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rallamajoop · 2 months

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The Complete Guide to Eye Colour In Resident Evil 7

An addendum to my guide to eye colour in RE8: here's everyone from RE7 too! Getting close-ups of these was way harder than for RE8, because RE7 does not come with a model viewer, so I'm stuck using in-game screenshots and promotional images.

Once again, we'll start with the cheat-sheet version:

The whole Baker family: Blue (except when...) Mia: Brown (FOR NOW) Eveline: Green Alan: Hazel/green Deputy OneSceneWonder: Brown Chris: Hazel/brown (FOR NOW) Clancy, Andre and Peter: Brown Ethan: Still hazel

But it can never just be that simple, can it? So, further notes below.

The Baker Family

The Baker family all have blue-grey eyes. In fact, post-infection, they all have the exact same blue eyes (see top line in comparisons below). You could maybe put this down to genetics for Zoe and Lucas, but when Jack and Marguerite have the same eyes as each other too, that's when you start wondering just how many backwater-hillbilly-stereotypes are in play here.

Mind you, they do have slightly different eyes in the pre-mould flashback that is the Daughters DLC, which you can see in the second row above. All are brighter blues, pre-infection, and Jack gets smaller pupils while Lucas gets a slightly larger iris (Zoe gets nothing, as she's the viewpoint PC and we're not redoing her face if you're not going to see it). So maybe we can hope there's some genetic diversity in the Baker-clan (renders of their eyes in their actual faces also look a little more distinct, but maybe that's a lighting thing). Either way, the Bakers = blue eyes! Got it!

And then we meet Uncle Joe in the other DLC who... has hazel eyes?

IDEK, maybe Uncle Joe's real dad was a different mailman.

Once we get deeper into mould-monster territory though, things do get a little more interesting.

Both Marguerite and Lucas appear with much creepier whitened eyes later in the game ‒ Marguerite's during her boss-fight transformation. Lucas, however, remains steadfastly human-shaped throughout the main campaign, but his eyes are whitened in his video message to Ethan, and in his (pre-monstrous transformation) DLC appearances too. Jack, by contrast, doesn't seem to get new eye textures even after blowing off the top of his own head, or in the boss fight that follows (monster!Jack from the fight in the boat house has completely different eyes, of course, and more of them). Mia, too, has her own set of creepy-alternate-mould-monster-eyes, but they're completely different again.

So what's the internal logic here? I could speculate that Lucas' eyes-only transformation is a sign he's in control of himself in a way Jack and Marguerite aren't, but it doesn't quite add up. If anything, those eyes make more sense as something Lucas was given because we never see him transform like Marguerite, or blow pieces of himself away like Jack: Lucas may look human, but the eyes are there to remind us he's not. There'll always be some details that end up being more about effective storytelling than cohesive lore.

Interestingly, though they don't appear in the game, there are also promotional pics of all four members of the Baker family with glowing white/silver eyes, which are definitely a supernatural feature. It's tempting to try and associate the effect with Rose's glowing eyes from the Shadows of Rose DLC, or perhaps even the general pale-grey-eyes of Miranda and the Lords (more on both in my post on eyes in RE8). But that's territory that really needs its own post or we'll be here all day.

Clancy, Andre and Peter

These are the three ill-fated crew of the Sewer Gators tape you'll encounter early in the game. You may notice Peter (rightmost in the pic above) seems to have even more dilated pupils than the majority of the cast. Amusing as it might be to theorise that he's just on drugs or something, I think there is an explanation: the closest shot we see of his face (and the first shot of the tape) is a close-up into a camera while the team is outside in the dark. His pupils would naturally be dilated in this sort of environment.

So why aren't Andre's dilated too? Well, the closest look we get at his eyes (also pictured) are the final shot of the tape, where he's already dead, and his eyes are covered by a red film. Medical plausibility aside, dilated pupils presumably didn't add to the effect here, so Andre gets regular pupils.

Speaking of assets, there is actually one photo of the three of them in the game, from the pamphlet you can find in their van at the start. You can even almost make out Clancy's face!

Clancy's own eyes are their whole own kettle of worms, but we'll get to that below.

Chris Redfield

Is an odd one: I can't share an eye-texture asset for Chris, because he doesn't actually have a character model at all in the main RE7 title. And explaining that one is gonna take some context.

While RE8 renders nearly all cutscenes using in-game models, RE7 stores far more of its major cutscenes pre-rendered in .wmv format. The opening is pre-rendered, video messages from Mia and Lucas are pre-rendered ‒ even the big moment when Eveline blows out the windows of the tanker and throws Mia into the river is pre-rendered. Not all cutscenes work this way, but basically anything that would require loading a lot of assets that aren't needed in gameplay (eg. the view of the river and tanker for outside) seems to have been pre-rendered as a video instead.

And since Chris' only scene in all of RE7 is in the pre-rendered ending sequence, he doesn't have a model at all (or at least, I couldn't find it). We do see Chris in openings and endings of the Not a Hero DLC as well, and the End of Zoe ‒ but these too are just .wmv files, presumably for all the same reasons.

Now, obviously, Chris is also playable in the DLC, so he does have a character model there. But we still don't get eye textures for him for a couple of reasons: firstly, he wears a face-concealing mask that only comes off for opening/ending cutscenes. But even without it, we might just hit other weirdness surrounding player character models...

As I've already noted, both Chris and Mia get completely different new blue eyes in RE8, but back in RE7, Capcom seemed a little more aware that brown or hazel eyes were a real thing regular white people do have sometimes.

A note on player-character models

Although we mostly just see the hands of whoever we're playing as (usually Ethan), gameplay still uses a full-body model, presumably to aid in rendering dynamic shadows, and give enemies something to cover in blood. Things get weird around the character's head, which isn't actually visible so it can't get in the way of the camera floating inside it, but will still cast shadows and still has textures associated with it (though usually in much lower resolution than other models we'll actually get to see). There are three playable characters in RE7 proper: Ethan, Mia, and Clancy (from the video tapes) ‒ each with their own model and textures.

Ethan and Mia also have more detailed 3rd person models, since we see plenty of Mia playing as Ethan, and a little of Ethan playing as Mia (if only from behind).

Why does this matter? Well, distinct as the three PCs are otherwise, their player models all have the same eyes ‒ top row above shows Ethan, Mia and Clancy, in that order. And they look nothing like Ethan's and Mia's eyes have ever looked elsewhere, which you can see in the comparison below.

I mention this mostly because it's pretty easy to find Ethan's player-model in the game files, note those generic-hazel eye textures with it, and go, "hey, you got his eyes wrong!" But these aren't the same eyes that come with his higher-res texture, or the ones that were copied over into RE8. In fact, the existence of the player-character-default-eye-texture back in RE7 is one of the reasons why I do tend to take full-res Ethan's eyes as 'canon', even though we never see them in either game: someone took the time to repaint Ethan's eyes for his full-res model, and make them distinct from the low-res default used for everyone in 1st person mode. That at least suggests there was some real, intentional effort put into deciding what colour eyes Ethan was supposed to have.

This does leave poor Clancy in more ambiguous territory, however: as he's never seen by any other character, he has no high-res model, and thus no eyes but the default-hazel that Mia and Ethan are rendered with in that mode too. So is this to be taken as Clancy's official eye colour? It may as well be, I suppose. We see so little of Clancy in any form that I was genuinely surprised to find out his he's actually got a player model which is completely distinct from anyone else in the game, with curly greying hair, a neckbeard, and a baseball cap worn backwards.

Render by nightsatkendalls over on deviantart.

