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alicenpai · 7 months ago

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princess tutu: die jahreszeiten 🌸

kind of a companion piece to my 2022 ptutu drawing | it's on inprnt

this print was at anime north; next con is otakuthon!

oops so my hand slipped and i made another princess tutu drawing. i admittedly don't watch that much anime so my catalogue of work is gonna be the same 5 animes LMAO. what can i say, i love "dark" fairy tales, and i've been really enjoying the more fine art approach to a lot of my drawings as of late (and the watercolour brush i've been using has been so perfect for that...!)

as my first princess tutu drawing is now 2 years old, there are some areas i've grown to have ... qualms with... although both drawings as a whole are pretty much exactly what i envisioned, and that's always satisfying!

both of these were drawn in roughly a week's time (yes really...) for con crunch period (and i went back to this drawing after the con to touch up some areas that were a bit rough!). i wanted a different approach to this new pt drawing, with the focus on the line work, rather than on colours and lighting in the 2022 drawing.

this drawing had 2 goals: to continue the style i adopted in my witch hat atelier "lantern bearers" drawing (which i promise i'll post in full soon as soon as all of the zine artists get their go-ahead to post their pieces!), and to emulate the art nouveau movement's heavy emphasis on line work, albeit not a 1:1 style replication of course.

the seasons also aren't a 1:1 representation, as i didn't necessarily pick flowers or colours that are most strongly associated with the season (e.g. summer being a dark tone is a bold choice?). but it's kinda whatever, as i said before i drew this in a week, there may be more appropriate flowers with better meanings. i couldn't spend too too much time drafting and researching.

FLOWER SYMBOLISM:

- spring: apple blossoms, tulips - the apple blossom is a quintessential spring flower, and thus symbolize the arrival of spring. spring is a season of change, which ahiru/princess tutu is a force of, instigating change in her friends and unravelling the story around her. the flowers below her are tulips, and there are many meanings to tulips depending on the colour, due to their ubiquitous nature. i narrowed on one, and intended for them to symbolize happiness. princess tutu's pose is one in which that is open, inviting, and warm - reflecting her nurturing nature in the series, and her willingness to help others achieve happiness.

- summer: deadly nightshade flower, yellow rose - i chose for rue/princess kraehe to symbolize a fiery summer's night instead of the typical dazzling heat of a summer's day, a rather bold and unusual choice. the warmth of sunshine didn't quite fit, as the character is quite dramatic and passionate, with her intentions often hidden in shadow. next, the deadly nightshade - atropa belladonna - has a lot of mythological associations, a lot to do with poisoning, as the flower is toxic. the flowers bloom at night (another reason why i picked a nighttime backdrop for "summer") and also outwardly match rue's dark design scheme, as the cherry on top. yellow roses, at the bottom of her frame, are the archetypal flower depicting jealousy (as with many yellow flowers are), and at one point in the story, rue only wished for her own happiness at the misfortune of others.

- autumn: douglas fir needles, orange calla lily - autumn is another season of change - although much more tumultuous, as this season is traditionally taken to prepare for a long winter ahead - fitting for fakir as the role of the storyteller. the douglas fir is not a flower of course, but is a tree - with many different parts of this tree offering many benefits in advance of the winter season. i wanted the versatile nature of the douglas fir to reflect on fakir's dependable personality. next up, the calla lily is a flower with a dual meaning - on one hand you have life, on the other you have death. a storyteller quite literally can grant both at the tip of their fingers.

- winter: birch tree, snowdrop - winter is a rather still and unchanging season, a lull in the passage of time. this symbolizes mytho's passive nature at the start of the series, especially with his doleful pose here, as if almost in hibernation. to contrast, mytho is perched on the branches of a birch tree, which means new beginnings and renewal - as mytho is one of the characters that undergo the most change throughout the series (i'd argue the most?), regaining pieces of his heart. under mytho's frame is the snowdrop flower - and if you've read my witch hat atelier: seasons piece symbolisms, one of the snowdrop's meanings is rebirth, with connotations to the bible, bringing hope, when all had forsaken eve. the snowdrop is one of the first flowers to bloom even when the snow has not yet fully melted, further echoing mytho as an analogy for rebirth.

#princess tutu #ptutu #ahiru #fakir #mytho #rue (princess tutu)#fakir (princess tutu)#mytho (princess tutu)#ahiru (princess tutu)#my art #im not much of a painter but painting the curtains was kinda fun... got lost in the sauce every single time i tackled that area #so i think i understand why people paint now #im free from con deadlines for a little while so i might try my hand at oc stuff...#and i want to get better at my sketch/doodle style too bc admittedly it takes way too long to draw anything and i want to change that #which is why ive been doing the lineless style for sticker sheets and keeping them pretty basic and rough!! im happy with em #i only know how to 'complete' drawings really so . lot of sketching ahead this summer hopefully..#artists on tumblr #illustration

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ceilidho · 1 year ago

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prompt: it's been a month since you managed to run away from them. your luck had to run out eventually. tags: noncon, darkfic, ghoap x reader, previous kidnapping implied, stalking and hunting down reader. i am begging you to read the tags before reading this, thanks. 4.4k

You pay for the motel room in cash. Always cash. Never a paper trail if you can help it. Nothing that could ever tip anyone off if you didn’t want them to be tipped off.

You haven’t been on the run for long. Maybe a month, tops—but after the first week, the days and nights have begun to blend together like watercolours. You don’t do much during the day apart from sit in your room and wait for the night to come. Sometimes you venture out if you’re low on food or if the itch under your skin grows severe enough that you know you need to buy a fresh set of clothes and dump the ones you came into town with.

Freshly dyed and cut hair. Jackets two sizes too big to make you seem larger than you are from the back. You’ll never be able to change the face god gave you, but you make an effort to obscure it when you can—surgical masks on public transit, heavy sunglasses even indoors, a deep mauve lipstick (purchased, again, in cash at the local pharmacy) to make you seem, from a distance, like someone else. Anyone else.

Sometimes remembering that it’s been a whole month since you escaped, since you got out, leaves you winded. You have to hold onto the wall in your pay-by-the-night, ratty, hole-in-the-wall motel room to keep from toppling over. A month without spotting one of them in pursuit of you feels next to impossible. Almost impossible. You still don’t let yourself think that you’ve fully given them the slip, that you’ve gotten the better of them. There is no getting the better of them. There is no outmanoeuvring the two men that—you’ve learned through painful trial and error—do not let up when there is still the trace of a scent.

And everything leaves a scent. Even you.

You sleep in the bathtub instead of the bed for fear of bedlice; these days, your neck has an ever-present kink that needs to be worked out. It’s bound to get worse though. It’s not like you can stop in this town now and call it home, not when you can feel them hot on your heels.

You change in gas station bathrooms when you run. You’re learning a kind of awareness of cameras and eyes that you never would’ve developed before. You do not smile at cashiers. Your face becomes blank, unrecognisable. The goal is always that you fade into obscurity the second you step out of the shop, so that no one could ever identify you to the two terrifying men haunting your shadow. Even if they wanted to.

Paranoid isn’t the half of it. When you hear a car pull up outside your motel room door, your body drops a whole degree and sweats like a night terror has found you in the waking world. You only relax when you hear a door four rooms down slam shut. Then you shake so hard that you swear you can hear your bones rattle.

This isn’t a life. It’s life like the promise of a tomorrow is the only thing getting you through today.

You get on buses with no idea where you’ll be getting off. Pattern disrupter. In the months that you lived with them, you learned something. If your movements are scattered, they become unpredictable—harder to track down. You force them to stay behind while you skitter off, forcing them to review video footage, question people, even sift through garbage and recycling bins for any sign that you’d been there.

It doesn’t make you any less nervous. You know they’re like hunting dogs. You’d love to believe that you’ve tried their patience enough for them to abandon the chase, but thinking like that gets you caught. Complacency will get you caught faster than anything.

