc; 2k

prompt; 7. fling.

notes; reader/finnick are the same age, pre-canon.

—

Gloss lets out an annoyed sigh, coming to a stop. “(Y/n), I told you that we should’ve left sooner.”

You press your lips together, eyes searching the crowd to find the designated rows for mentors and stylists. Most—if not, all—of the seats that are reserved for you have been completely taken up. Except for a pair that have been strategically left absent, intended for you and Gloss to sit in.

Which would be perfect, if it weren’t for the fact that your tributes’ stylists are placed a row beneath, on the opposite end. That’s where you had told them to sit, because you thought you’d be a few minutes late. Those minutes ended up turning into a half hour, as you had to change your entire outfit and adjust your makeup to match.

In the years you spent training for the Games and preparing for the Capitol, they never told you just how many rules there are to follow, here. They range from obvious to unspoken, but to you, half of them are unnecessary.

The one that shot you down tonight is the palette rules. The first is that you cannot wear the same colors that your tributes will wear for their interviews. You got past that one just fine, as they’re usually forced to wear bright colors to draw attention, something that you aren’t really into.

The second one is about matching outfits with mentors. You’re not allowed to wear the exact same outfit as your other mentor unless you’re siblings or dating. Whereas Cashmere and Gloss got away with it for years, you wouldn’t be able to do the same, not that you want to, anyway.

It’s the third that you got caught on. See, you’re allowed to wear the same colors as Gloss, but you’re not allowed to match colors with mentors outside of him. This is for multiple reasons, the primary one being in case a camera pans to the crowd, it needs to be obvious who is where and what they’re wearing.

On top of that, for districts that are expecting for their tributes to be popular, it’s customary to submit what color the mentor is going to wear. You meant to do this, but you kept putting it off because you were busy and had other things to worry about. Gloss knew this, and thought that he’d be nice and submit it for you, and he was going off of the last color you’d mentioned.

It was cerulean blue, because you’d seen the color in a stylists’ closet, and throughout the week, you haven’t been able to get it off your mind. When you overheard the District Four mentors talking about a similar color, you had to give it up. They have a monopoly over the color blue, you would be the one shamed for going out of your boundaries.

And you suppose you could’ve talked to Finnick Odair or Mags Flanagan about them choosing a different color, if it weren’t for the rivalry that’s been going on over the past couple of years. It’s only grown worse in the last year.

To make an extremely long story short, Finnick started the rivalry when he didn’t join the Career pack during his Games, and proceeded to openly bash Districts One and Two as a whole. At the time, he said he hated the Career dynamic, the names you’re given, and the attitude you have about everything. He finished by saying each time one of you dies, you have it coming because of stupid actions made early on.

Instead of Mags, his mentor, trying to downplay his words and squirm their way out of it, she stood behind him. Everything that came out of his mouth dragged them down further into a grave. When he won, he refused to take anything he said back, because he meant every word.

Since then, the Careers have excluded District Four from every one of their activities. Between the Capitol week, during the tribute parade, the training, the interviews, and the time in the arena. No one is to intermingle with the fish district, even if it means death.

Well, you won two years after Finnick had, at the bright age of sixteen. You shunned Four the way you had been taught to. When you got home after the Games, you got the full story regarding Finnick, and his personality. It was a warning from Cashmere and Gloss to stay away from him.

The next year—last year—you finally got to meet him. It was your first time as a mentor, and even though Gloss had told you he would be watching you like a hawk, he didn’t have time to. He was juggling both tributes to pick up the work that Cashmere usually did with her eyes closed. This is because you weren’t used to the workload.

Needless to say, your mentor's warnings meant nothing.

In the month you spent in the Capitol, you grew close to Finnick. It wasn’t on purpose, honestly you don’t remember how the two of you ended up talking for the first time, much less becoming more than that. Way more than that. Finnick is well aware that he’s handsome, and he’s got the charm to go along with it.

That’s how you ended up in the same bed together, multiple times, until you had to leave the Capitol when your final tribute died. But before you left for the year, Finnick gave you a nasty parting gift. He went straight to Capitol reporters to tell them what you’d done together for the summer.

It was like he couldn’t wait to tear you down, despite the fact that you had done nothing to him.

Thankfully, you can put on a good show. At the train station, with about a hundred cameras and microphones in your face, you’d burst into tears. You claimed that Finnick had harassed you the entire time you were in the Capitol, and he couldn’t take no for an answer. He had threatened to ruin your reputation if you tried to breathe a word of it.

There was a lot of skepticism following your statements, because it’s he-said, she-said business. He pointed his finger at you, and you did the exact same thing without going any lower than he did. It worked out exactly the way you had been hoping it would.

It’s been a pain in the ass to be near him this time around.

This is why you couldn’t just ask the Four mentors to pick a different color. You were forced to change your mind, and you’d decided to go with a light pink, because it was safer. Your whole attention had shifted to that shade of pink for the last half of the week. And it wasn’t until you were on your way out the door to get on the elevator, Gloss asked you what you were wearing, because cerulean had been submitted, not pink.

If he had told you that he had done that for you, neither of you would’ve shown up this late. With the only pair of seats left being squeezed between Enobaria and Finnick.

You can already guess how this is going to go.

“Gloss, I’m sorry.” You start, looking at him. “Please, don’t make me sit next to Finnick.”

“It’s your own fault.” He tells you, starting down the aisle.

You roll your eyes. “I don’t think you understand that you had a part in this too, if you’d told me—”

“(Y/n), it’s your job as a District One mentor to remember to submit your color.” He cuts you off. “I let you slide last year, and you know that this year, you were supposed to handle it.” He stops at the end of the row, holding his hand out. “Now you’ve got to deal with this.”

You grind your teeth slightly, squinting at him, wondering if you’ll get in trouble for strangling someone from your own district. You then take in a breath, giving him a fake smile, and turning to head down the row, toward Finnick. You could be an ass and sit in Gloss’ seat next to Enobaria, but you’re sure that he’ll make you get up and move over.