I do not have the skills to produce a render of this quality myself, but I can tell you that the cap he's wearing has the logo for the RE Engine on the front (the in-house game engine behind all the modern RE titles, and many other Capcom games).

You'll never see it in game, of course ‒ you'd need both a freecam mod and a mod to make his head visible. But it's there as a weird little easter-egg nonetheless.

Eveline

Eveline is perhaps the only character whose model may not have been updated at all for RE8, but given she's only a hallucination or ghost, that stands to reason. In RE7 though, she also appears as her aged 'grandma' self, who pops up around the house in her wheelchair looking spacey. Grandma-Eveline has two different eye texture assets ‒ one far more washed out than the other. There's next to no good official pictures of her, but fortunately, since she doesn't move around or attack you, she was one of the very few characters I was able to get a decent close-up shot off with the free camera mod. And inasmuch as you're ever in a position to look her in the eye in game, only the faded version of her eyes ever seems to show up. Is the clearer version actually used somewhere I didn't catch? I have no idea.

What really stands out about granny-Eveline's eyes, though, is that they don't look anything like her child-self's eyes do. Child-Eveline is basically the only character in either game with distinctly green eyes. But Granny's are hazel, and not even a particularly similar shade of hazel.

In fact, they look far more like the generic-default hazel of the player character textures than they do like her younger self. Close-up comparisons below.

You could speculate that it was deliberate that Granny-Eveline's eyes don't look anything like kid-Eveline's eyes to avoid tipping off the player that they're one and the same ‒ but realistically, no-one without free camera mods is ever going to get a good enough look at either of them to notice. And it's kind of a shame they didn't just take young-Eveline's eyes and apply the same kind of distortions they seem to have applied to the generic-hazel template to age them up ‒ that would've been a lovely, creepy little detail to find in these textures. But no, generic old hazel it is.

Then again, whatever the real logic at play, the fact Granny-Eveline's eyes are effectively a faded, distorted version of the very same eyes the player themselves never does get to see in the mirror is a pretty creepy idea itself. And intentional or not, that's what I've got to leave you with.

#Resident Evil 7 #Resident Evil #Ethan Winters #Mia Winters #Joe Baker #Marguerite Baker #Zoe Baker #Lucas Baker #Eveline #Alan Droney #Clancy Jarvis #Peter Walken #Andre Stickland #RE assets #unused assets #eye colours

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soaring-trash · 4 months

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I blacked out while making this, i don’t know how i made it but here it is.

I had an idea while listening to the shadows of evil soundtrack of a pi Imogen going on a case requested by Delilah to find “Matilda Bradbury” but when she eventually ends up finding her she goes by Laudna, Matilda was a movie star/singer who faked her death to escape delilah’s grasp. Ludnis is still a shitty guy that gets in Imogen’s way(haven’t decided exactly what his role would be) Imogen still has ties to the moon, etc etc. I’ll flesh it out more as time goes on maybe probably.

Also called it frankenstein because she’s coming back from the dead because of Imogen.

(changed the colours to make it look cohesive)

#critical role #critical role campaign 3 #critters #bells hells #critical role fanart #fanart #laudna #imogen temult #imodna #imogen x laudna #ludnis daleth #delilah briarwood

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aphpuffinchild · 3 months

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since it's out i can finally post my piece for @hws-anthology as well as the timelapse for it. as is arguably all my hetalia work, it's a love letter to my friend @pyrrhocorax 's fic Sendlingur og Sandlóa - i'll ramble a bit about how much it means to me, as well as the symbolism i wormed into this piece below the read more :)

i originally had two pages planned for this piece, potentially more - the fic is a good 74k words long and certainly not light on scenes i could and wanted to pull from, but various things led into other various things and one page was all i could manage, so i tried to cram in what i could, so here's that (in a rough, somewhat arbitrary order of focal points)

the opening chapter! the car is a framing device for the piece as much as it is for the journey the characters will take following that first chapter, so i wanted to use the car window/shapes as a literal framing device in my drawing

joi, shaky at best in his sense of self, sees no reflection in the window, instead there's a silhouetted raven to signify the search he must go on to find it

while not perfectly transcribed by virtue of wonky (plus an extra) line(s), the notes coming from joi's headphones are the opening to the song sendlingur og sandlóa, the fic's namesake, which a loved one kindly transposed by ear for me for the purpose of this piece

in a similar vein, the stickers on joi's suitcase are of a purple sandpiper and a ringed plover, the birds after which the song is named - here they are as transparents and in their original colours

i wanted to create a sliiight impression that joi is the one knocking over the chessboard, representing his repeated rejections of it (both physically, and the things it represents)

the chess pieces were also chosen specifically! originally i was going to use a black rook and a white pawn to match chapter 41, but for the sake of having alternating colours and the rest of my metaphors working (iirc) i swapped those colours around. that, and i wanted to match chapter 13's white king and black pawn - the black pawn stuck, the white king was colour swapped for colour cohesion reasons like the other's. (visual contrast was important to me, but the white queen blending slightly into the sky was okay for symbolism reasons) (there was also black king, white rook from chapter 3, so it all worked out anyway - there's a lot of chess in this story and i only had space for so many pieces and colours, basically)

speaking of which, the black pawn is for joi (chapter 13), the white queen is for halle (someone who, from joi's perspective, can go anywhere, vs joi's pawn, someone to be used -> see chapter 35 and perspective).

the king piece is falling (but hasn't quite fallen) between halle and henrik (chapter 3, 7, 13, though i most clearly thought of 19)

the person in the top right corner is eduard! i desperately wanted to include him because i think he's deserved it, and i considered a lot of ways of working him in, but i think an ambiguous silhouette that isn't Quite part of the main picture works better narratively

note also that he's separated from the other's through a red curtain, to represent the iron curtain (naturally) i wanted it to match ber + tino's part in some way, to sorta emphasise their similar foundations despite being split apart across places

the flowers at eduard's window are placed and chosen purposefully as well! orange/red zinnia's outside (for familial ties, steadfastness, friendship and remembrance) for what eduard puts out in to the world, then lily-of-the-valley for tino and cornflower for him inside to show what he wants to hold close :)

halle and joi are the only characters with their eyes open - halle looks towards the viewer/author/reader/joi, while joi looks away all together. if you've read the fic (which i assume you have because i can't imagine this is interested to read otherwise) you probably don't need me to explain why that reflects their roles in the story

similarly, every character apart from the brothers is turned towards another in some way (eduard does not count when his flowers do, and his role in the story is based around that disconnect partially anyway) tino towards ber and eduard (and hana, i guess), ber towards tino, henrik to halle, halle to henrik (though he looks away - his values are elsewhere even when they are together). joi, at best, looks at his own reflection in the window

the colour scheme, while arbitrarily picked from gradient maps based on what i felt "fit" has been approved by the author as being very "SoS core"

finally, the poem on the note, chapter 46

all that being said, i can and will now talk about my personal relationship with SoS, so unless that interests you i imagine the post is done now! thank you for reading :)

the first comment i posted on SoS is dated 2nd November 2016 - logging into my old account i can see i bookmarked it on the 31st August that same year, so i can safely assume i first read or at least found it then. a month after my first comment, i posted another on a different account, pouring a few bits of my heart out and the author responded! we went back and forth a bit and eventually talked (i think) via tumblr for a little, but the majority of our conversations were via skype for whatever reason (we didn't call, just texted). it was a lot of me looking for writing advice, insight to their work/process/skill, talking about The Brothers and talking about psychology/the brain on a general and personal level. i think if i read our conversations back now i'd cringe, given that i was an awkward, fumbling 16 year old, but i dont think anything else wouldve been fitting given the subject matter. eventually our conversations fizzled out and we stopped talking for years, but i'd go back to SoS routinely and cry.