The money folded and sealed in an envelope in your bag is dwindling though. Even for as frugal as you’ve been, food costs money—clothes cost money. Boxes of hair dye and bus tickets cost money. And you can’t stay anywhere long enough to hold down a job to recuperate what you’ve lost.

It feels hopeless. You trudge back to your motel room after grabbing a bite to eat at the pub down the road and feel like maybe this is purgatory. Maybe you died a long time ago, long before you got away from them, and this long path you’ve been burning across the country is just the long descent into the underworld. You let out a sigh, squeezing your eyes shut for a second by the door before unlocking it to go inside for the night.

You trip over something. It catches you so off guard that you almost break your nose on the carpeted floor, arms almost not swinging out in time to catch you.

“Whoops. Sorry, kitty—took a lil’ tumble there, huh?” a familiar burr says from somewhere behind you by the door. “Gotta watch where you step.” He chuckles a bit under his breath, pulling back the leg he’d stuck out to trip you.

Your body goes ice cold on the floor. The door clicks shut behind you; the deadbolt sliding into place is deafening in the silence. The thick knot in your belly expands until you think you might throw up. The only nonsensical thing you can think is that you hope the motel manager won’t be upset that you’ve ruined the carpet.

You hear the muffled sound of knees hitting the floor and then a hand tangles in your hair, wrenching your head back. “Oh Jesus, look at the state of her, Lt.”

“Looks like she’s seen a ghost.”

The second voice is rough, like logs rolling over water, clattering into each other. It comes from the other end of the room, way into the darkness. They didn’t bother to turn the lights on, perhaps in an effort to make sure your guard was down. Fear grips the inside of your chest. Behind you, Johnny holds your head up high enough that you’re forced to stare at the patch of darkness from which Ghost materialises when he flicks on the bedside lamp.

On the surface, he sounds almost amused, but as long as it’s been, you’re still attuned to the undercurrent of anger in his voice. His patience has been tried over weeks of chasing after you. He almost looks like he’s put on mass since you last saw him over a month ago, but that could just be the perspective of looking up at him from the floor. His face is still covered in the same half skull mask as always, exposing the shaved blond hair on his head. His eyes are narrowed though, terrifyingly mad.

“Poor baby,” Johnny murmurs, nuzzling into the back of your head. He props himself over you, not leaning his whole weight down onto your prone body, but trying to get as close as possible to you while still forcing you to stare up at Ghost. “Did we give ye a wee fright? Is that why ye ran off? I missed ye so, so bad, baby.”

“She ran off because she’s been spoiled,” Ghost snaps. He sits on the edge of the bed and it creaks under his weight when he shifts a little closer to the edge, leaning closer to where you’re lying on the floor.

“I ken, I ken, Lt,” Johnny sighs, plastering sloppy, wet kisses into the side of your neck, fitting his mouth briefly into the crook of it, into the meat of your shoulder. “Cannae help myself, she’s just so—ah, kitty, am really sorry but you’ve really pissed Simon off.”

“No—no, please—” you gasp, breath splintered into short hitches. “H-how’d you—how’d you e-even find—”

Johnny shakes you by the hair, a bit rougher than usual. Anger finally leaking out like a drip from a loose spigot. You yip at the pain. “Of course we were gonna find you—Lt, ye hearing this? She thought she could outsmart us.”

“Pet’s don’t know any better,” Ghost says dismissively. It makes you feel queasy to hear him say that like you’re not even in the room. “Needs a lesson in not making us run halfway across the country after her. Get her on the bed, pup.”

“No, no, get OFF—” you try to yell, then gag when Johnny shoves two fingers into your mouth, pushing them almost to the back of your throat.

When the urge to choke abates, you close your teeth over his fingers, flirting with the idea of just biting all the way down and taking them off. Only the fact that you’ve never done something like that before keeps you from instinctually biting through. Johnny laughs breathlessly when he feels your teeth flirt over his fingers though.

“Bite down,” Johnny dares you, voice quivering with smugness and rage. “Bite down ‘n see what happens to ye. Have nae gotten my cock wet in a fuckin’ month because you’ve been gone and Simon—”

“Quit talking to the pet like she understands,” Ghost snaps, finally standing up, towering over the two of you. You can’t help staring at his mud covered boots still rooted in front of your face. “On the bed. Now.”

You howl when Johnny takes his fingers out of your mouth and wrenches you to your feet, struggling when he coos and frogmarches you to the bed. No matter how hard you struggle though, you can’t break the way he has your arms twisted behind your back. It’s a short walk too, only a few steps, and then Johnny shoves you roughly onto the bed, clambering over you again. His hand forces your face into the mattress, not paying any mind to the way you grunt because your nose bends uncomfortably against it.

“Always fuckin’ whining,” Johnny growls into your ear, fully pissed off now. His anger is electric, rippling down the length of you. “On and on and on—’n I’ve been so fuckin’ good to ye. Have nae even been a little mean. Being a fuckin’ brat to me and leavin’ me and makin’ us hunt ye down like dogs.”

You can hear that he’s working himself up to a fever pitch, growing angrier and angrier. It terrifies you to think that you’re trapped under him, nowhere to go. Somehow, it’s a mercy when the bed dips again under Ghost’s weight and he pulls Johnny back by the shoulder, giving his cheek a little tap when Johnny growls and tries to bend back down.

“You have all the time in the world with her, pup,” Ghost says, giving Johnny a rougher shove. “Get undressed. Can’t fuck her in your civvies.”

“Yeah…yeah, yer right,” Johnny mumbles to himself, getting off you.

Your head automatically twists over your shoulder, eyes following him. It’s easy to see in the spare seconds you get before you try to make a break for it again that he looks haggard, beard grown out a bit more than usual. Ghost usually makes him keep it short and tight, but apparently weeks on the road have tempered that military expectation a bit.

His eyes are wild, electric blue, hardly blinking for how hard he stares at you. You tell yourself that you haven’t, on some small level, missed his pretty face. His arms bulge around the tight shirt that he easily strips off, pulling it off one handed from the back of his neck.

You hear him kick off his boots somewhere in the distance, but when you try to scramble off the bed, Ghost tips you over onto your bed and presses you down with a firm hand on your shoulder. He’s a bit less dressed now—hoodie pulled off and boots and jeans piled on the floor somewhere. Mask off. Familiar scars cut across his face—old burn marks and white spidery lines of fresh skin. Rougher than Johnny, not a pretty man; maybe without the layers of scarring he’d be a proper masculine kind of handsome, but with them, he only seems dangerous. Someone to avoid.

He doesn’t say anything when he stares down at you. He says enough like that. He looks over his shoulder, away from you. “Johnny?”

“Lt?” Johnny’s at attention now, stripped naked and eager. When you glance down, his cock is already flushed and hard, excitement making him almost vibrate.

“Help me get her naked and then you’ll get her mouth, alright?”

You’re already struggling before the words come out of his mouth, frantically trying to push Ghost off you and opening your mouth to scream—the piercing shrill of it bleats out of you for half a second—before a big hand wraps around your neck and Ghost turns back to you. It shuts you up in a heartbeat. Not once in the months you were with them has Ghost looked half as terrifying; you’ve had a belt taken to your ass until the blood pooling under the skin almost burned, you’ve been manhandled and roughly positioned and been bent into shapes that your body could only just accommodate, but you’ve never, until now, actually worried for your safety somehow.

“You scream—” he starts, moving his hand up just a little to grab you by the jaw and twist your head to make you stare at the bedside table, where a glock lays flat under the glow of the lamp, “—and I shoot anyone that comes through that fuckin’ door. We clear?”

You nod once. Sweat pouring out of every other gland, but the saliva running dry in your mouth. You lick your lips and swallow, hummingbird heart going wild in your chest.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Johnny mumbles, coming up behind Ghost to wrap his arms around him as best he can, planting a row of kisses into his shaved head. “Missed it so bad, I need ta—need ta—”

“Her clothes, Johnny. Take ‘em off.”