Finnick glances up at you, meeting your eyes. A smirk plays at the corner of his lip, “I see you’re still breaking rules.”

You ignore him, sitting in your seat, crossing one leg over the other. He’s referring to the color you’re wearing, which is entirely too similar to what he’s wearing. The Capitol will easily be able to distinguish the two different shades, but the districts are a different story.

Gloss sits on your other side. When you turn your head to talk to him, you see that he’s already captured Enobaria’s attention, leaving you to your own devices. You’d jump into the conversation, but Enobaria hasn’t grown to like you quite yet. She prefers Cashmere, because they’d been working together for a couple years.

“Are you really going to give me the silent treatment?” Finnick pouts in a mocking tone, “I thought we had something.”

The back of his forefinger brushes against your thigh. You slap his hand away, glaring at him. “Leave me alone.”

“Why? Are you going to go crying to the cameras again?” He asks. “That was smart of you to do, I wish I’d thought of it myself.”

“You’re not smart enough to.” You mutter. “Keep wishing.”

Finnick doesn’t respond, he doesn’t have time to. The lights overhead dim, signaling that it’s time for the interviews to start. It isn’t until Caesar Flickerman comes on stage, dressed in sunflower yellow, do the lights go fully dark.

This conceals Finnick’s action of twisting his upper body to face you. You eye him out of your peripheral the best you can, leaning away from him slightly. You were stupid to think that you’d get a fairly relaxed evening the night before the Games.

Finnick leans over the arm rest that separates you, getting close to your ear to whisper. Despite the fact that Caesar is loud enough to drown out anything he would have to say.

“I really am sorry.” He whispers. “Let me make it up to you.”

You keep your eyes on Caesar, forcing yourself to listen to the jokes he’s cracking, knowing that he’s leading up to introducing your first tribute. Your thoughts begin to stray when you feel him touching you again, attempting to innocently play with the bottom of your dress.

“Any way you want.” His fingertips dancing on your skin. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

You grab his wrist, eyebrows drawn in. “Stop.”

“It won’t happen again.” He murmurs. “It’ll stay between me and you.”

You break your eyes away from Caesar to stare into Finnick’s, which are easy to make out in the darkness. “I’m not falling for the same trick twice.”

“It’s not a trick.”

You let go of him. “Enough.”

“We were good together.” He whines a little too loudly. Gloss glances over, but Finnick’s already pretending to be watching the show in front of you.

Finally, Caesar introduces your girl tribute. Gloss looks away.

“How about I take you out to lunch?” Finnick proposes.

You shake your head at him. “Finnick, face it, what we had is nothing more than a fling.” You snap quietly. “I’m the only girl your age, which means I’m your only option, and I’m telling you no.”

“A fling?” Finnick echoes, “No, I saw it as more than that.”

“Right, so what went through your head when you went and told the Capitol that I was a whore last year?” You ask, watching him. Finnick opens his mouth, and then closes it. “That’s what I thought.”

“You’re not going to forgive me for that, are you?”

“Why should I?”

Finnick hums, looking away. He doesn’t speak for several tributes, and just when you begin to think that the conversation is over, he looks over. Right as his boy is coming to the front of the stage.

“You do look gorgeous tonight, I think cerulean is perfect on you.”

You force a smile, “I’ll never wear it again.”

this was part of my 3k celebration!!

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geekgirles · 1 month

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Nora's Design and What It Might Have Been Hinting at

There's a very high chance this will all feel a little incoherent and like I'm maybe grasping at straws, but I really do think I have a point here, so deal with me, please.

Okay, so, Nora. Nora's design.

Ever since it was first revealed, the general consensus has been that it kinda sucked, especially compared to her design for Islands of Wakfu. Because let's face it, when we take into account the Council of Six's more varied and detailed designs...

Compared to them (and especially her flashback self, look how cute, and eager, and fun-loving she used to be!), Nora is literally just a pink ninja:

Let's face it, it was underwhelming.

However, and I know I'm not the first one who's come to the realisation that Nora's current design and colour palette is indeed intentional, rather than a poor choice, I believe I understand now what Ankama was trying to do.

Nora's design was meant to be foreshadowing of her actual role in the season. More specifically, her role in allowing the Necromes free access to the World of Twelve.

If you think about it, all the major Eliatrope players this season followed a very simple colour palette that tied them to the Eliatrope goddess and marked them as forces of good: while white was a very prominent colour, blue was the one they all had in common.

All the actual protectors of the World of Twelve... Except Nora.

Her design is the one that clashes the most with the rest of her family. But unlike Qilby, whose more monstrous appearance served as a reminder of his past atrocities and kept both Yugo and the audience on their toes because surely he must be up to something, Nora's more down-to-earth design kept the focus away from her.

In fact, I'd even say her white hair was another deliberate choice to make us subconsciously believe she was on her family's side. After all, white is a very prominent colour in the Eliatropes' palette, especially in the Eliatrope goddess. What's more, deep down, she is on her family's side! These past few episodes showed us that it was Efrim who used Nora to advance his master's agenda, she had no agency or say in the matter whatsover.

And yet, her most promiment colour is pink. A clear opposite from her family's more prominent blue. And what does pink remind us of? That's right.

Stasis.

Death, destruction, stability.

The Necromes.

And just like the Necromes, even Nora's eyes are naturally pink. These parallels only become more pronounced once Nora becomes possessed by Efrim, when all of her, even her portals, have similar hues.

Both her colour palette and role in the Necrome invasion are opposite from Yugo, especially once he too has been captured and had his Wakfu stolen.

I refuse to believe this contrast between the two isn't intentional.

Because now, now that even Qilby has acknowleged him as his King, now that he commands the Eliatrope Dofus and the Eliasphere, now that the World of Twelve and his loved ones need him more than ever... Now everything about Yugo is blue.