in may of 2021, i posted another comment during what in hindsight was definitely another relatively minor mental health episode - i think it was half trying to emphasise how important the work was to me on the off chance pyrr saw it, and half a bid for connection since i had no idea if they even remembered us talking. i assumed nothing would come of it, and for about a year that was true - until pyrr responded after all in february of 2022 - i'm happy to say we've been talking consistently on discord since then. i feel a little weird speaking too intimately about our friendship as it is now since it's not just my story to tell (though pyrr, if you're reading this) (i'm sure you are at some point) (you're welcome to talk about it however, i just didn't want to without consulting you) but i can say with some certainty that it's at least a little bit my fault that we have a sequel now - cementing my place as official number #1 fan and validating the me from almost 8 years ago in a way i don't think either of us processes well.

it's here that i feel the need to talk about my other dear friend, @hws-lceland , who i'm grateful to have met through the zine's discord server. i'm sure they're reading this too, and a lot of what our relationship means to me is stuff that's probably a bit too vulnerable for either of us to speak publicly, but i *can* say that i love them very much, and i'm really grateful to have someone else to understand, and that he read SoS for me. i thought he needed it, and i hope i was right

sendlingur is...endlessly important to me. i'm aiming to not write an essay here (a goal i think i've already sorta shot in the foot) but i think it's important for me to talk about some of this a little loudly, all the same. my writing has changed because of the series - remeeting with pyrr and showing them some of my more recent work was interesting since it was apparent even to them the influences i'd taken (to be fair, in one section i explicitly asked and did borrow a format of theirs, but this goes beyond that). when i was 16 i asked my mum to read the fic in a desperate bid to be understood. i've cried reading the fic many, many times. i've signed off letters and poems with my switched around version of i'm sorry / thank you / i love you (i swap the first two around) many, many, many times, including in a close friend's wedding gift. SoS has very sincerely changed my definition of love. the name halle is a part of my abstract mindscape. id already considered changing my name to johannes anyway and this fic certainly didnt help. i've gained a friendship of 7 and a half years through it. i've gained another newer one now, too. i am not well. i wasn't well then, reading it, and it hasn't fixed me (i am worse, now, arguably), but it healed something, or at least made me feel understood. i could go on, and maybe sometime i will (there were so many things i wanted to include in my piece and pay homage to!), but for now i will thank anyone who took the time to read all this (again), and say that i look forward to experiencing the sequel

as always, i'm sorry, thank you, i love you

#hetalia #hetalia nordics #hws iceland #hws norway #hetalia iceland #hetalia norway #hetalia denmark #hetalia sweden #hws sweden #hws estonia #hetalia estonia #hetalia finland #hws finland

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 11 months

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gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 5: Resolve

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Hello, all! I know, it’s so soon! But this one is a cobbled-together piece of stuff you’ve already seen, just padded out a bit more. I figured I might as well push it on out now, so here ya go! Featuring Jason Lannister for the very first time, to finally bring all this shit together a bit more cohesively. As always, thank you to my boobear @ewanmitchellcrumbs for reading though this and reassuring me it isn’t total shite!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, age gap, general Daemon grottiness, allusions to non-consensual sexual situations.

According to most, Daemon Targaryen is a man in possession of little capacity for feeling beyond what is required to partake in lechery and barbarism. He knows himself; his disparagers are not entirely wrong. Except for one important, essential truth—he would die for his family. He loves his family.

Love, as he understands it, is what he has always felt when looking upon his brother, upon Rhaenyra. No matter the strife that has torn him from his kin time and time again, he can freely acknowledge that such sentiments will remain everlasting.

A kicked hound is one most loyal, he thinks with no small degree of bitterness. Or perhaps the meanest hound is more loyal. Either way, I am the hound—and my master, the King.

Love is what has wrenched harsh and twisting in his heart whenever he laid eyes on you, a toddling girl-child eternally eager for the cossetting attentions of your uncle, your kepa—and he had always been kepa, never Viserys, no, your father had never received an honour beyond being called ‘papa’ like any common pauper—now a stranger in so many ways.

The garden and the morning repast had served to ignite the wellspring of all his wildest desires, delivering to him seemingly all he had ever wanted in a prospective bride; young and beautiful, obedient and good-tempered, Valyrian of colouring and of status. But you had seemed smaller than your younger self—trapped in a prison of your own making, hidden beneath layers and layers of chaste courtesy and painstaking banality. And then, accompanying you to the Dragonpit had given him a curious glimpse into the power you kept hidden, the ancient strength of your lineage slipping through the cracks in your genteel veneer.

Regal. Arcane. These are the words that had come to mind watching you interact with your mount, none other than the famed Cannibal himself; something of the majesty of the Conqueror lay within you, waiting for the necessary spark to kindle the flame. Your exchange with Athfiezar—your silent fearlessness, your devotion to your savage beast, your unassuming poise—reminds him that, for all your equally meek and mild-mannered nature, you are still Targaryen. You are still his sweetling.

It is this that elicits a consuming curiosity to know more.

You are an interesting puzzle, a strange contradiction, one whose buttermilk skin and pert teats and spit-shine lips should herald as a welcome to sample the delights hidden by the fabric of your darling little gowns. Yet, you act not as a silly young thing learning of her sway over men—teasing with fluttering lashes and bit lip and lilting tone as Rhaenyra had—but as a docile girl disinclined to press the limits of propriety as all maidens do. You ride the most savage dragon in the known world, and yet there is no such quality in you that echoes your mount’s disposition; instead, a loveliness that is near to cloying, pure and unadulterated and surely too good to be true. You are a fucking princess, and yet you are perfectly content to fade into the periphery, drawing little notice to yourself and seeking none from those around you, not even your own blood. A scholar, quick-witted and erudite, but somehow still so sweetly unknowing of the depravities that rule the minds of men who lay eyes on you.

You fascinate him. And his newfound realisation does not lessen his temptation to fuck you—to ply you with praise and charm and no small hint of avuncular affection (the reminder of your shared blood thrills him to the bone as always) so that, over time, you might be swayed to give your maidenhead to him—but, rather, that it results in a metamorphosis, a muddling, his longing mingling the base needs of the flesh with a rekindling of his fondness for you.

Which is why he cannot stand the presence of Jason Lannister.

“Why are you entertaining this farce?” Daemon asks, fists clenched at his sides. “A pompous fuck like him has no business anywhere near her.”

“Whatever is the problem, brother?” Viserys says distractedly, hunching over his miniature of Old Valyria and studying the replica of the Targaryen manse on the outskirts with intent. “Jason Lannister is Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. By any standard, I would think he is the best contender for her hand.”

That fucking model of his. Daemon resists the urge to smash the King’s stone city into rubble, though doing so might grant him the attentiveness he is sorely lacking from the man. “Are you not hearing me? He’s an arrogant cunt. He’d bore her in a sennight, let alone whatever hellish span of time an entire marriage would last.”

Viserys hums noncommittally. “She will make do”—he waves Daemon off—“as all noblewomen must when their fathers command them to marry. That is her lot in life. Besides, Lord Jason is one of the wealthiest men in the Realm, and I am told he is rather pleasing to a lady’s eye. She could do worse than he.”

His brother’s remark is a fair one—of the trio, Jason is the preferable choice. And what a fucking miserable choice it would be.

He rolls his eyes. This is going nowhere. “And Tyrell? Your idiot son? Are they the ‘worse’ you speak of?”

Between that foppish peacock, his spiteful little twit of a nephew and the prancing Lion, the latter just barely scrapes by as the best of the bunch.