You only put up a little fight when Ghost works on unzipping and pulling down your jeans. It feels hopeless to try. Johnny almost tears your shirt in two to get it off, only being a bit gentler when you yelp. He can’t help groping at your chest when the shirt is pulled off you and tossed somewhere else in the room, big hands fitting over your breasts and plucking your nipples, twisting them like you’re just a toy for Johnny to play with. He slithers down onto his belly for a second to pop a nipple into his mouth, switching between kissing and sucking at the beaded nub like he can’t tell what he missed more.

Your panties get ripped clean in two. The sob comes out of your chest unbidden, tears finally spilling out. Ghost’s patience seems finally at its end. His eyes are black even in the light, all pupil. Your legs try to close instinctively, but he slots himself between them so you can only clamp your legs around his waist, stuck staring at the way his hand reaches for his boxers only long enough to pull the elastic under his balls. His cock is so heavy with blood that it droops, the tip dewy.

Your nipples gleam with spit when Johnny finally takes his mouth off them, sitting back on his haunches and spreading his legs. It’s all happening so fast—there isn’t a right place to look. Either the monstrous cock between your legs that already has you feeling twangs of phantom pain knowing that Ghost isn’t going to even bother stretching you on his fingers before fucking you, or the pretty cock that Johnny is already rubbing against your lips, painting with his precome. You flinch when you feel Ghost spit on your sex; he doesn’t try to rub it in.

“Simon” he pants, fingers tangling in your hair again to keep your head still when you try to turn away. “Simon, please, can I—I need ta come so bad. Please, please.”

You almost say something and then Ghost pushes his cock in to the hilt in one brutal plunge. Your mouth opens on a ragged gasp and Johnny keens, fingers clenching so hard in your hair that he almost tears it out by the roots. The tip of his cock stays flush against your lips, even split open on your gasp.

“Please, sir, please,” he begs, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. Aching and desperate. Holding himself back only because he needs permission to put his cock anywhere in you, just like he did all those weeks ago back in their house out in the countryside. The one you thought you thought you’d escaped.

Ghost chuckles, groaning at the feel of your tight cunt squeezing his cock. “Go ahead, boy. Give your cock a squeeze.”

That’s all it takes. Johnny pushes past your lips roughly, no finesse or gentleness at all. Maybe the capacity for it is gone after going without you for so long. You choke when the head of his cock hits the back of your throat, tears making your vision blur. Johnny preens and gushes over you, unable to stop babbling about how hot and tight your throat is, how much he missed it.

“Oh shit, sir, she’s—” Johnny gasps, sinking into your mouth again and again, sweaty hand still clutching your hair. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”

You feel close to the point of breaking, tight after a month on the lam, too tight for someone Ghost’s size to shove their cock into you without prep. You tell yourself that at least he bothered to spit on you, but lube would help a lot more. Too bad for you. His hands fit over your waist and hold tight, making sure you know that there’s nowhere for you to go. The first few thrusts are rough but slow enough to keep you from tearing—a small mercy, but probably not for your sake.

“I get—I get her pussy after, right, sir?” Johnny asks desperately.

“Dunno, Johnny,” Ghost muses, licking his lip. His thrusts get more brutish, faster; your teeth would be clacking together if Johnny’s cock wasn’t stuck halfway down your throat. “Gonna be a bit sloppy. Might not be tight enough for you after this.”

“S’okay, sir,” he whines, glancing back down at you. Fingers petting your cheek and tracing over your throat, trying to feel himself from the outside. “Jus’ need…oh fuck, please, it’s so good—oh Christ, missed it. I’ll take anythin’, sir, please.”

“Christ, alright, puppy. You can have a turn after. Been a good boy, huh?”

You can only stare when Ghost lifts a hand from your waist to reel Johnny in by his mohawk, tugging him in for a wet kiss, still thrusting into your pussy all the while. Just a toy between them for their cocks while Ghost licks into Johnny’s mouth and mutters sweet nothings to him. Johnny moans into the kiss, sucking Ghost’s tongue when it’s offered to him and looking dazed, come-drunk. All fucked out and flushed, hips unconsciously pumping forward, just absently rutting.

“Got our girl back, right?” Ghost murmurs, letting go of Johnny’s hair to smooth down his head and neck, making him preen. “Such a smart puppy.”

“Yeah, I’m good, sir.” He sounds out of his mind, slurring his words. Praise gets him like nothing else; it’s not easily given by Ghost, not handed out for nothing. “Did good…’m a good boy…”

The corners of your lips feel like they might crack. It’s hard to be careful with your teeth when you’re so overwhelmed, but luckily Johnny doesn’t mind it a bit rough. He hiccups when your teeth scrape over his cock a bit. He lips at Ghost’s mouth, dragging his tongue over the scar that bisects the corner of Ghost’s lips. When Ghost finally pulls away from Johnny’s mouth, a thin string of saliva pulls and then bends with the distance, finally snapping off and leaking onto your chest.

Your flinch and squeak draws Ghost’s attention back down to you.

You try to think of yourself looking down on the three of you instead of in it, but it’s hard. For as much as it seems like you’re just a toy between them, Ghost makes an effort to get you off, slipping a hand down to jiggle his thumb over your clit, rubbing it just the way you like. It’s sick how well he knows your body by now, how it takes almost nothing to push you to the edge of coming, core tight with the heat of it.

“Gonna come?” Ghost taunts, scooping a hand under your ass to tilt your hips up, hitting a spot inside you that has you seeing stars, cunt flexing over his cock. You garble around Johnny’s cock as if to say something, but all it does is make Johnny groan and slump over you, holding himself upright with a hand on the mattress. His abs flex every time he fucks into your mouth. “Pussy this close to coming—you must’ve starved it. Good thing you didn’t let someone fuck you while we were looking. Woulda torn them apart.”

You can see the real threat in his eyes at that. There’s no way you would’ve, but the real danger of it crackles in the room. You feel like you’ll slip and touch the third rail if you so much as twitch under his glare. His jealousy at the thought makes him look like an angry god, chest heaving with every breath as he fucks you.

“My baby wouldnae—” Johnny gasps, sinking his cock all the way into your throat and groaning at the squeeze, “—no, Si, she’s—ah, fuck me, ‘m gonna—fuck, fuck—Si, she wouldnae do that to us. No fuckin’ way.”

“She’d have a lot of making up to do then, huh?”

“She’s a good girl, sir, ‘promise. Oh, jus’ look at her,” Johnny gushes, sweat dripping down onto your face from how he’s curled over you. “So, so pretty. Maybe I dinnae take her…take her on enough walks.”

“Yeah…” You feel your skin crawl when Ghost stares down at you, not convinced. “Of course, pup.”

You know there’s no way he believes that. When they drag you home, you don’t think you’ll see the sunlight for weeks, never mind have Johnny take you on ‘walks’. Ghost’s smothering presence will take on a whole new meaning; he’ll snuff out the sun before he lets you walk in it alone ever again.

Someone in the room adjacent to yours slams their fist into the wall a couple of times, jolting you out of your thoughts. The headboard must really be knocking against the wall. Ghost and Johnny ignore it though, Johnny so close to coming that he can hardly even form a sentence, solely focused on spearing between your lips. You can feel Ghost reaching his end too, fucking you with a single-minded intensity. Breath snorting out of his nose like a bull. The hair on his chest is matted with sweat, curls whorling around his nipples.

You almost choke when Johnny comes down your throat without warning, hilting his cock until his balls brush your chin and his hand in your hair tightens painfully. He groans, drawn out and long, pained. It splashes against the back of your throat, almost familiar. You’ve done this before. You can do this without falling down a cliff and never climbing back up.

He pulls his cock out before he’s finished, striping your face with come, twitching when he has to hold his cock from how sensitive it is. You instinctively close your eyes, grateful when you feel his come tag your eyelid.