Nora is the unwilling traitor, so the pink in her outift had to reflect that. Yugo is the hero stepping up to the challenge now that things are more dire than ever, and he wears his people's colours with pride.

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gav-san · 7 months

Text

A Vintage Bouquet | 1/5 | Mihawk x reader

Pairing: Dracule Mihawk / Fem Reader

Length: 1/5 Chapters

Summary: Trapped in a monastery and threatened with an impending marriage, you'll strike any deal with a Pirate to escape what your father has in store for you.

“What a treat, for a great warlord of the sea to come to our island.”

Mihawk didn’t remove his feet from the table, barely even bothering to blink at the approach of the voice. Its owner, Rear-Admiral Jacobson, was the insipid leader of the Marine Outpost here, a dull man fitting of the dull backwater.

“It’s truly an honor to host you.” The marine said, taking out a chair to join him, much to his irritation.

“Charmed,” Mihawk replied dryly, barely acknowledging the large man in the marine uniform. “I’m sure.”

The rear admiral laughed, taking a seat on the bar left of the famed swordsman. He didn’t sit too close, clearly aware he was unwelcome, but not scared off

“I don’t mean to overstep, Hawk Eyes, but I’m shocked to see you here. The West Blue has been very quiet on the pirate front, and less so on any budding warriors. Illa de Palma is paradise for us here.”

Mihawk tilted his head.

He could outright refuse to chat with Jacobson, but it would likely be detrimental. Mihawk was no fan of bright sunlight and the thick humidity on Palma but he did find their wine to be pasable. Insulting the owner of the best vineyard on the island wasn’t going to get him his shipment, or any future ones on any island, knowing the way the wine-masters held grudges.

With a sigh, knowing he wasn’t getting off without revealing a little info, he acquiesced.

“It isn’t nearly that complicated. I was headed this way and was followed. Since there or no decent vineyards between here and the Grand Line, I thought I may find something interesting.” The swordsman said, raising a glass of dark liquid, and swishing it. “I have yet to decide if it was worth the diversion.”

The rear-admiral Jacobson perked a brow.

“I’d say so, but since it’s my wine, I have a stake in your opinion.”

Mihawk took a measured look, before taking a short drink of the wine, before looking back.

“It’s not terrible.”

The Rear Admiral laughed.

“That’s high praise. I’m not sure anything could please your stiff palette, other than the best.”

Mihawk took another sip, letting the liquid run across his tongue.

“It’ll do, I suppose.” He said, putting it down. “It doesn’t seem like your little island is very interesting otherwise.” The rear admiral Jacobson smiled at the swordsman.

“Interesting? Perhaps not for a man of your caliber, but for me, it’s been divine. We export the best wine and women!”

Mihawk tilted his chin.

“The monastery girls,” Jacobson added, with a wink. “The nobles send their daughters here to learn how to be good wives. Makes the entire island a pretty penny, and we get to see pretty women.”

“How quaint,” Mihawk responded with little care.

Jacobson leaned in as if he expected a juicy bit of gossip, and Mihawk raised his glass again.

“Oh, don’t be so closed-mouth! I know you came in with that fancy noble who has his eyes on our girls! Tell me if it’s true that he wants to take our sweet, lovely island beauty. I speak, of course, of Ms. Gabriella!”

Jacobson named a woman's first name that Mihawk prompted recognized and ignored. The swordsman gave a sound that was similar to a snort, though he was too elegant to do so outright. He was tempted to immediately leave hearing that name again. After having to listen to that incessant noble who decided to follow him, he could live a very long life and not have to hear it again.

“This conversation turns tedious,” Mihawk replied, “Such things hold little interest for me.”

“Always the swordsman, dedicated to your craft.” The rear-admiral joked, much to Mihawk's great annoyance at the familiarity. “For a former pirate, you have always been quite dedicated, much like those nobles.”

“I’m a pirate, not a savage.” The pirate scoffed, lowering the wine onto the bar with a clink. He rose, moving to leave before he had to hear any more nonsense. “The wine is astringent. Hardly worth a visit.”

The Rear Admiral gaffed, scooting his chair so the swordsman could pass.

“You should pass by the monastery. They had the best wine on the island.” Jacobson said, raising the glass to take a long sniff. “They always purchase our best for their private sacrament.”

Mihawk raised a hand, not bothering to give a reply.

He was not much inclined to take the word of someone who touted such fine taste and failed to live up to the expectations, but he had run low and disliked the idea of setting off without a fresh crate.

He learned against a pier, next to his boat, listening in to the local fishermen passing, morning still fresh. Villagers only give him half a glance and Marines kept a wide distance, more familiar with his old Wanted Poster.

He had learned early in life that the best way to discover the best wine was to listen to the townspeople. And though he wasn’t much inclined to speak, he had found his fair share of bounties simply being near.

But he did raise a brow at the topic of today’s rumor mill.

It was the name.

The name of the girl, at the monastery. Ms. Something Gabriella. It seemed that this girl was of some importance in the town, her name was like a buzzing fly in his ear.

Gabriella Gabriella Gabriella

What was that first name?

Ah yes.

Ms (name) Gabriella.

After putting the two together he pressed his lips together.

The last name alone was popular enough that he hadn’t thought much when people shouted praises about the girl. However, the first name was unique enough that it did cause a memory of something to resurface.

Isabella Gabriella.

An old pirate captain, who enjoyed daggers. He wondered if there was any relation between the girl and the pirate swordswoman he had known long ago, who had been a fearsome foe indeed when he was a young man.

She often bragged about her precious little daughter, who had the same name as this monastery girl.

He glanced at the Monastery, turning. Well, he supposed it wouldn’t be that big of a detour.

Perhaps even bearable if there was good wine.

-XXX-

The white sheets fluttered in the cool sea breeze that the evening on the coast had brought, the crisp breeze ridding it of the last wrinkles and folds. Careful fingers folded the fabric into a sharp square, placing it in the large wicker basket next to the laundry before you turned to the last row of hanging sheets.