“Enough, Daemon.” The King sighs, finally deigning to look up from his pile of rock. “These are the suitors she herself has chosen. I care not for the particulars; only that the girl should be wed before her eighteenth name day. Each of them possesses some quality I am sure she finds worthwhile…”

At that, he pauses, brow furrowing. He squints up at Daemon. “What is your interest in the matter, anyway? It has naught to do with you.”

Shit. Daemon makes an evasive comment—something about sullying the purity of their noble lineage—and departs as quickly as he can, eager to escape the risk of Viserys’s suspicion falling on him. It would not do for the man to suspect his intentions toward yet another of his daughters.

He does not intend to seek you and the Lord out, truly; but it nonetheless does not surprise him to realise that, upon freeing himself from the wrathful spiral of his own musings, his feet have taken him to the very same garden where he had first laid eyes upon you again after so many years, where you are now enduring the attentions of the insufferable Lannister patriarch. On this occasion, Cole is nowhere to be seen, and the entry is instead guarded by one of the Cargyll twins.

Daemon spies you on the path just inside, a careful distance placed between you and Jason. Though he cannot make out your expression from his vantage point, he observes well enough the flourishing bow the lord proffers in your direction, the polite curtsey you extend in return, his smug prancing step as he leaves your company. He sees the manner in which your shoulders droop, your head bowing as you turn to wander past the great tree and out of sight. My poor girl.

And then his view is blocked by a garish wash of red and gold.

“Prince Daemon,” Jason says with a haughty simper. With a curt nod, Daemon wordlessly returns the salutation. His lack of warmth is noticed; the Lannister lord hesitates for a moment before returning to his condescending civilities, forcing a relaxed stance. “I was most glad to hear of your return.”

He doubts that. There is little love lost between him and the lord. Jerking his chin toward the garden, he asks, “Leaving so soon, are we? I had thought the entire afternoon was devoted to this little outing.”

Jason chuckles awkwardly. “Well.” He scratches his beard. “The Princess has another engagement to attend to. Something about a tutor.”

Thank the gods for that Lysan fellow. They had never met, but Daemon is certain he’d like the man well enough.

“Doesn’t concern you?” he asks, scarcely bothering to conceal the scepticism from his tone. At the confusion on Lannister’s face, he clarifies. “That she’d rather spend time with her tutor than with you?”

“Why would it, my Prince?” is the answer, self-assured as ever. “He is old, and frail. Best for her to spend as much time with him as she can before she leaves for Lannisport.”

That genuinely irritates him, and not simply the notion of you being shipped off to the lurid monstrosity that is Casterly Rock. Even he knows that your meetings with your tutor are less obligations and more gatherings of friendship—your spirit would surely crumble if you were denied your dearest companion after being coerced to marry.

Daemon suppresses a sneer. “Your confidence is… admirable.” If misplaced, he wants to add.

“There is little competition to be found,” Jason says with a toss of the head. His tawny hair rustles in the gentle breeze, giving him the appearance of the sigil his House has claimed. Fucking ridiculous. Then, the man has the audacity to clap a palm against his arm. “Never fear—I shall take utmost care of her. She’ll want for nothing as my lady wife.”

He shrugs off the over-familiarity, stepping out of reach. “For a time, perhaps. And in a decade? Two? A Princess of the Realm has no business playing nursemaid to her husband in his dotage.”

He is older than I, he thinks. And if she is truly considering him above the others, then…

“I might be the eldest of her suitors, yes,” the man says, a tense smile disguising his offense poorly. “But I have a rather substantial inheritance, unlike the Prince Aegon; and my constitution is more… pleasing than the Lord Tyrell, I’m sure.” His mouth curves into a knowing smirk at that, leaving Daemon with no uncertainty as to what he really means. That little—“I would not dismiss Jason Lannister from the competition just yet. She will choose me; I suggest you accustom yourself to reality, Prince Daemon.”

He grunts dismissively, incensed. There is no reply he can give in this moment that won’t incite the Lannisters to break faith with House Targaryen; and so, he chooses to remove himself from the odious man’s presence entirely, stalking past with nary a word of farewell.

You sit where your younger half-sister had a scarce moon’s turn ago, eyes fixed toward your lap, turning an ornament about with your small fingers. As he nears, the lion salient glimmers in the sun, gold against gold in dazzling vulgarity. Of course, he’d gifted her something with his own fucking sigil on it. What a worthless bequest.

When he calls your name, you hardly react. Your gaze flickers up to him for a mere moment before falling once more, resuming your surveyance of the item in your grasp. There is a pensive expression lingering in your frown, the crease in your brow. It tells him all he needs to know of your true feelings for the Lannister lord, regardless of the man’s own delusions.

“Why—you look positively miserable, sweetling,” he says, settling himself beside you. You glance up at him again, sullen pout puffing out your lower lip. Though your disposition is so downtrodden, it is tempting to press his thumb to that lip, to push inside and feel the wet warmth of your tongue pulse against his flesh in a coquettish tease. “Not enjoying being courted? The gifts, the attention, the romance…”

You take the bait beautifully. Starting at his reference to the pendant in your hold, your nostrils flare exasperatedly. “No. No. I—I just—” You stop, shaking your head. “Never mind.”

“Go on,” he cajoles gently, lowly. “Tell Uncle Daemon.”

It is all the encouragement you need. “There is little romance to be found in this—this charade.” You sigh, eyes fixed on some minute detail past his head. He’s struck by the melancholy in your voice. “These men—Lord Jason, Lord Denys, Aegon—they do not want me. They want an idea of me; a Targaryen bride with pale hair and Valyrian blood. One who will give them children they shall make little effort to raise, a silent doll to clasp onto and show off at feasts and balls… as though possessing me is somehow meaningful. They do not—they do not see me.”

It’s here your voice cuts off strangely. He wishes it hadn’t, for he finds himself enthralled by the mournful monologue that paints a picture of the loneliest girl in King’s Landing. There is something yearning and haunted in that saccharine stare of hers, he thinks. A babe with her arms held out, wailing at the world as it leaves her abandoned in the crib. It’s an eerie echo of a conversation that took place a decade prior, though the lead role lacks the infantile petulance of the previous star.

He finds himself retracing those steps almost without realising.

“Idīnnon dēmalio syt verdilla mērī issa. Dīnakson toliot, gaoso gaomagon kostas.” He is testing, prodding, waiting for what might result from his efforts. Marriage is only a political arrangement. Once you are wed, you can do as you like.

The words make your cheeks flush fetchingly and your brow wrinkle once more, glancing back at him apprehensively. Pretty pink girl with a pretty pink blush; how far down does it spread? You swallow; pause; look away, wrestling with a thought. You peep back up at him.

“Se skorverdon jessivo aōt kesrȳsi jiōrtas?” you ask with surprising cynicism. You exhale loudly, staring at some fixed point in the distance. “Ābrazȳri buttā, riñar daor, mērpāves… Tolī jaelan.”

And how much joy did this bring you? you say. A wife you hated, no children, loneliness… I want more. The quiet longing in your voice is palpable.

He grimaces at the mention of his bronze bitch—he’d rather not know how widespread the knowledge of the circumstances around her… accident… had been in the wake of his departure.

“What is it you want, then?” he asks, switching back to the Common Tongue, the corner of his mouth already contorting in anticipation of the naïve response. True love, a happily ever after… We don’t get to have happy endings, he thinks to himself.

“I want someone who loves me,” you say, pressing on crossly at the huff of laughter that escapes him. “I never said I would love him!”