You hope it’s almost over, but Ghost hasn’t come yet and you know it’s going to get worse before it gets better. When Johnny pulls away to collapse onto his back on the bed, trying to catch his breath and dragging his hand over his stomach, Ghost hunches over you. He drags his tongue over your cheek, wet and nasty, and your brain almost switches off when you realise that he’s licking Johnny’s come off your cheek.

“There we go,” he snarls, feeling you flex around him, the little tell-tale spasm of your approaching orgasm. “Atta girl—gonna come on my cock? A little wet sorry for running away?”

You try to say something, but your throat is raw, voice too hoarse for words. Even your lips feel puffy, swollen. Talking hurts. It doesn’t matter though, Ghost doesn’t wait for your response. He pumps into you like a machine, pulling his cock all the way out before pushing back in again. Your stomach cramps with the worry that he might miss and try pushing into the other hole.

You wish there was a way around it, but you can’t avoid it slamming into you, a white hot wave cresting over you. You come so hard it hurts, milking Ghost’s cock and pushing him over the edge too; he pants harsh, animalistic sounds into your throat, cutting himself off by sinking his teeth into the meat of your shoulder instead, making you howl. There’s no condom to keep his come from pumping into you; just a big, heavy man smelling of gunpowder and salt hovering over you, elbow propped on the mattress beside your head and making you go a bit crazy at the scent of him everywhere around you.

He peels himself off of you after what feels like an hour, soft cock pulling out of you and making you clench down on nothing. You didn’t remember how much being empty can hurt. You try to roll away from him and onto your side, maybe squeeze yourself into a fetal position, but Ghost collapses down beside you and plants a hand on the centre of your chest, holding you in place. Never any respite.

You croak a tired little, “Ow.” All it does is make Ghost snort softly.

Your body feels like one livid bruise in the aftermath, limbs loose at your sides. You couldn’t move even if you tried, even if you thought you could make a break for it. It would hardly be worth it. You let your eyes slide shut when Ghost runs a hand up and down your chest, a little comforting gesture.

“Simon,” Johnny whines from beside you. Your brows scrunch, annoyed at his voice breaking the silence. “Please.”

You hear Ghost sigh. “Now?”

“Cannae wait—please.”

You wait to hear Johnny and Ghost get up. Maybe there’s something they have to do—maybe they drove to the motel and there’s still something in the car.

A hand grabs you by the hip.

“Turn over, pet,” Ghost instructs, flipping you onto your stomach without waiting for you to acquiesce. “Promised Johnny a turn with your pussy before we leave.”

Your eyes go wide.

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jaythes1mp · 6 months ago

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3939 words, 22942 characters, 232 sentences, 136 paragraphs, 15.7 pages.

Please don’t ask me what this is. I just started writing and didn’t fucking stop.

I’m a Hufflepuff. You may ask why I wrote a Ravenclaw reader then… Well, Simple. I’ve gone feral over Batfam fics with bird terms of endearments and wanted to write about a weak lil nerd who gets called bird.

TW — Dark. Theo’s mean, dick Theo. Yandere-ish. Non consensual touch, but not really bordering anything sexual, just implying that it would happen. & others. I’m not good at the trigger warnings.

GHOSTS

Theodore Nott x Male Reader

As you make your way down the long, deserted corridors of Hogwarts, the shadows stretch and creep in the soft moonlight. The air is thick with tension and anticipation, as if tales and secrets are whispered through the very stones themselves. Suddenly, you accidentally bump into a fellow student.

His voice, a deep, velvety whisper, breaks the silence.

“Are you afraid of ghosts?” Nott, a quiet and solitary figure, had spoken, startling you. He’d taken notice of your aversion to the shortcut many other students so carelessly wonder. Choosing to walk along the longest path lead away from any of the roaming undead creatures.

You find yourself caught off guard as you realize it's none other than Theodore Nott, known for his eerie silence and his dangerous connections. A Death Eater, a member of the dark lord's inner circle, and a man associated with fearsome tales of torture and blood supremacy. Your gaze travels up, taking in his imposing presence.

You run your fingers through your soft hair anxiously, the moonlight illuminating your face, making you look almost otherworldly. You lean back a little, taking in the sight of the notorious Nott. Having grown up hearing about the Nott family's dark legacy, the very presence of the boy in front of you is frightening.

Licking your chapped lips nervously, you struggle to find the words to answer Nott's question.

"…I am.” you finally admit, you know better than to lie to someone whose family is of such high status.

Theodore tilted his head, studying you from behind a mask of unreadable expressions. His eyes gleam in the moonlight, betraying no particular thoughts or feelings.

"Perché i fantasmi? Why?" Theo asked simply, crossing his arms. The Italian words slipping past his lips naturally. He leaned against the stone wall, seemingly at ease. His body was slender, but still stronger than his gaunt appearance suggested.

"What's so frightful about..." he paused, giving a little gesture that encompassed the vast castle around you, "Ghosts?"

You were not sure how to respond.

He continued to study you intently, taking in every detail, as if you were a puzzle to decipher. You could feel his eyes tracing your features, your body language, trying to discern your emotions.

His silence was unnerving.

You swallowed hard, your Adam’s apple bobbing as you become acutely aware of how dry your throat is. Licking your chapped lips for a second before speaking. “...Ghosts are the lingering spirits of the departed. They’re a reminder that death is... inescapable. That the line between life and death is fragile.”

You pause, his gaze unwavering, making you feel slightly uneasy.

“Ghosts are shrouded in mystery. The unanswered questions surrounding their existence make them frightening. Their presence serves as a reminder that there may be more to this world than we can comprehend, and that the boundaries between life and death are thinner and more complex than we realise.” You looked up, meeting his watercolour eyes. He looks almost amused.

A hint of a smile played on Theodore's lips. He was faintly amused by your answer. It was so eloquent and philosophical. Typical of a Ravenclaw to put such emphasis on the mystery and uncertainty surrounding ghosts.

"You speak as if you've studied the subject," he observed, tilting his head slightly. His eyes glinted in the dim light, his expression inscrutable.

You nibble at your bottom lip, your coloured eyes boring into the other boys. “... it’s hard not to.”

Theodore pushed himself off the wall, moving towards you. He was slender, yet there was a certain elegance in his movements. He moved with the grace of a predator, silent and fluid.

He stepped closer to you, his tall stature looming over you. His eyes had darkened, as if contemplating something. He studied your features once more, his gaze flickering over your face, your neck, almost like he inspecting your every blemish, every little detail.

You swallowed again, feeling strangely out of breath. His proximity was overwhelming, his silence making every moment feel like an eternity. It wasn’t until he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper, that you realised he had moved closer still.

“You’re shaking,” he stated, his eyes never leaving your face. You hadn’t noticed, but in the cold air of the corridor, your body was trembling.

You felt the heat rise on your cheeks, realising how vulnerable you looked in front of him. You averted your eyes, trying to gather your composure.

He was so close, you could feel the heat radiating off his body, his scent- a blend of leather, parchment and spices- filling the air around you. “Are you scared?” he questioned, his voice low and quiet. “Of me?”

You dared to glance up at him, your eyes widening as you met his gaze. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, as if he found your fear amusing. Yet, there was something else in his expression- something you couldn't quite place. He tilted his head, studying you intently.

“You seem… interesting.” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. His eyes raked over you once more, as if he was trying to see beneath the surface, to get a glimpse of your thoughts, your fears, your secrets.

You could feel his gaze burning into you, making you feel small and exposed. You found yourself unable to look away, your heart racing in your chest. You knew he was dangerous, a Death Eater, someone not to be trusted.

But there was something about him that drew you in, a magnetic pull that you couldn’t resist. His fluffy hair fell in soft waves over his forehead, and his eyes seemed to have captured the moonlight, making them appear almost liquid silver rather than watercolour green.