You couldn’t help stop your eyes from wandering past the tall stone wall of the Nunnery Annex and gazing down the hill where the shimmering white of Ciudad Blanca lay, flaunting its beauty to all who came across the Isla de Palma.

You could appreciate the artistry that had gone into the white facade of the rich town, as you had once been part of something.

You blinked, hearing your name.

Ms. Gabriella.

Calls of it came from those passing, able to see through the cutouts in the wall, making you feel akin to a goldfish in a too-small bowl.

The monastery walls had been built less for the comfort of those inhabiting it but as a symbol of its wealthy patrons. It was a very popular destination on Isla Palma, and though you preferred cloistering herself away in the depths of the monastery, you had watched those visitors with a melancholy stirring in your heart.

Adventurous, free, people.

Located in the West Blue, the beautiful city saw more than its fair share of seafaring wanderers, an almost alarming toss-up of Marines and merchants. You heard more than you saw, as enough seemed to fear the Gods that they would visit, climbing the stairs to reach the tall white building.

And, inevitably, some of those travelers were almost certainly pirates masquerading as sailors.

And despite your hair being tightly pulled back into a strict bun, secured by coif and wimple, under the black veil, it did little to hide your lovely face and sparkling eyes, as bright as the lights dancing off the warm ocean.

And others noticed, as well.

When you were on rotation for laundry or any other tasks outside the monastery walls you would be cat-called, harassed, or confronted by angry women.

you tended, hiding yourself behind the last youets, folding as quickly as you could.

You weren’t surprised at the rough-looking travelers who called as you trod behind the Abbess, as you greatly suspected they were pirates. But the number of Marines who would leer at you and the other sisters was downright horrible.

You whipped another sheet off the laundry and winced when you heard a rip.

Damn.

Mother Superior would be greatly displeased with her, as she already thought you taking the food and space that so many other young females would be grateful for.

A good marriage, the Mother Superior had often told you, was something a face like yours should aspire to. It was one of the Abbotess’s many ways of letting you know that time was ticking for her, and if you could not find a proper husband, you’d be found one.

Choose, you foolish girl, choose!

Countless men had been offered to her, but the photos and love letters blurred before your eyes as panic caused your stomach to heave.

Your entire body reacted to the notion of marriage, shoulders squaring and knees locking as you attempted not to drop to your knees.

You felt a drop of sweat run down your shoulder at the thought of accepting one of the many proposals coming through the Monastery letterbox. Many wealthy men came to the island, but few were good. Less who had all their teeth, and had the resources to afford a bride dowry for her.

And those acceptable were almost exactly like father.

Your father, a name not earned but given regardless, was a noble living in the holy city of Mary Genoese, bathing in wealth and privilege. you hadn’t seen him in years. He saw you more as a prize swan than flesh and blood, and the only reason you heard from him was when he reminded you of your duty to marry, mainly through very unpleasant Den Den Mushi calls via snail.

And his latest he hasn’t held back, letting you know that whoever you accepted, expected to receive a generous offering for her.

The Mother Superior had a vice-like grip on your arm, keeping you in check.

Of course, you agreed.

A record number of Berry would go on to continue running the monastery with your success. That was the whole reason girls like you were boarded and raised by nuns.

But your worth was ticking down if you passed into your thirties without choosing.

The town bell rang, counting down your hours.

You wanted to pull the entire line of laundry down, angry at everything. Your life hadn’t started as a plot to turn into a breeding cow!

Your mother had been an adventurous, independently wealthy captain before wedding father. He had promised her a similar lifestyle after getting hitched, just adding his fine title as a nobleman with a residence in the Holy City.

And so you were a child who had worn only the finest dresses, even when running through the swelling ocean waves, hair perfectly coiffed even as you lay to sleep.

Maids regularly pampered her, and the best tutors engaged her mind. You voraciously read books and loved your father for generously giving you so many. Many afternoons had been spent aboard your mother's ship, set up in a hammock reading romance and eating the finest sweets, and even tasting the fine wine they sailed around delivering.

Your mother's crew was mostly retired marines and had generously taught you all about the wine trade as if you were their child. Your mother taught you more than a few tricks with her daggers, though you preferred the feel of a sword.

Your mother had made you hide this when you visited your father. He had, over time become more and more vocal about his dislike of sea life, how women didn’t suit it, especially concerning you in particular.

You had, deep down, had a feeling that something had gone sour in him.

It had probably not helped that over time, your mother had taken on the lion's share of raising you, and your noble father had mostly enjoyed staying at home, raking in his wife's wealth and attention with far too much free time on his hands. They spent more time away than together, and soon, it was clear divorce would be imminent.

On your sixteenth birthday, your mother, her ship, and the entire crew were shot down by pirates and murdered.

You had miraculously been on a rare vacation with your father. He had praised the heavens for such good fortune but you deeply grieved, unable to find any value in your life compared to your mothers.

You weren’t even half the woman she was, in any respect, and now she was gone, you saw just how strong she had been to counter a man like your father.

Father wasted no time introducing the newest addition to his collection. And you meant that as a plural since it wasn’t a day after your mother’s passing that you discovered your mother was just one of four wives that your father secretly had. He went around town, touting how you were to be sold off in a similar manner.

You were determined to cut ties, your anger roused at such a callous insult, but before you could touch a penny of your inheritance he locked it away, then he locked you away, per the flexible arm of his noble title.

Your entire future shifted, and any chance at a seafaring life was gone. And it took less than a day for that to be made clear.

And there was nothing you could do about it.

You paused, hands loosening before you tore another bed sheet, focusing to take another deep breath.

Taking out your anger here would not give you back what you had lost. You would only receive toilet cleaning duties for the next month if you didn’t control yourself.

But every day, anger cinched your middle tighter, and inevitably, those invisible stays would break, or simply cut you in two.