The pessimistic elucidation takes him aback. Again, it is not exactly what he had been expecting. Full of surprises today. He tips his head consideringly at you, inviting you to continue.

You hesitate for a moment.

“I… They say my father loved my mother. I believe it, but—” You swallow, the corners of your mouth turning down as you mull over your words. “They say he had a choice when baby Baelon was born. That he could cut her open to get the babe out, but that it would mean her certain death.”

Gods above. Where in the Seven hells had you learned that piece of information? Viserys had kept the circumstances of Aemma’s death under tight wraps, never even deigning to mention it to his own brother. It was pure happenstance that one of the maids he enjoyed fucking at the time had been present on the unfortunate day.

Your eyes glisten as you speak, limpid pools of lilac glowing like fire in the light. “I do not think I could ever choose my own life over my child’s—but they say he did not even ask her, that he just… held her down while they—How could I ever trust a man to raise the babe I bore him if he would be willing to butcher his own wife in her childbed?”

He watches as you clench your eyes tight, set your jaw and exhale a few shuddery breaths. When they blink open, they are no longer so tear-bright. Daemon suddenly admires you for it, for the way you so ruthlessly suppress weakness. He wonders how often you’ve been made to force back your own pain for the good of your family.

“What happened to your mother was a terrible tragedy, sweetling.” He reaches forward to finally grip your small, pale hand in his. It is cold and dwarfed entirely in his own. “But you cannot live in fear forever.”

You make to pull your hand away. He closes his grip tighter upon it, coercing you to look up at him properly.

“When hope is gone, what choice left is there but fear?” It is a whisper, carried on the breeze, and the thinly veiled misery pains him in the chest.

I thought that beating thing was black and dead by now, he thinks to himself.

You shake your head, smile. The picture of the melancholy maiden fades from view as you affect an appearance of energy once more, gentle and muted as it is. “I know my father loved my mother, and so love is no guarantee of loyalty; but it would be helpful, I think.”

“You see love and loyalty as intertwined, then?” he cannot help but to ask. He is intrigued by this rare showing of spirit, of vitality, a resurrection of his baby niece from long ago. It is you, finally; his little girl, only now you possess the curves of a gold-gilded whore and the thousand-year gaze of an ancient, arcane being.

“Do you not?” Your head is tilted like an inquisitive bird’s, artlessly assessing. “You cannot have one without the other. Loyalty without love makes for an easy traitor, and love without loyalty makes for an unhappy marriage.”

He laughs again at the latter part of your pronouncement. A sweet, trusting little filly waiting to be broken in.

“There are many ways to love someone, Princess.” He ogles you shamelessly, savouring the affectation of outraged bewilderment painting your countenance. “I imagine you’ll find few of them in the marriage bed.”

He waits for you to question him—to ask him what he means, to ask him to explain, to teach you, show you—but instead, you pull back, taking all the warmth from his palm with you.

“I dislike your implication, Uncle,” you say stiffly, returning your hand to your lap and nestling it between your thighs to retain the heat.

Fuck.

He backtracks raising his hands in a jesting show of defeat. “I meant nothing by it, gevivys.”

Beauty. It is an apt title. an underwhelming one, even. Surely there is little else more beautiful than the sight you make here, now, a rich blush spreading along the unblemished expanse of your chest—regrettably enclosed by pale damask just above the protrusion of your tits—the planes of your throat, not quite travelling up to decorate your cheeks.

You sigh. “You never do.”

Daemon lets the conversation lull, deciding to instead look upon the little revelation before him. You are an interesting puzzle, one whose decorum in the face of his gentle compulsion—that same persuasion he had so often utilised to get fetching girls to strip bare for him and show off their equally-as-fetching cunts—had instead left him lacking. The body of a slut and the mind of a scholar, all wrapped up in wide eyes and honey-sweet words and wild hair the shade of Old Valyria. Of home.

A wild thought seizes him. If he leans forward, he could do it. He could grip you by the back of the neck and pull you to him, press his lips to yours and coax you past your panic and fear and into a hot, sweeping rhythm, a push and pull of tongue and teeth that would set you both alight. And from there, how simple would it be to murmur pretty praise as he lowers you down, raises your skirts up, cleaves you open until your blood wets his cock with the proof of his claim, incontestable, not even by the King himself? The deed would be messy, perhaps distressing and no doubt painful, but it would solve several issues at once. He would be free to do as he likes with his lascivious desires after you are made to wed him, and you would be free from your pitiful suitors and given a husband worthy of you. In time, the hurt and shock and fright would fade, he knows it.

He could. He could. He—

The spell is broken. Your attention is diverted by the squeals of a dark-haired boy as he bowls his way to you, throwing himself across your lap with a cry of your name. Daemon tries not to glare at young Lucerys as he tries to roughhouse with you. Having somewhat learned the schedules of his family, it baffles him somewhat that the child is not at his daily lessons. Should Laenor not have him now?

The thought must conjure the man himself, the Velaryon scion appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Laenor’s expression is forbidding as he strides over to you and his son, silver locs swinging with the velocity of each step. With his glare affixed to his face, he reaches a hand down to you in silent command, staring daggers at Daemon all the while.

What the hells is his problem?

You take hold of your goodbrother, bewildered, and allow him to tug you gently from the bench beside Daemon. Lucerys slides from beside you with a rustle, easily revolving around to dart toward the grass. You are already grabbing at the boy’s hand to stop him running off.

Daemon watches Laenor attempt to rearrange his countenance into something less violent. “Would you take Luke off to the training yards, sister?”

A look of vague incomprehension cross your face at the question.

At least she senses the oddity, too, he acknowledges.

Laenor’s head turns down to where he sits, and it is then that it dawns on him that his nephew-by-marriage had very possibly been watching him stare at his baby niece’s tits for longer than he could claim plausible deniability of.

Ah, shit. The darting, mistrustful gaze suddenly makes sense.

“Of course, Laenor,” you say sweetly, biddably.

Daemon cannot help but wonder what else you might comply with if gently persuaded. He glances up at you from where he sits, smirking playfully as you turn to him.

“It seems we must part for now, sweetling,” he tells you. He ignores Laenor’s grimace from behind you.

“It does.” You shift lightly. It is clear to see that there is something about your shared conversation that has unnerved you. The notion sends a trail of perverse excitement through him. He wonders what other reactions he might prompt out of you with gentle teasing. “I—thank you, Uncle. For listening.”

The words are honest, free of artifice. It is surprisingly warming to hear. When you make to depart, he calls you back.

“What—no goodbye kiss for your beloved uncle this time?” he asks, hoping he’ll bait you into action. He determinedly disregards Laenor’s huff, eyes trained on you as you swallow with trepidation before quickly making the short few steps back to him.

Your knee settles on the seat beside him, clearly meant to be no more than a brief resting place so that you may carry out his implicit request and leave—if not for the way in which your skirts gather around your leg in a manner assured to result in your toppling over should you attempt to rise without fixing them. Daemon turns his head to yours as you free yourself from the tangle. Up close, closer than he would ever dare get usually, he can see each lash that frames your eyes, the hairs that sprout from your brows, the slick cherry bloom of your mouth—a whisper-sweet gather of plump, plush fruit he wants, needs, to take a bite from.

Would you let me, little girl? he wonders.

You gasp, a short little breath of surprise, and lurch away lightly at the closeness. A brave little thing, you return to him, pressing those precious petal-soft lips to the skin of his cheek. Your covered breasts press involuntarily against his arm.

Fucking hells.

“Sȳz bantis, kepus.” Good evening, Uncle, you say in that light little accent of yours, an unintended provocation of his basest yearnings.