He stepped closer still, your bodies nearly touching. You could feel the warmth of his skin just inches from yours.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against your exposed skin, so softly it was barley a touch. You felt as if you couldn’t move, like being transfixed by a serpent. Nott’s cold fingers gently brushed a strand of hair off your face.

“Such soft skin…” he murmured, his eyes flickering over your features. He seemed almost mesmerised by you. He slowly moved his fingers over your jaw, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. “And you bite your lip so often. It’s… distracting.”

He chuckled softly, his breath warm against your cheek. “You’re so… fragile…” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “Like a perfect porcelain doll.”

His fingers continued their journey, tracing along your neck, causing you to suck in a sharp breath. He paused for a moment, his hand still resting on your skin. Thumb tracing over the Adam’s apple in your throat.

Theodore let out a soft, humorless chuckle as he observed you, his normally reserved demeanor replaced by a mixture of amusement and condescension.

"Look at you..." he began, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "Trying to be all tough, trying to put on a show of bravery. But I can see right through you.”

He hummed, studying your shaking form with a critical eye. Then, his lips twisted into a sly smirk.

"You're just a scared piccolo uccello."

“... Trembling at the slightest touch,” he continued, his thumb slowly tracing up and down your neck. “Your heart’s racing. You’re practically quivering.”

His lips were hovering maddeningly close to your ear now, the whispered words sending a small shiver through you. He leaned in a bit closer, his hand sliding down your neck, towards your collar.

"Do you know what they do to pretty little birds like you in the wild?” He inquired.

His voice was almost a whisper, low and menacing, his fingers lightly tracing the buttons of your shirt. “They catch them, break their wings, and keep them in little cages. Trapped, completely at their mercy.”

He moved his hand further down, stopping just above your hip, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your shirt.

“Would you like that? To be my little pet?” he mused, his breath warm against your skin.

You tried to speak, but your mouth felt dry and your mind was in disarray. Your head was spinning, and your heart was racing so fast you feared it might explode.

His fingers curled around the waistband of your trousers, pulling you closer with a sudden jerk. You stumbled involuntarily, landing against his chest.

“You’d look stunning in a collar,” He murmured, his lips gently brushing against the shell of your ear. You felt his other hand grip your hip, as if to hold you in place. You could feel the heat of his body against yours, the hard press of his muscles.

The moment he grabbed your waistband and pulled you close, your mind became a maelstrom of confusion and panic. Your heart raced to an almost concerning pace, and your dry mouth made it impossible to form coherent words. Stumbling against his chest, you felt the heat of his breath against your ear as he murmured his suggestion.

The mere mention of a restriction around your neck, metaphorical or not, sent a shiver down your spine, and the firm grip on your hip left you feeling trapped. You were suddenly all too aware of the proximity of his body, the contour of his muscles pressing against your own.

“I...”

He chuckled quietly at your inability to form a coherent response, enjoying your evident distress. He didn’t give you time to regain your bearings, though. His fingers continued to explore, tracing the hem of your shirt, sliding underneath the loose fabric to gently brush against the skin of your hips.

“Don’t be shy.” he whispered, his voice taking on a patronizing tone. “Use your words, pretty boy.” He was mocking you.

Theo’s touch was both gentle and possessive, his fingers teasing the edges of your shirt, slowly slipping beneath the fabric to touch skin. Trailing over your hard stomach. The subtle mockery in his tone was like a knife to your pride, the taunt causing a mix of embarrassment and frustration to bubble up in your chest.

Clenching your jaw, you forced yourself to speak, the words coming out sharper than you intended.

"Don't call me that."

He paused for a moment, his eyes flickering with what looked like a hint of amusement. He seemed to be enjoying your growing irritation. His touch grew firmer, his hand wrapping around your hip, pulling you even closer.

Your protest seemed to amuse him even further. He chuckled again, his voice dripping with condescension.

“Why not?” he drawled, his breath hot on your ear. “Such a pretty little bird, fluttering its feathers when I’ve only just begun to touch it.”

He slowly tilted your chin up with his other hand, forcing you to look into his eyes, his gaze intense and unwavering.

“It’s a compliment,” he continued, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “To call you pretty. It’s what you are- Pretty. Delicate. Fragile.”

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, tracing the shape of it before he spoke again.

“Do you not like being called pretty, my pretty raven?”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. Pretty. The word was simultaneously flattering and demeaning, highlighting the vulnerability you were trying so hard to hide. His thumb gently caressing your lip only served to emphasize it.

His touch was infuriatingly gentle, as if he was both mocking you and enjoying your discomfort. You took a deep breath, trying to maintain a sense of dignity, but his words, combined with his actions, were making it increasingly difficult.

“I’m not... fragile,” you mumbled, your voice sounding weaker than you would’ve liked.

His eyes darkened, amused by your weak protest. He took a step closer, his body now pressing against yours, pinning you against the wall. The smirk on his face grew, his voice lowering to a dangerously quiet level.

“Are you sure about that?” he murmured, his hand releasing your chin to slide down your chest, his fingers tracing your collarbone.

“You’re shaking. Heart’s racing. All from a little touch.”

The proximity of his body to yours, the feeling of being trapped between him and the wall, was overwhelming. His hand on your collarbone, tracing the shape as he spoke, only served to highlight your own physical reactions, your involuntary tremors and the fast pace of your heartbeat.

Feeling both humiliated and panicked, you tried to take a step back, but your back was already against the wall. There was nowhere to escape.

He didn’t give you the chance to escape, though. He took a step forward, effectively closing the already minimal space between you. His body was pressed against yours, his height and strength making you feel even more vulnerable.

His nose gently brushed against the side of your neck, as if he were breathing you in. His grip on your hip tightened.

“You’re so on edge, love...” he murmured. “Like a little bird, about to take flight. But there’s nowhere to go, is there?”

Feeling overwhelmed and increasingly frustrated by Nott's condescending tone and possessive touch, you finally manage to find your voice. Your words are sharp, your tone a mixture of indignance and determination.

Gritting your teeth, you practically hiss at him, your voice low and tight with barely suppressed anger.

"Let go."

His smirk widened as you finally gathered the courage to speak up. He leaned in closer, his body pressing more firmly against yours, effectively trapping you.

“Let go? But I’m not done playing with you yet, il mio uccellino.” he cooed, his thumb idly tracing the line of your happy trail. My little bird.

The condescension in his tone was almost patronizing, as if he was amused by your attempt to stand up to him.

He leaned in even closer, his lips almost touching your ear, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“You’re trying so hard to put up a brave face. But I can feel you trembling against me. I can practically hear your heart racing.”

He nipped the sensitive skin of your ear, his grip on your hip becoming almost painfully tight.

“Such bravado... It’s almost endearing, Raven.”

He lets out a soft hum, his dark eyes raking over your form, drinking in every detail. He takes a moment, then grins, a sly, mocking expression that irritates you even more.

He then speaks, his voice low and taunting.

"Come with me to my dorm, little raven. Wouldn’t want any wayward ghosts to snatch you away now, would we?”

Theodore’s soft hum seemed almost mocking, his gaze raking over your form with a sort of arrogant, detached interest. As if he was a cat toying with a small, frightened mouse.

The mention of ghosts and his dorm made you stiffen. You instinctively wanted to protest, but his amused tone and condescending smirk made you hesisitate. You loathed the idea of being lead somewhere private with him, a Death Eater, a dangerous person, yet the fear of being caught alone in the darkened halls was stronger.

He seemed to notice your hesitation, and chuckled softly to himself. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he observed your expression.

"Oh, don't look so afraid, darling," he murmured, his voice a low rasp. "I promise I won't bite. Not tonight, at least."

His hand slid from your hip to your lower back, a subtle, commanding pressure urging you to step forward.

You found yourself moving forward without much thought, the subtle pressure of his hand on your lower back guiding you towards the dungeons. The corridors were dimly lit, the shadows cast by the flickering torches making everything look eerie and ominous.