Breathe, you reminded herself.

“Ms Gabriella, my beloved!!” Another voice called behind your back, and you scrunched your brows together. It was close. A cold shiver danced down your spine.

Heffery Jones.

“Lovely Sweet thing!”

You recognized that drunk voice and your brows furrowed. What a terrible day, you decided. While most of your well-wishers managed to control themselves and not climb the nunnery, this voice was coming too close to her.

You flinched, turning at the figure who was half dangling over the brick, waving too enthusiastically your way.

One of the somewhat poor townsmen, a very young fellow with brown hair and yellowing teeth grinned at your lost expression.

And very drunk.

“My love, why haven’t you responded to my proposal?” He cried out to you, still struggling on the balustrade.

“Go home Heffery, your wife works too hard for you to waste it on drinks.” you retorted, your tone flat. You didn’t have the time to state all of your reasons, but that was a start.

Not that it worked.

“Darling, let’s run away and go sail the sea together! My wife means nothing!” He cried, wiggling to try and get over the sharp spikes.

You actually liked Mary Jones and feel sorry you had married Heffery. But it was arranged, like most marriages in town. You were sure the only reason Mary Jones hadn’t run off was her children, who all looked suspiciously like your neighbor, rather than her husband.

You readied herself, grabbing the laundry basket, in case you needed to throw it at him.

“Heffery Jones, don’t you dare!” The voice of the Mother Superior rang out, startling both of them.

You, for once, were flooded with relief as you heard her call out from one of the many windows. Even if it meant a lecture later, of why you had been the problem. For now, Heffery could take the tongue-lashing of the older woman, for however long it took him to realize he needed to run.

The Abbot didn’t hold much power in the monastery, but he had a den den mushi phone and paid off the local marines for problems like this.

But Heffery Jones wasn’t known for his intelligence or listening ability, and he attempted to jump over the brick. Even the solid shoe you threw aimed at his face didn’t change his mind.

He still attempted to jump.

And this was only an attempt as he inadvertently sacrificed his fancy waistcoat on a lantern pedestal and flung himself back the other way, into the road. Your shoe met with a satisfying thump and fell to the ground on the other side.

You heard the alarm of the local church regulars and the dismay of drunk sailor men who had followed Heffery from his bar to egg him on, as well as the distant thuds of Heffery rolling down the hill, probably straight back into the bar he had come from.

So you waved goodbye, cheekily.

Mother Superior burst through the side door, just as you finished folding the laundry, hiding ripped sheet at the bottom of the pile.

“That disgusting man! And you, you! Must you flaunt yourself? If you wish to be seen, hurry up and choose a respectable suitor!”

you knew better than to argue, simply apologizing. Thankfully you weren’t forced to grovel for long, as the Abbot flew through the door, bouncing back from the Mother Superior's large girth.

“He is coming!” He cried, falling into a tumble of robes.

“Great Heavens!” The nun said in tandem, as Abbot cried out his news. “I already chased the Jones boy off!”

A nun followed the father, picking him up from the ground, and the old man wasted no time delivering his news to both of them.

“Not the boy, Mother!” He said with a flourish, slipping around her.

The Abbot grabbed your hands, gleefully.

“Your fiancé! He has been chosen! And he’ll be accompanied by a Warlord of the sea!” your mouth fell open, but you stopped herself by biting her lip.

“Pardon?” you croaked.

Mother Superior cackled in thanksgiving, holding up her hands in praise to the sky.

“He can afford a Warlord?!? He’s clearly rich and powerful enough to pay for an entire new section of the building!” Mother Superior cried out, picking up the Abbot and spinning him.

The man cried out in alarm, but you felt like you had been the one being spun. you knew the time had been ticking down, but your father had promised your mother, in a written will, that you would be able to choose your husband!

You stepped back, breath getting heavy. The Abbot and the Mother Superior danced around one another, leaving you the chance to dash away, trying your best not to hyperventilate. You flung yourself around the corner fleeing the wide courtyard to the smaller citrus grove.

Others disliked the mushy ground, laden with rotting oranges, and so you often found respite there.

There on the bench, you raised your lone barefoot to look at the consequences of a very impulsive throw. Not that it hadn’t been deserved, but now you’d have to go beg the gate guard to fetch it for you.

Or…

You glanced at the old, bolted side gate in the wall behind the last tree.

If you dare, you could unlock it, dart out, and get it herself. You questioned if it was worth potentially being discovered, but if you were quick, and only to avoid unnecessary drama, it very well might be. Tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear you sighed, agreeing it was certainly a bad day.

This inner debate was cut short when you heard a thud, near the gate.

You jumped up, startled, head snapping over.

A shiver ran down your spine at what you had found.

A shoe.

Your shoe.

There, in a space bare of any fallen oranges, lay your shoe.

You dash to the gate, from where the shoe almost certainly came, thrusting your head out of the small space on the top. And you only caught your beneficiary as they turned the corner, the edge of a dark coat.

And you were unsure why such a small glimpse of a simple kind of action made your stomach erupt in butterflies.

You turned, ready to call out to the person, or something.

“Girl!”

You jumped back, throwing on your shoe just as Mother Superior turned the corner and found you.

“Quit hiding around, it’s time to get ready! Your father wishes to speak with you!”

-XXX-

If there was anything that could make this day worse, it was getting a call from your father. The den den mushi for the convent was not only slow, but your father had become unbearable.

The snail did a great job conveying his disregard for you.

“Do us both a favor, you, and be on your best behavior.”

“Father-” you began, only to be sharply cut off.

“-While you may not want to be married, you, but there’s no other respectable path for your future. I promise there are much worse suitors who are interested, who wouldn’t care much for your consent.”

“-Father-”

“Pirates, even.”

You froze.

“Be a good girl, my dear. I mean, anything is better than one of those Doflamingo boys. I’ve heard that Donquixote is little better than a brute. He’s been looking for a noble bride and has the money. He had no real title, since that debacle, and has been calling me up incessantly.”