With that, you bundle the boy up in your capable little hands and make for your destination, the Cargyll knight falling into formation behind you.

“Care to explain—well, all of that?” Laenor asks.

Oh—yes. Daemon pushes himself from his seat, deliberately stalling while he thinks of a response that isn’t what the fuck how the fuck when the fuck and why.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he says idly, slyly, glancing over at him.

“No!” His goodnephew leans forward into his space. He is taken aback by the vehemence in his tone, uncharacteristic of the bumbling, affable man. “You don’t get to do this to her; not this one, not this time.”

“Whatever do you think I plan to do to her?” Daemon laughs, wondering at the answer himself.

Whatever would she let me do to her?

Laenor sighs, steps back. “Look.” He lightly nudges him to walk alongside him as they make for the garden’s entry. “She’s not one of your whores, Daemon. She’s just a girl. She’s not the type to play your twisted little games, so leave her be—please.”

He is warmed by the defence of your goodbrother, an admission of familiarity and care that is sure to have flourished since the man’s entrance into the family some years ago.

“What makes you think I have any intention of—how did you put it—playing games with her?” If he were a little less honest with himself, he would be affronted by the manner in which Laenor had jumped straight to an accusation. But Lord Flea Bottom’s reputation is inescapable, even after so many years. “Perhaps my objective is pure and wholesome.”

“Right.” Laenor snorts, shaking his head as he folds his hands behind his back. “You’re far more likely to fall in with her horde of suitors than to believably claim familial interest.”

True. And yet… why not? He’s conceived all manner of plots to satiate his wants, from drunken fumbles in the dark to his half-baked impulse from but a moment ago. Unlike his previous conquests, though, he doubts the need will dissipate after a single fuck. You are too important to him—his precious girl turned darkest desire, the only woman he could ever deign to carry on his line with.

Viserys has been pressuring him to seek out a bride. He mightn’t be happy with the prospect of his brother asking for his daughter’s hand, exactly, but there is surely no debate that he is the best contender. Not Jason. Not Denys. Not fucking Aegon. Daemon. And, well, if the asking should go poorly—how simple would it be to whisk you away to Dragonstone, to speak the vows and seal the deed before it can be undone? There is no risk this time, no Iron Throne to lose, no treaty or agreement that cannot be broken…

He can see it now. Your sweet little face peering up at him, marked with his blood, lip dripping red with the pledge of entangling your souls together in savage Valyrian custom. Your pretty little eyes wide with maidenly shock as he breaches your untried cunt, tight and pulsing and hotwetwarm, binding you to him irrevocably. The slow waddling of your gait as you round with child, his child, his sweetest babe bringing forth life of her own, belly ripe with seed and leaking his spend—

“Laenor,” he says slowly, eyes glinting as his lips upturn in a wide grin, “I do believe you have the best ideas.”

Read the story on AO3 here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42100623/chapters/120880855

Taglist (😭 thank you!):

Now in the comments!

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Click here to apply for the general taglist! Click here to apply for the terms of endearment taglist!

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cupcakeslushie · 2 months

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I really love what you do with the colors pallets. I was wondering if you had any tips on how todo them? I over complicate things, and I feel like I can’t do the pallets right, like is there a certain rule on color placement? Like the darker colour goes in the background, lighter further front?

… sorry 😭, other artists just make pallets look so easy, would you recommend using 3 or 2 colors to start with?

Sorry for babbling and thanks again 😂, honestly love seeing your art 😙, also, if someone wanted to gives your art/fic would you mind if they tagged you or would sending it in an ask be better?

I’m still very new to choosing my own pallets. As for order, often I find the “pop”, or most saturated color works good for the background. Then for the characters, a less saturated version of the compliment color….or one that just looks nice. Then I do a light color for the eyes and any other elements I wanna emphasize. Lineart is done in black and then just alpha lock->fill layer with a color and slide around the adjustments until I’m happy. There’s not really a particular number of colors I think looks best, but I’m starting to like five color pallets. You can do three or even two, but five gives you some breathing room for variety.

A lot of it really is just what looks nice. I hate to say that, but there’s not an exact science behind it. Yes, you have to have knowledge of color theory, but also…It is just training your eye. Studying other people’s palettes, figuring out what rules they’re following, and how to play with and bend those rules.

This is why I will often go into the “color palett” tag for a starting point. But as a way to make them my own…I’ll do each color on its own layer. This way, I can change the hue/saturation/brightness and change, change, change, change, change until I’m satisfied. So much of the process is just playing. Play with one color, hop to another layer, play with that color, hop back to the other and adjust it slightly. And so forth. It sounds like a lot of time, but you get faster the more you practice.

This most recent color pallet actually started off as the THIRD row of colors, and then I just adjusted it until it was different, but still satisfying to me.

Finally I added one solid color (for this one I believe it ended up being a dark blue) above all the layers, and then just cycled through each of the adjustment layer types, until I found the one that looked the best. This last step is the clincher for tying all the colors together, and making them look cohesive.

Then colors are picked and saved. New pallet to use in the future!

#ask slushie #rottmnt #art reference

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soupandcats · 10 months

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Sorry abt the big ask, but your colours are always really vibrant and interesting! They seem both saturated and subdued. What’s your general method for choosing them or are there any tricks/layer modes you use?

Thank you! This is gonna be a long one sorry😭

My favorite digital art trick for color is the curves tool! In procreate you press the wand tool in the top left corner (Adjustments) > Curves. I recommend just playing around with this until something you like happens.

Here’s a study I did with pretty standard colors.

Here are some versions of it after moving the curves around.

What I like about this is it’s a really quick way of changing the color scheme that’s more precise than applying a filter. It lets you see how far you can push things outside of what’s expected!

When I first started digital art I had so much trouble with color because unlike traditional, the colors have the ability to be fully opaque. With traditional if you’re doing a painting the paints/colored pencils/etc will naturally mix with one another creating a more cohesive overall image.

Here’s a drawing I did in 2020. As you can see it’s incredibly saturated. When I was picking colors I was working in the most saturated section for nearly every color.

These days even when I’m trying to make something super colorful I’ll force myself to desaturate it more than I think I need to. There are two ways to desaturate something. You can move it towards white or towards black.

Another thing I try to keep in mind is that colors look different based on what colors are around them. If you put gray next to a color it will look like that color’s complement. If you put a warm color next to a cool color they’ll amplify one another making both look more intense. In that same way if I put a super saturated color against a more neutral background the color will look even brighter.

I like this tapestry by Sheila Hicks. See how the orange is glowing against the more muted purples and blues?

Another thing I try to keep in mind is value. Like color it’s influenced by its surroundings. If you place a lighter color over a dark background it will look brighter than over a light background.

So in a piece the eye will be drawn to the areas of highest contrast first. And area that’s similar in both value and hue will recede into the background.

I really am not an expert on color I have so much to learn. I recommend Marco Bucci’s videos as well as the book The Art of Color if you’d like more detailed+accurate info! Color theory is the most fascinating thing I’m obsessed with it.

You don’t really need to know theory to be good at color though! Just playing around and figuring out what you like (I LOVE PURPLE) will make you better!