Nott walked beside you, his pace seemingly leisurely, his hands in his pockets as if this were all entirely casual. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, watching your every move, taking note of every reaction. You were supposed to be smart, little raven.

The journey was quiet and tense. Every sound echoed too loudly through the dark halls, making everything feel even more foreboding. Nott said nothing, his eyes occasionally flicking from your face to the surroundings, keeping a look out for any passing professors or patrolling Prefects.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you reach the entrance into the dungeons. Nott placed his hand on the cold stone wall, and the hidden entrance to the Slytherin common room slid silently open.

You came to a halt, your gaze fixated on the open door before you. As you stood there, a sense of unease suddenly hit you like a punch to the gut. What were you doing? Why had you followed so blindly? The realization struck you, a sizzling sensation of revelation coursing through your veins.

Wait, did you actually... want this? A mix of embarrassment and confusion swirled within you, the thought both unexpected and, disturbingly, not entirely undesired.

Nott seemed to notice your hesitation, his sharp gaze watching your expression carefully. He raised an eyebrow as he observed your internal struggle, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Having second thoughts, my little bird?" he teased, his voice a low, velvety murmur. He took a step towards you, closing the space between you. The scent of his cologne enveloped you - musk, expensive fabric, and pine.

"Too late to back out now."

He reached out, gently grasping your chin and tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes were now a dark, smoldering black, filled with a mixture of curiosity and arrogance.

"You're mine now, il mio uccellino." he murmured, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "And I don’t let go of what's mine."

His fingers trailed over your jawline, leaving a trail of tingles in their wake.

The Slytherin stepped closer, the heat from his body radiating through the thin fabric of your clothes, his presence almost suffocating. He leaned in, the whisper of his breath against your ear sending a shiver down your spine.

"Come on. Don't be shy. I don't bite." he crooned, his lips brushing against your earlobe. "Well, not tonight, anyway. Unless you beg."

There was a predatory edge to his voice, a barely contained impatience hidden beneath his smooth tone. He wanted to get you into the dormitories and away from the corridors as soon as possible.

His hand slid down to your lower back, the pressure firmer now. "Let's keep moving, shall we?" he drawled, urging you forward.

He didn't give you an opportunity to argue or resist. He firmly guided you through the open entrance of the dorm, his grip on your lower back guiding you past the threshold into the dimly lit common room.

It was quiet down here, the only sounds coming from the soft bubbling of the water in the tank by the back wall, and the low chatter of other students lounging in the common area. A couple of fourth years glanced at you with mild curiosity, but quickly looked away when they spotted your escort.

Theo paid them no mind, his focus entirely on you. He gently propelled you towards the winding stone staircase, leading you up to the seventh year dormitories.

The silence between you was thick, the only sound being the soft pad of your footsteps on the cold stone. He was so close behind you that you could feel him against your back.

The climb up the stairs seemed to last an eternity, the silence only broken by your footsteps and the occasional creaking of the old stone walls. All too soon, you reached the top of the stairs and came to a halt.

Theodore stepped around you, brushing past you closely to reach the large oaken door leading into the seventh year boys' dormitories. He leaned against it with one hand, the other gesturing for you to enter.

Your breath hitches. ‘Should I run?’

You stood in front of the imposing door, your heart racing in your chest. A part of you wanted to turn and run, to escape the predicament you've unwittingly entered.

But something held you back. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was foolish curiosity. Or it might’ve been that strange, twisted part of you that secretly wanted this.

Nott watched you quietly, his gaze calculating as he observed your internal struggle. He seemed to see right through your indecision, his smirk growing more confident, more condescending.

"Are you going to just stand there, staring at the door, or are you going to come in?" he drawled, his voice dripping with arrogant amusement.

In a desperate attempt to lighten the mood, and maybe even distract yourself from the confusing realization, you tried to joke, but your voice trembled with desperation, making it clear that your words lacked any real conviction. You managed to stutter out a reply.

"... I'm not sure yet."

The Nott's smirk widened at your pathetic attempt to play coy. He pushed away from the door and stalked towards you, his gait predatory and confident.

He stopped a mere inch from you, towering over you with his greater height. His gaze softened slightly, his head tilting to the side as he studied your expression.

"Oh, my little bird," he murmured, his voice softer now. "You're a terrible liar."

He raised a hand, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers trailing over your skin in a disturbingly intimate gesture.

"Deny it all you want," he whispered, leaning in so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. "But I can see right through you."

He leaned even closer, his body pressing against yours, his words a low, sensual murmur whispered directly into your ear.

"You’re scared." he breathed, the smirk returning to his voice. "Confused. Aroused. And you don't even understand why. That's adorable, really.”

He hums, his pretty emerald eyes darken the longer he looks over your form. His hand running down your chest. “Don’t worry, my little wizard. I’ll take care of you.”

His voice was soft and almost comforting, like a dark, poisonous lullaby that wrapped around you like a suffocating embrace.

He stepped back slightly, just enough to look down at you. His gaze was still just as intense, but there was a softer edge to it now.

"So, will you come in, or will you run away?" he said, his tone still arrogant, but there was an underlying hint of hope in it. As if he actually wanted you to enter, even though he knew he could force you if he so desired.

You couldn't know if it was genuine or just another part of his manipulations, another cruel game. Either way, the choice was yours. Would you enter the dorm and give yourself to this boy with the beautiful viper eyes? Or would you run away, back into the dimly lit corridors filled with the creatures of the unknown wandering the dark hallways?

As you stood there, the silence between you two thick with tension, you wondered if his offer was genuine or just another part of his manipulations, another cruel game. The choice was laid out before you like a treacherous path, each step promising either the allure of a dangerous liaison or the safety of the unknown corridors.

With a pang of anxious uncertainty, you ask yourself if you're willing to give in to the boy with the beautiful viper eyes, knowing that what lies beyond might be more perilous than the ghosts prowling the night.

You had to ask yourself: Would you cross the threshold into the serpent's den, or flee from the enticing jaws of the beast?

The choice was yours, dear reader.

No use of y/n, no in-depth descriptive features.

Please feel free to send in requests.

What would you have chosen? Let me know in the comments or reply with a reblog!

#male reader #x male reader #x reader #theodore nott #theo nott #yandere theodore nott #slytherin boys #slytherin #slytherin gang #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x you #theodore nott x male reader #yandere hp #hp x male reader #hp #hp fanfic #ravenclaw reader

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sunshine304 · 2 months ago

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FTH Fanbinding: "Concord" by Deastar

@youhideastar won my FTH auction and gave me a great gift: She wanted me to bind her CQL fic "Concord" including the thorough author's commentary she'd done. I was so happy when she chose this fic because I'd loved it so much and had pondered doing a fanbinding of it at some point anyway. 😄

Now that the book has finally arrived (spending two days in the air even, I guess, at least when one looks at the tracking info 😆), I can show it off here!

I tried some new stuff on this bind and also some things that I'd only done once before and that definitely need some, uh, perfecting. 😅 But overall, I'm very pleased with how this book turned out, as it's pretty close to what I'd imagined when I started it.

The fic is set in Cloud Recesses and Dea and I agreed that the colour blue should be prominent in the design, as it not only fits the setting, but also is of significance in the story itself. As the rules and traditions of the Lan sect also are quite important, I wanted a very clean, simple style for the case, a bit reminiscent of traditional Chinese bindings.

I did the title as a cut-out and used Japanese transparent paper for some extra flavour. The paper shows up inside the book as well early on and I liked the recurring motive of it. I'm also really pleased how well the hot foil came out on it! I was a bit scared that it might rip or something, but it's quite sturdy, after all.

I thought about doing a faux stab binding with red thread to get even more of a traditional feel, but then decided against it as I'd wanted to use two different blue book cloths and I felt that it might get too busy. Instead, I used the red ribbon as a nod to Wei Wuxian.

The little cloud illustration is used several times in the typeset and I like how it comes out in the title. I didn't even mess up this title, yay! (Mine's got a few tiny blotches but uh well, better mine than Dea's!)