Surely your father wouldn’t be cruel enough to consider that? you didn’t dare call his bluff, only to be proven wrong. you had heard plenty about the fallen noble Doflamingos, and you knew that your father was no longer joking. If you pressed him, then he’d make it worse for you.

“You’ll be a darling, won’t you, my dear? Go make pretty eyes at that nice new fiance and make sure you walk away with a ring.”

…

“Yes… father.”

-XXX-

You sat in the citrus grove, finally alone. It was chilly, being outside well into the night with only a shawl, still wearing the day dress.

Fingers clenched in the fine, high-waisted cotton dress, simple but well made. It had been the only nice dress you possessed, but had still needed a quick fitting since you had lost weight as time slipped on. Dainty slippers pinched at your toes, clearly borrowed from someone who had smaller feet.

Your hair had been groomed till it shone, left mostly up twisted into a pretty pearl netting to keep your face clear of any strays. Even makeup had been acquired.

Not even a week had passed, but you already met your new finacé.

And it had been what you expected. You had hoped that it wouldn’t be an extended meeting with the Noble fiancé because alas, no good were wishes anymore. Ronald W. Canonfire the Fourth was a long-winded, much older man looking for a pretty third wife, just to liven things up, since his other two were getting so old. And he disliked their ‘worn’ bodies since they had had almost twenty children between them.

You grit your teeth and played dumb.

Though you had been engaged, a first meeting tended to be shorter, by tradition. It was mostly to assure the buyer that the bride was as had been showcased to be. And if he approved, which he probably would, the wedding would proceed. And your next meeting with him would be the day you would go down the aisle.

Good Lord.

You couldn’t live that way.

No-

You wouldn’t.

You took in a deep breath, your chest heaving. Surely, this was not going to be the way your life went. Whatever it took, you would not be going down that aisle. You could secretly take the vows, or maybe even slip away, and find work on the docks disguised. Or stowaway!

Anything.

Anything, but this life.

So you stood, unsure of what path you were going to take, only sure that you had to take it.

And to hear a lock break.

The door on the side of the monastery creaked open.

You whip your head around, confident someone has somehow read your thoughts.And your chest nearly seizes as you brace yourself for whatever is coming.

The first thing you saw, from the deep shadows of the doorway, were well-oiled boots. Followed by dark pants, a rich black coat, and a sleek hat with a feather. A cutting figure, to say the least. His scandalous lack of a shirt was not missed, nor were the cut muscles that gleamed pristine white.

You take a step back, thinking you should probably call out for help, but are unable to find the words.

There is something downright transfixing about this man, and it’s not just the way his muscles cut down to the downright sinful apex of his pants.

He’s older, but not much.

Your mouth goes dry.

“Are you going to throw your shoe again?” He has a mild tone, almost bored. “Or should I wait?”

“You-” You mutter in fascination. “You are the man who threw back my shoe.”

He steps through, letting the gate swing close behind him.

“Why are you here?” You ask, perplexed. You might be afraid, but he looks so disinterested that you can’t help but feel a bit calm.

“Are you going to throw it at me this time?” He asks again, a sharp brow raising.

Heck, the man’s entire face was sharp, accentuated by well-groomed facial hair, and generous lashes, held together by a severe expression.

His unmissable eyes must have seen your first, for when your gaze reached his face, he was already looking at her.

Startled, you realized they were gold. Gold, and almost alien in appearance. All of these things were eye-catching and startling.

And for a moment, both stared.

But that’s not what you gazed at with an abrupt interest.

Just as he stepped into full view of the single lantern overhead, the light danced off the large metal cross on the man’s back, giving you a view of what must be the largest sword you’ve ever seen.

“Is that a kriegsmesser?” You said before you could stop yourself. “It’s enormous.”

You swear at yourself, as a reminder that the last thing you need to do is start fangirling over weapons, lest you encourage the intruder to use his own. And for it to come out like you is an innuendo.

It truly was a long, horrible day, if this was your best manners.

One of the man’s brows lifted, followed by a slight down curve at the corner of his mouth.

“Yoru.” He answered, and you blinked. “Is hardly so simple as a mere Kriegsmesser. She may be my largest sword, but I’m effective with all I equipt.”

Your mouth tilted in a smile, glee filling your chest, before you managed to clear your throat at his sly joke. Suddenly you were ten again, on the deck of the ‘Sweet Joy’ and practicing your footwork.

“Yoru,” You repeated, subtly swaying the motions you’d use with such a sword. It sounded familiar, though it had been ten years since you had read anything about swords. “May I see her?” You ask, forgoing all manners, like a bar whore.

This time, the man actually gave a smile, though it was very subtle.

“It’s not for taming bunnies.” He said, coming a step closer, and glancing down at your feet.

“Lend me your blade and we can test that theory.” You retort sharply, much to his amusement, the way he leans forward.

“I hardly here for a fight with a nun.” He said with a drawl, his tone mildly amused.

“I am not a nun.” He waved a hand like it made little difference. “Why did you come?” you said cooly, moving to put the bench between you. You hoped he was here to take you hostage, but you couldn’t make it seem easy, and give yourself away.

The man sighed, giving you a long look as if he could read your mind.

“Don’t kid yourself. I heard there’s good wine here.” The man replied, leaning against the door of the outer wall

You blinked.

“I guess.” you said, “But this isn’t exactly a store.”

“Understood,” He said wryly.

“And the Abbot will also be asleep by now, even for a distinguished gentleman yourself.” You fold your arms.

“Hense the sidegate.” He tilted his fancy hat to the broken side door.

“Rude.” You reply. “I should scream.” You wave a hand.

He moves so quickly you don’t see him place a finger on your mouth until it’s there.

“Perhaps we can come to an accord.” The man said, and you stepped back, slapping the hand away.

“Perhaps, for the right price.” you gave him a long look. “Do you own a boat?”