The most satisfying thing is when you’re making a drawing and you decide to add a little gray or a little orange or whatever and suddenly your piece just starts to SING!!!! (That purple/blue/orange part of the Sheila Hicks tapestry is singing to me it will forever make me happy)

Anyways I hope this helps! 💜💜💜

#ask

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prettygirlmjmjmj · 7 months

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Easy ways to feel more feminine and princess-like

paint your nails a light, pretty colour like pink or white.

try out a new hairstyle and add a ribbon or delicate bow.

put on a soft, silky outfit such as a dress or blouse.

burn scented candles (such as vanilla or flower blossoms).

practice having good posture, follow a posture tutorial or yoga routine for posture.

spray your signature scent and apply a cohesive lotion.

watch runway shows (my favourite are the nineties Chanel, Versace and Vivienne Westwood shows!).

read a book that makes you feel like a princess or has a lovely feminine aesthetic.

make a new Pinterest mood board themed around your dream life or goals.

put on some dainty jewellery.

have a delicious tea or warm drink out of your prettiest mug.

if the weather is nice, open a window and let sun and fresh air into your room.

put on a princess themed playlist, with classical music or French music for an even more elegant musical vibe.

have a wonderful bath or shower, with your loveliest scented bath products.

carefully do your skincare routine, taking the time to care for and appreciate your beautiful skin.

do something creative such as watercolour painting, scrapbooking or pressing flowers.

apply your favourite lip balm for soft, hydrated lips.

write a letter for a friend or a loved family member.

take the time to admire little things that make you happy such as beautiful flowers or delicate clouds.

bake a delicious treat to enjoy by yourself or share with others.

Thank you for reading! All my love, mj.

#glow up era #that girl #glow up #self care #self development #glow up journey #self love #coquette #that girl aesthetic #that girl lifestyle #becoming that girl #that girl routine #that girl energy #pink pilates princess #princesscore #pink #soft girl #softcore

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star-bear-art · 4 months

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[That love is like a star

It's gone, we just see it shining

It's travelled very far]

I have sat in rendering hell on this piece for like. A MONTH!! So worth it. Consider this a manifestation for my love of Wyll Ravenguard (and I haven't even completed a romance route with him yet!)

(Below is going to be me ranting about the state of his route/content in the game. If you don't want to read that, feel free to just stare at the pretty colours and move on :])

But WOOF. So many frustrations with how his route plays (as of patch 4, the last run I completed!) I've seen people comparing the lack of his development Act 3 with Karlach, and I honestly don't think they're comparable at all. Yes, it's obvious there was more planned (I can't even remember how much extra infernal iron we have at the end of act 3), but she at least has a cohesive narrative emotionally. She resonates! Wyll (by no fault of Theo, whose voice acting is stellar).. did not, for us. At the end of everyone else's personal quest, we were practically crying, but by his? We were mostly confused - due almost entirely to the very convoluted and buggy implementation of his story beats. Let alone that the whole wyrmway sequence becomes way more about the Emporer than him, or that his final speech triggered three seperate times for us consecutively, or the mess with Mizora, the Grand Duke, and Florrick after we defied her to save his father. He's given no agency as a character over his own choices compared to the other companions (at some of his most pivotal moments, as tav you choose his future for him without even a roll!) It was so, so disappointing. I love Wyll, especially Act 1 - but you can seriously feel the lack of polish or finish for his character in the game right now. And regardless of the team's intentions, he's the only Black origin character. That shit has an impact (doubly so when you consider how bg3 imports dnd/forgotten realm's well-discussed racism pretty much wholesale). He deserves as much agency and autonomy over his own story as every other origin character, and I seriously hope he gets it, soon. 'Til then, that's the majesty of fandom, right?

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 wyll #wyll ravengard #bg3 fanart #tism archive

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t0bey · 3 months

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hi, sorry if you’ve answered this before, but how do you pick your colours? in general but also when you draw the idv characters, I think it might be the way that they shade the character artworks but I find deciding what colours to use when I draw them really hard, thank you for your time !!!!

i usually eyeball the initial colors! i tend to just look at their official concept art since thats the main piece of art that deliberately doesn't muddle their palette with environmental shading and stuff. you don't have to be wholly accurate to their canon color palette, i usually just go for colors that are similar but nothing rigid.

as a standard for myself i try to stick to only several colors drawing a specific character so they're more visually cohesive, so i also eyedrop colors that i used earlier in the coloring process. (so basically if theres pieces of a characters outfit that are a similar color i usually just make it all one color unless i feel like separating them slightly is necessary) i also like having a bolder color underneath the clipping mask base, then lower the opacity of that base in the 90-96 range so theres also an undertone to make it feel more uniform. (the undertone for this vera is purple)

#in general i would stick to character concept art to get your colors from and allow yourself to mess around w it with filters and overlays #depending on what you want to go for #gradient maps are also very fun!#ask #anon

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visionofvoid · 1 year

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Better To Be Safe Than Sorry - Daniel Ricciardo

Summary: two australians dressed by the same designer for the 2023 met gala. surely its not all just chance?

Warnings: shameless flirting

Pairings: daniel ricciardo x plussize!oc

Word count: 2.3k

She couldn’t believe her eyes when she looked back at her reflection of the tinted car door, the dress hugging her in all the right ways and accentuating her natural curves. She had never seen this body representation at something so prestigious such as the Met Gala save for a few household names such as Ashley Graham. She couldn’t believe it when she first received the invitation on behalf of designer Thom Browne who reached out via a handwritten letter and pitched his idea to her. At first the Australian actress was very apprehensive; was she famous enough for an event like this? She wasn’t used to dressing up like this, so incredibly fancy and she had only just become noticed since her role in Daisy Jones and The Six. She even had a whole team do her makeup and hair for her which she wasn’t used to unless she was about to film a scene.

She expected the tag stitched into the dress to scratch her back but instead it sat flush. It only had Thom’s name, her name and the Met Gala handwritten and the small gesture meant a lot to her surprisingly, it was a garment made just for her plump body. It was organised so all of Thom’s guests were arriving at the same time to showcase his work in a cohesive way, and it meant that organising a group shot was just that little bit easier. Stepping out of the car she was blinded by how lit up the walkway was, a cream colour leading her and ushering her towards the famous steps of the Met and towards the screaming crowds. She wasn’t entirely sure who else was dressed by Thom so she was excited to see and meet some famous faces as well as by other designers.

“Just follow me.” Lucille was met with a smile from some volunteers who rushed to both her side. She wasn’t overly excited to be walking in heels but she had a lot of practice to make sure she wouldn’t fall. The dress, however, hugged her thighs enough that it meant she had to take small and careful steps. She sucked in a deep breath, seeing the ‘TB’ embroidered between her breasts on the bodice move with her breathing and she plastered on a smile.

With each and every step Lucille found that the shouts of the photographers grew louder and the fans screaming in anticipation for the next guest to arrive. There was a little bit of a wait for the celebrities to allow a steady flow at the base of the footsteps and Lucille found herself beaming at Thom Browne when she saw his familiar face talking with presumably his other guests.

“Ah, my dear, my muse!” It seemed as if she was the last of his guests to arrive, eight more heads turning adorned in black and white, tulle and lace, camellias and different patterns. They all looked fabulous and as Lucille scanned briefly over their faces she found that it all suited them. Thom rushed over, embracing Lucille quickly and then pulled away, his arms on her bare shoulders as he stood back to admire his work. “Stunning. Absolutely stunning.” Lucille found her rosy coloured cheeks flush at the compliments but thanked the designer nonetheless.

Daniel was incredibly privileged to say the least when he received a handwritten letter from Thom Browne regarding an invitation to the Met Gala. He had watched Lewis attend and will admit, he found it to be a guilty pleasure to keep up with it every year. He admired the hard work the designers put in and the fuss about it. Now that his main focus was not on racing full time, it was a no-brainer that he would attend the Met Gala. He was all smiles when he first met Thom and that all continued to him actually seeing his suit for the first time to arrive second for the designer. A few months out of a long term relationship and he was thriving, he was just in awe as he looked around the tunnel leading to the waiting area. One by one the remainder of Thom’s guests arrived and piled up behind him, compliments flowing through the air, everyone's agents taking care of phones, bags and other items.