I painted the edges with metallic watercolours - the second time I tried painting edges, but this time with several colours and trying to do a little illustration as well. Big thanks to @zhalfirin who quickly answered my question about how to get the paint to actually stick. 😆 I'd read several posts about how awesome water colours are for foreedge painting, but none mentioned that this kind of paint just rubs off again (I am no artist and have no knowledge of different kinds of paint). Zhalfirin told me to mix in glue and also wax the edges afterwards, which I both did and I think it's fine now. At least my fingers didn't turn blue. 😅

I really love how the shading came out on the head/tail; it could've been better on the foreedge and it looked great while the paint was still wet. Steep learning curve, this thing. I also died trying to sand the edges and I didn't get them completely smooth, but at least smooth enough to work with. That also needs some more work, I guess.

First time I sewed endbands with four different colours! I think they came out quite well! I also forgot the second row of dark blue on Dea's book and had to unravel half the endband again when I noticed at the very end... 🤦‍♀️

Nice marbled endpapers. For the title page spread, I used part a very famous Chinese painting, as it not only reminds me of the Gusu mountains but also, again, is very traditional. I played around with the colours to give the picture a bit of a bluer tinge.

The typeset itself was very straight-forward. There's the fic without commentary, and then the second part with it. I used a grey background for the comment parts to make it stand out from the actual story.

I had lots of printer issues with this fic (my copy actually had even more issues because the printer treated every page as an image for unknown reasons and therefore it not only took forever, it's also a tiny bit blurry. Hmpf.) and the greys tended to have a bit of a blue tinge, which was not my intention. But at least it works with the overall theme, I guess! 😅

I also did an extensive Appendix with all the meta links mentioned in the commentary as well as cut scenes and a little "praise for the author" section.

Last but not least, I decided to try making a slipcase for the first time! DAS_Bookbinding on youtube has good tutorials on that and I used one of them. It worked well on the first try. The second try, I used sturdier cardboard and should've added a few millimetres to the width, because the book didn't fit - the ribbon got stuck and I feared that it might get damaged. So I had to redo the case and then it was perfect.

I used wallpaper as cover material. 😄 The one you see on the outside? That's my living room wallpaper, a light blue with a lovely pattern and soft shimmer to it. My camera unfortunately is refusing to get the colour right.🤷‍♂️

The assembling process went well, for the most part. I'd forgotten to shorten the endpapers a bit which I only realised after I'd started casing in my copy. I carefully separated the textblock from the case again and then, in a moment of complete mental blackout, tried to cut the wet paper. 🤦‍♀️ That didn't go well. I managed to salvage it, mostly, and of course didn't repeat the mistake with Dea's copy, but ugh. 😆

This was a super fun project and I'm very happy with it! Thank you again, Dea, for your faith in me and your super generous donation! 💙

Materials used:

Printed on Clairefontaine DCP 100g

Case and endpapers:

booklinen Colibri cornflower

booklinen Paradise aqua

marbled paper 120g

transparent Japanese paper

Hot Foil (Memory Keepers)

Slipcase:

fleece wallpaper Newroom Nisa lightblue

fleece wallpaper grey glitter

#my fanbinding #fanbinding #fth #fth crafts bazaar #fandom trumps hate #arts and crafts #the untamed #cql fanfiction #the untamed fanfiction #mdzs #mdzs fanfiction #wangxian

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owlyjules · 7 months ago

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I love love LOVE your watercolour work! Are you still using the strathmore paper in your faq or have you switched to something else? (I’m shopping for new paper rn - trying to work out what’s a tool problem & what’s a me problem!). And would you every consider doing a little walkthrough of your process? Do you work in lots of thin layers? Your illustrations really evoke lovely stories so I’m always happy to see them. Have a great day!

hello!! Sorry It took so long to reply anon! To start, Thank you so much! Alright now about my matierial, Not much has changed but I am not using Hot press paper (Saunder Waterford Hot press 300g/140lb) the most nowadays!

Its very similar to the Hot press from Strathmore I liked so either are not a bad choice! (And cold press from both brand are still a perfectly good choice! especially if you want more texture in your paper!)

Now for my process! I normally start with colored pencils lines for all my art. You can choose one color or many! I try not to choose too dark of a colour so that it blends in better.

Then its paint time! Watercolour is all about layers! (Like Onions, Like an Ogre) Patience is key with watercolours! Believe me I still to this day add way to much water/paint because I am excited to do a certain effect or want to get that wash right. But there is always a way to make it work! Half watercolours for me is to work with the little accidents water or paint caused. So I start with a pale color (often a soft yellow or orange or a blue but Go wild!)

and then I build on it!

and you just continue to do that, waiting in between paint layers for them to dry (Or almost dry depending of the effect) . You can work on another section during that time, or (My favourite thing) just sit back and watch a long 4 hours video essay.:) Then once the paint is done I normally define and add some details with Colored pencils again! Then I scan the art and will adjust a bit or go full on mix media in procreate! It depends on the piece! And then you have the full piece! Hope this helps!

#my art #the ghosts are asking #anon #tutorial #art tips #art help

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stariikis · 10 months ago

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞 | 𝐧𝐫𝐤 ˖ ࣪⭑

synopsis ; like the moon needs the stars, riki's whole life would crumble without you. his inspiration, greatest motivation, and his muse.

pairing ; artist!nishimura riki x muse!reader genre ; fluff, established rs, realllly really short drabble of thoughts

this love's possessing me, but i don't mind at all

There are a million ways to say, 'I love you.'

Aren't there?

One chasing after their certain eye-candy may purchase a whole bouquet of that person's favourite flowers. Another would pour their heart and soul onto a piece of paper, a subtle love confession decorated with stickers and fanciful designs. Another might try their hardest to impress them with whatever their forte is.

Riki, however, takes all these and mashes them into one gorgeous painting on an easel.

He emerges from his 'workplace', one of the study rooms in your shared apartment. A blank canvas, about the size of his hand, accompanies him out. Not to mention the various brushes, the bristles sticking out all over the place revealing how loved they are. The paints, watercolour in a small box, acrylic aligned in their designated tubes, and oils of any colour possible.

Lips puckered in a pouting motion, he scans you as if wondering what light he wants to paint you in today. Where he wants to set up his painting station for the next few hours.

The reasons for his choice of background go from the smallest of things to the most obvious. It could simply be the style of your choice of clothes, but once it had been because of the way you reacted when he woke you up in the morning.

He used a fiery red base colour for that artwork. Perfectly encapsulating the constant frown you wore the rest of the day. His words, not yours. They could only ever be his words.

When he finally dismissed you from 'work', he paid you for your efforts with a kiss.

Your sour expression morphed instantly. In the blink of an eye, it was almost as if you had never woken up on the wrong side of the bed.

it's taking over me, don't wanna fight the fall

Today he quietly brings you to the edge of a field, just as sundown occurs. He looks up at the sky, cotton candy clouds bleeding into a warm hue of orange. Nothing leaves his mouth. An absolute silence has overcome him.

And knowing that there's no need for you to break it, there's no need to coax him out of this state for the better, comforts you deep down to the core.

It's like you know exactly how to go about routine, as you settle yourself in the wispy, tall grass and wait for him to set up his materials. However, after propping up his easel, he doesn't unpack his paints and brushes like he usually does. He doesn't unroll his scuffed-with-paint marks apron.

He merely gazes at you, soft and mesmerised.

As an artist, he should have neutral feelings towards his muse. He should be evoking surrounding emotions and feelings. He should be drawing them from deep within himself, and expressing them on the canvas before him.

A muse is only meant to be an inspiration. At times, it's the subject of the art piece. However, it's never the sole purpose.

But the way Riki looks at you proves all that wrong. The way his calloused hands held yours on the way to this destination. The way he scoots closer to you just as you drift off into sleep, and whispers all the newest paintings he's made. He confesses all the sketches he makes are of you. He can't get you out of his mind, he murmurs in a shaky tone, he can't rid himself of your influence on his artistry.