The man lowered his chin, giving you a hard stare that you struggled to keep, and only did so since your entire life was on the line.

A nod and you assumed that meant yes.

“I need passage off this island. And quickly,” You muttered, lowering your voice and stepping closer. He sighed as if you had asked him to pluck the moon out of the sky.

“Oh? Now why would I ever do that? Even good wine isn’t worth a private ride on my boat.” He said, tone flat.

“The wine is the best on the island. A vintage from my mother’s last shipment.” You bartered, standing your ground. “My word is good. I have my sommelier certification, and still have an active registration in the Vineyard Guild. I know wine.”

The swordsman looked you down steadily with his gold eyes.

“What’s your mother’s name?” He said, moving to the bench to sit before you, one leg elegantly flung over the other.

“Isabella Gabriella, the captain of the-”

“The wine merchant and you’re her daughter?” You wonder if you should be offended by the long look he gives you, but for some reason it fills you with butterflies, to be seen so thoroughly.

“You knew my mother?”

“Very well, girl. You’ve piqued my interest. Let’s make a deal.” He lifts a hand, gesturing to the monestary.

“I require two crates of wine for your passage to the next island.” He says, and you look at him harshly.

“This wine is worth at least a trip to the Grand Line.” You counter, fingers clenching your arms.

“Now why would a bunny like you want to go to the Grand Line? Surely you don’t think well-bred girls such as yourself are better off there than here?”

“If wine isn’t enough, then I’ll fight you for the honor of riding on your boat. If only to prove to you I can handle myself. ”

“Fight? You, a little bunny?” He said, this time you knew you had amused him, by the way the corners of his mouth raised.

“I doubt I could defeat you, swordsman, but I’m not a girl. But if I can land even a single blow, would that impress you?”

“Very well.” He said, folding his arms. “This is hardly an appropriate venue. When an opportunity arrives, we’ll see what you’re made of.”

You lower your arms, placing your hands flat against your dress. Better for him to underestimate you now.

“Fine. When and where?”

The man stood, turning to the gate, practically making you follow him out.

“It bores me to wait, so be by the docks to my ship by next nightfall. And only come if you manage to get the wine, girl.”

“I’m not a girl.” You say, and then clearly annunciate your name, but the man just walks down the cobblestone road, away from you. “What’s your name?” You call out, brows furrowed, arms holding the door to not clang.

“Dracule.”

He doesn’t look back.

And as you swiftly go back into the monastery, already planning your escape, you can’t help but get the notion that you’ve heard that name before.

#fanfic #romance #op #onepiece #one piece #dracule mihawk #hawkeye mihawk #mihawk x reader #If you have the imagination #it’s just fanfic folks

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lraerosesims · 2 months

Text

How I draw: Silver Metallic Buttons for Sims 2 Textures

As we all know, Sims 2 doesn't really appreciate large file sizes/dimensions for it's textures, so sometimes you have work very closely with the individual pixels. Here is how I draw buttons. Video is sped up so don't feel like you need to draw as fast as me!

Side note: this tutorial is created on the basis that you already know how to use the basic functions of Sims BodyShop to extract the texture file. There's plenty of tutorials out there explaining that so please don't ask me to clarify on that part. Anyway, on to the buttons...↓↓↓

What you need:

A PC

Digital Drawing app (like Photoshop, Krita etc)

A Graphics Tablet with pen - you could try this with a mouse but I wouldn't recommend!

And obviously Sims 2/Sims 2 BodyShop

First off, create a new layer - we don't want this button permanently stuck to our base texture. Then I get a standard hard edge brush (I use Krita as my drawing software, so just use whatever hard brush is available in your preferred software/app). Because I'm making relatively small buttons, I make my brush 7.09px in size. Select a mid to light grey colour as the base. Make a single circle.

Then decrease the brush size to be nice and small. As a comparison to my 7.09px circle, I decrease to 0.01px for this next step. Choose a slightly darker grey colour and lightly sketch in a 'semi-circular line' about 3/4 of the way around just in from the edge of the circle. By lightly sketching - and not pressing down hard, you'll get varying tones on each pixel to represent different reflections on the 'metal'.

Next choose a darker grey again, and lightly sketch around the similar area as the last colour, but don't be too fussy on hitting the same pixels - we want varying tonal values for our shadows.

Then choose white and lightly sketch the 'catch light' part of the button. This doesn't need to be right in the centre, in fact it's better if it's off to the side, or towards the top more. We're not always facing directly towards a light source so this creates a more realistic lighting effect. You'll see me select the same mid to light base grey I used just to lightly dust over the edges of the white area to soften it a tiny bit (only do this if your white edge is a little to crisp).

After that I go back and forth between a few different tones of grey to lightly sketch over the parts we haven't really drawn on yet. This just helps create some gradual shading that enhances the 'roundness' of our very flat, very 2D button texture.

Once you're happy with the shadowing (remember it looks somewhat janky this close up, but you can always zoom out to see if the button looks more smooth when further away), you can then make another layer, and drag it below your newly made button layer in the layer menu. Select a soft edge brush and increase the size to slightly wider than your buttons overall size (I chose 9.14px compared to my 7.09px button)

Choose black from the colour wheel/palette and lightly build up the shadow underneath the button, gradually increasing size and opacity until desired tone. If the colour of the 'garment' in this texture is light then keep the shadow to a minimum, if it's dark then the shadow needs to be deep enough to show up.

Zoom out and inspect how this button looks further out. If you're satisfied, then merge the button and shadow layers together, copy/paste it as many times as needed for the garment you're texturing and Voila! You made buttons for a Sims 2 Texture!!

Feel free to ask any questions below - I'm definitely no professional, especially in creating tutorials so I'm more than happy to clarify if something didn't make sense.