The naturally extroverted racer enjoyed meeting new faces, happily discussing his projects and the projects of others while they slowly moved forward. His back was turned as he anxiously looked past the people in front of him when Lucille arrived. The two were familiar with one another naturally being some of the few Australians that were famous outside of their home nation however when Thom gushed over her Danile found himself turning around. She looked absolutely stunning. The two had never crossed paths with one another before but Daniel was kicking himself over it now. She exuded confidence, kindness and warmth. He could tell she was nervous but as Thom greeted her she seemed to calm herself.

Lucille blushed as Thom showered her in compliments, some of the other guests commenting on her outfit, her makeup and her work in Daisy Jones. It was her first big event she had attended outside of small premiers where she played a menial side character; this was all quite different and overwhelming, in a good way. Lucille spotted Daniel Ricciardo in a black suit with delicate black ruffles that added different hues to the suit. Her body felt warm and fuzzy when he gave her a warm smile. She grew up in Melbourne and attended a fair few Melbourne GP’s growing up so she was quite familiar with the sport and with the man herself. He was easily top twenty of her male celebrity crushes. Okay, maybe top ten. Top five?

“Where is Rhonda?” Thom questioned, knowing that Lucille was usually accompanied by her manager.

“In active labour. I will be hopping up the steps while she’s pushing.” Lucille joked though Thom could tell she was nervous. Daniel felt guilty for eavesdropping but instead found an opening to introduce himself. He apologised as he pushed himself past Teyana Taylor and Jenna Ortega, his eyes focused solely on Lucille. One by one they slowly got called to make their way to the main area where all the hustle and bustle began and there was no set order so Daniel slowly held himself back. Thom moved forward to introduce his pieces to the Met Gala and hype up his team.

Lucille played with her nails as the team slowly dwindled down into just herself and Daniel and their volunteers got ready. Daniel went first and then it was just Lucille with the next guests arriving behind her and soon she was called up. Her steps were small as she held her head high, walking past several other volunteers who seemed to gush over her look. A few metres later she found herself surrounded by photographers and celebrities, fans turning to look at her and call out her name.

Daniel remained nearby Lucille, feeling somewhat wanting to introduce himself formally or be near her presence. Everyone else had a team of agents or PR representatives to help them pose or engage in interviews with certain people but being a new actress on the scene meant that she didn’t quite have her own team. At least being in a suit meant that it was easier to navigate the stairs leading into the Met.

Lucille found herself being called over to a young interviewer and smiled when the interviewer seemed surprised when she made her way over.

“Lucille Craig, I loved you in Daisy Jones, you look absolutely stunning on the carpet tonight and for your first Met Gala. Can I ask, who is dressing you and what was the inspiration?” It was incredibly loud all around her but at that moment her sole focus was on the interviewer.

“Thank you so much! I’m dressed by Thom Browne. We both collaborated and drew inspiration from Claudia Schiffer’s Spring 1993 Chanel bride look. I am thrilled to have been invited and to see so many different looks on different bodies and people. It’s a bit overwhelming.” Lucille let out a chuckle at the end of her sentence and patiently waited for the next part of the interview.

“We all look forward to seeing what's next for you. It was a pleasure to meet you and I hope you enjoy your night. Thank you!” Lucille thanked the woman before she was ushered in by the volunteers, the stairs coming closer and closer. She was growing more and more nervous but tried to keep herself contained. She smiled at some photographers, said some hellos to other celebrities and continued on her way.

Daniel smiled through a couple of interviews though he kept himself open towards the carpet, his eye always landing on Lucille from a distance. He answered questions to do with his career and his outfit to the best of his abilities but his mind kept going back to Lucille.

“Do you need some assistance, Miss Craig?” The Met Gala volunteer questioned Lucille as she made her way to the dreaded stairs. Lucille went to protest before she felt someone slide her arm through theirs causing her to snap her head to the stranger.

“No, no. I’ve got it from here, thank you.” Daniel spoke, offering a tight smile to the volunteer as Lucille’s hand clutched onto his bicep. The volunteer nodded, walking a few steps ahead of the duo. The small gesture seemed to spark excitement among the spectators and photographers as well as Thom as he stood at the top of the stairs, beaming down on the duo. Lucille sucked in a breath as she lifted one leg, testing the integrity of the dress and sighed with relief when it remained a couple of inches below her behind. “You’ve got this.” Daniel mumbled just loud enough for Lucille to hear, the girl grateful for the support. She gained confidence with each and every step she took, photographers calling out their names to get a pose. This would without a doubt cause some rumours the next day.

“Thank you, you didn’t have to do this.” Lucille spoke back, turning her head over her shoulder with her hair following elegantly as she looked back. They were about halfway up the staircase now.

“How could a gentleman like me not help a fellow beautiful Australian? Would be blasphemous.” Daniel joked, Lucille looking up at him briefly before letting out a rather unfeminine laugh. Daniel loved being a joker, he loved making people laugh however this felt different. He suddenly cared about her opinion, he cared about what she found funny.

They made it to the top of the stairs where a number of celebrities were posing for higher end magazines or being interviewed by much more important people. Lucille was fine to walk on her own now but found herself not ready to pull away from Daniel’s arm, and he wasn’t putting up much of a fight either. The two slowly walked with the small crowd on the carpet, both unsure of what to do next. The other guests for Thom Browne were scattered about with the designer standing even further along where guests were to be greeted by Anna Wintour herself and engage in a quick hello before moving along to tour the museum and potter around before the formal dinner.

“There’s so many people. Anne Hathaway, Jared Leto as a fucking furry, oh my God! Is that Ashley Graham?” Daniel admired this side of Lucille, or this side of anyone. Lucille had quite a following, especially after her role in the TV adaptation of Daisy Jones and the Six so she hadn’t quite warmed up to being a loved celebrity just yet that was grouped in the same calibre as these well known movie stars, singers and models. Lucille went to apologise for her behaviour, preparing to call it cringe worthy when she was interrupted by Anne Hathaway turning around, her eyes widening slightly and her perfectly poised smile turning into something genuine. “Daniel, please tell me Anne is looking at us, the Anne Hathaway?” Daniel went to respond but he found himself leading Lucille towards the famous actress.

“Daniel Riccardo! I’m a big fan of F1.” Daniel was taken by surprise that she knew who he was and then she turned to Lucille. “I loved your role in Daisy Jones, you were absolutely fabulous. You’re definitely a force to be reckoned with. I must get going, enjoy the night you love birds!” Anne bid them a farewell, bringing Lucille in for a brief kiss on the cheek and hug before rushing off. Daniel nor Lucille mentioned the last statement out of Anne’s mouth and instead they were both taken back by the interaction.

“She knew who I was.” It was like Lucille’s hand was a part of Daniel’s arm. It just felt so natural and conversation, no matter how small and lacklustre it was between the two, came naturally. Daniel wanted to get to know the girl a little bit more.

“She would be a fool to not know you are, Lucille.” Daniel flirted shamelessly, grinning as he noticed her cheeks flush darker than her rosy makeup. Lucille noticed she was still holding onto his arm even though they were no longer tackling steps. Had Daniel been too nice to tell her that her hand was on his arm. God, what a blunder.

“I am so sorry! I didn’t even realise.” Daniel only chuckled in response, pulling her back towards him. It was as if the two of them weren’t surrounded by flashing lights and people shouting, that it was just the two of them. It just felt natural for the both of them.

“Don’t be silly. I’m sure there’ll be more stairs. Better to be safe than sorry.”

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