#sims tutorial #digital drawing #retexture #drawing tutorial #ts2 #the sims 2 #digital art tips #lraerosesims #lraerosesims-tutorials

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sorbeau · 2 months

Note

hi its me again i feel legally obligated to ask about your thoughts on the new riz design (but also extends to al of the other new art for the bad kids too!!!)

HI SHOKO sorry this took so long to asnwer, it feels a little late to the party now but I have lots of thoughts and this has been in my drafts for a hot minute so I'll break my thoughts down in order <3

Fig

GOD DO I LOVE FIG'S DESIGN. It hasn't changed too drastically in many ways, it's largely the same beats with the plaid skirt, leather jacket, biker gloves, and docs, but there's a lot more detail pertaining to her character now. Ayda's feather earring is abviously a huge win, everyone loves to see it, but I love the small details like the added wallet chain on her skirt, the added ear piercings, and her painted nails. If I had to choose something I didn't like, it'd be the color of her shoelaces, which isn't a huge deal bc you know spyre might have different cultural beats, but it's very reminiscent of punk doc lace codes, which were a way to sort of factionize yourself among punks. Fig wears one purple and one red, and traditionally purple means gay pride(which is great and i would've picked it for her too) but red usually means you allign yourself with neo-nazi's and similar groups which. is definitely Not Fig. It's not a HUGE deal but, maybe some more research could've been put into it.

Gorgug

Gorgug's new design is so. Perfect. Amazing. Spectacular. No notes. It's exactly the changes I wanted to see. The goggles, the dirt-covered face, the ripped jeans, the bags and tools, the gloves, the most disgusting worn pair of convers you've ever seen. It's absolutely amazing and the artist has managed to bring all the beats we loved about his original design(his extremely fashionable purple pants) and mixes them perfectly with all of the new facets of Gorgug's personality that have changed and grown theough their adventures. A little detail I love is how the color of his headphones has changed to match with the rest of his outfit better, creating a more cohesive design with the introduction of more red/maroon tones. This was always a little bit of an issue with the old design for me. The colors sort of didn't go together.

Kristen

She's going through a break up. She's at the most chaotic she's ever been and she's trying to fix it. It is so genius to make her jacked. The bright yellow tracksuit is beautiful and exactly something Kristen would buy and wear every day. Plus the tiedye purple sports bra tying in her old church camp shirt aesthetic is brilliant. I'm mourning the loss of her sandals, but the matching shoes to her tracksuit can't be complained about. Not a whole lot to say, I'm excited about how this design will change and reflect her growth this season! Praise Saint Kristen Applebees!!

Adaine

THE ELVEN ORACLE IS COOL NOW!!! I love her jacket, all the patches and the toned down fur lining is absolutely perfect. I also love the cool strapped bags on her hips and legs, it's just a really cool adventurer addition cementing her as a bad ass practical caster. Her entire face seems more assured and relaxed, which is absolutely amazing for her and reflects how her resting state is no longer as addled with panic and anxiety as it used to be. Her hair also seems a lot more her! Not sure how to describe it, but it seems like she's focusing less on keeping herself perfect, and more on just keeping herself, herself! Not very big design swings or changes, but she doesn't need to change, she just needs to be true to herself. (Also. a huge fan of her cool magic circle shirt.) My only gripe. Give her blue hair. And pronouns. And glasses pretty please.

Fabian

That boy is the future of dance!!!!!!!!!! I love the color palette shift for his design, it's a really great way to show how he's grown out of Bill's shadow and embraced his own passions with the grey tones with red and gold accents. Also a huge fan of the fancy robed pants, tons of great movement lines and something a dancer would totally wear. On the same note however, I feel like it doesn't really go with the rest of his outfit. I love how the changes made are geared towards movement and dance(his shoes changing from sneakers to dance shoes is great) but I feel like the changes are all sort of mismatched? The dance shoes look a lot like tap shoes, but the pants look more big and flowy, better for a more leaping and running style of dance, and his jacket has almost nothing to do with dance. It's delightfully artsy and detailed, which is so chic and Fabian, but the shapes of it don't really match up, and especially without a clear view of the front it makes him look like he's wearing half of a matador outfit. I would've loved to see a more dramatic silhouette without the use of the battle sheet(which is absolutely perfect, no notes) with either lots of flowy parts for movement, or a sharp jacket with skinnier pants for that exaggerated silhouette. Again, I think this is really all due to a lack of research, but the spirit of Fabian is still in the room with us. The colors are great, the bandages on his hands are perfect, and the fanciful element is very on point, just needs some better shape language and cohesiveness.

Riz

There he goes, he's gone from gritty detective to gadget-heavy superspy. I LOVE the character choices that Murph made for Riz, he's become even more of a loser and seems a lot less hard and fast, and more generally passionate. In freshman and sophomore year, he was entirely goal oriented, completely focused on completing his mission and solving the mystery, this time around he's still got a mission, but because he can't do it all himself, he's sort of given the opportunity to branch out and explore himself. This is all to say, i love the insufferable loser hipster kid that he's become. He is truly the trinket goblin of all time, I love all his wild little gadgets and jewelry, and all the extra arcano-tech screens on his glasses are brilliant. I'm also a huge fan of his torso gun-holdster, which is a beautiful homage to his detective nature. The undercut is also obviously perfection. The loser teen-boy urge to cut away your beautiful hair for a nerdy undercut is so painfully lore accurate that it's one of my favorite details. It's probably because he's a dork. but I would love to know why he has rolled up pants and no socks. What is that. Why would he do that. ALSO STOP BEING A COWARD D20. GIVE HIM DIGITIGRADE LEGS AND A TAIL. CAT GOBLIN TRUTHERS UNITE!!!!!!!!!!

anyways that's probably the end of my rant for now. I love the bad kids and overall their designs are great. constantly wishing all of my headcannons were real but understanding that the cannon will never relent.

#dimension 20 #d20 #fantasy high #bad kids #adaine abernant #kristen applebees #fig faeth #fabian aramais seacaster #riz gukgak #gorgug thistlespring

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