But he's so in love.

Why would he ever want to?

it's like supernatural ₊ ⊹.𖥔 ݁ ˖

thank you for reading! i'm so sorry to anyone expecting me to write any other members. i'm just too addicted to writing for riki... i promise they will have their own fics soon. pls scold me if i don't churn them out... TT

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sex-tech · 1 month ago

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This is gonna probably be a really long post about my thoughts for Act 3 with what has been set up already because I need to shout into the void about this shit LMAO get ready for a WALL of text

Also a fair warning, I'm gonna be talking about so much jayvik/vikjayce in this you don't understand THE HELL I AM GOING THROUGH THERE IS GONNA BE SO MUCH COPIUM IN THIS

SPOILERS AHEAD FOR SEASON 2 !!!

Quick mini-review: I feel like a contrarian when I say that I actually preferred Act 2 to Act 1. There were a lot of things set up and a lot of payoffs. I do have issues with the pacing overall; season 1 had much better structure and with the introduction of so much LOL lore in season 2, there are bound to be issues. There were 6 years of production for season 1 vs. 3 years of production for season 2, and it has clearly had an effect on the writing. Some scenes are too quick, some scenes are too slow, some cuts are too abrupt - I feel this is painfully obvious sometimes and talking with my friends about it we all agree that the pacing has suffered immensely.

But other than that, Act 2 has been really playing with my emotions and there are so many moments where I just kept breaking down over the scenes with Jinx, Vi, Vander and Isha. The watercolour-style flashbacks were so incredibly well done and those scenes had a lot of love put into them - props to Studio Fortiche!

I believe there is definitely a time paradox happening of some kind, one where Jayce, Ekko and Heimerdinger are lost in some kind of timeline.

This reflection in this artwork feels like it's hinting at what we will see in Act 3, maybe a different timeline, or the future, and Jayce will end up seeing the outcome of the Arcane. I feel that with how the lore is being changed, they need to give him some purpose or reason to pursue Viktor, to officially make them enemies. Whatever Jayce will see or experience will lead to that - a difference in perspectives and ideals.

Also, this shot, where Jayce returns and we see him glitching in and out, I feel that's a really clear depiction of a paradox, of different timelines converging or something similar. I can just imagine him living through all these different events, surviving something so awful, and now it's destroying him from the inside. He's so traumatized and I will defend him with my whole being.

I'm also a bit worried now about Ekko and Heimerdinger. I'm convinced that the latter won't survive however I'm not so sure about Ekko. I feel that everything being a time paradox would lead really well into him finally receiving his time powers, but as of now I think he is really under-utilized in the series as a whole, more so in season 2, and I'm really hopeful that we will get more screen time with him in Act 3.

Singed's role in this season is huge and it will definitely become even more important in Act 3. The introduction of Orianna, which I thought was so great, as well as the name-drop of "Dr. Reveck" has really set up his motivations. Warwick being his experiment for bringing back his daughter I believe will lead to him experimenting with Viktor.

Warwick's design was confusing to me at first. He felt too human but I think that was intentional - Singed wanted to create him with some humanity, a test, hence he is still more like Vander, still able to feel his love for Jinx and Vi. I believe he will survive, and Singed will get rid of his humanity completely, potentially leading to a more LOL accurate look.

This also brings me to Viktor and his OG lore. I really liked his concept in the game and I will admit, seeing them change it in Arcane worried me. While I really love the design, I was hopeful that we would see Viktor entering his glorious evolution era. But now with his interactions with Singed, with Singed's personal motivation for revival, I believe that there is still hope. Seeing how Orianna is preserved, still human-like, I believe that Singed's discoveries will lead him to recreating Viktor with metal, something closer to what we see in the game, maybe a cursed combination of both Arcane and machine, and I believe he will see it as a breakthrough in bringing Orianna back.

The way he describes it, the way he says, "You must survive, Viktor," a parallel to him saying "the specimen must survive" feels so intentional. He sees the potential in reanimation with how Viktor returned, healed, and this won't be the end of him, not yet, he must survive.

This scene where Viktor asks Singed, "Do you believe in fate?" I believe also points to another thing. Viktor knew very early on what his fate would be. He was accepting of it, he was confused as to why he was alive, and I believe in the scene where Jayce kills him, that look in his eyes was of acceptance. He did not look afraid, he looked at peace - with the idea of different timelines, with Viktor becoming closer to the celestial, he might've already known what would happen, which is why he invites Jayce to meet him. That with him saying, "I've been expecting you, doctor," is another reason I think that Viktor is aware of everything.

With Singed's final words to Viktor, the disdain in Viktor's eyes, the way Sky is looking at Viktor directly, frantic, worried, an expression of dread at the thought of the Arcane dying out completely, of all the progress coming to an end. I still believe the core is manipulating Viktor, that Sky is the personification of it, and that the core is aware of its own evolution reaching its final state, death - like a virus without a host.

And then there was this, the heavy breathing, the gritted teeth, squint in his eyes, the way he drops down - it felt like heartbreak, like guilt. He just murdererd a man, a man that spoke to him as Viktor.

Just this look. He's tired. He's returned from hell and he can see the beginning of the end, he can see Viktor's descent into madness, recognizes it immediately, and he's disappointed. Maybe he'd hoped to see something else.

Also, with Jayce saying, "I thought you were done with Hextech, and me," could imply that this new version of Viktor, remade by Singed, would no longer have a connection the Arcane - he is reforged, he has realized the weakness of flesh and compassion, "it's inescapable," and he will be remade with steel and rage, once again against his will, just like Warwick was. And perhaps, in this dark future, when Jayce finally sees what Viktor becomes, sees Viktor reject him entirely, that he is done with him, is also what makes Jayce spiral.

And now that he has returned, seeing Viktor welcome him with open arms, inviting him to spend time together, to show him what he has uncovered - what must he have seen? What must Viktor have said to him to make him feel so denied and unwanted?

Someone he once loved, someone that broke him, showing him the same gentleness and care he had once before.

"I won't fail. I swear it."

This entire sequence was insane. The different emotions in Jayce's face, the way he's cycling through pain and fear and conviction. The initial shock in his eyes, seeing what his Viktor has become, seeing him in this state, before the corruption - he looks vulnerable, he doesn't fight back, doesn't resist. He has made his promise to Viktor before, and I believe this is another promise to him, a promise to rend his mistake and do right by him. And Jayce looks frightened by his actions, frightened by the sight before him - Viktor looks so exhausted, so sick - I can imagine it reminds Jayce of him before he combined with the Hexcore.

Jayce's entire arc this season is about him gaining more agency, more control of himself despite the way he has been spiraling, whilst for Viktor it's the opposite, he has lost himself to a greater purpose, a perfect mirror to how they were in season 1.

The way their designs mirror them both too, Jayce getting the leg brace, his eyes changing, him being afflicted with the Arcane, Viktor keeping the blanket, keeping a cog that reminds him of the discoveries they made together, one side of it being perfectly clear, the other corrupted, a representation of them - two sides of the same coin.

I believe Viktor's monologue at the end, the scenes with him and Sky in a magical world where he is emoting, showing compassion for those that suffer, his realization that emotion is inescapable, shows that he still feels, even if it is all subdued. His reaction to Jayce killing Salo hurt, he looked pained and yet, as though he expected it - "that isn't Jayce" - it's not his Jayce, not the Jayce that he remembers, the one that he stayed with over shared affections, this is a Jayce ruined by him, and he is yet to see just how much they have and will hurt each other.

Maybe the exquisite chaos he is talking about is his corruption from the future, constantly self-replicating and self-annihilating, something that he has never observed before because it is yet to happen to him. He knows his fate, but not anything beyond that.

A couple final notes:

All the butterfly imagery - Jayce's hammer, the explosion in the mesh(?), the "Talis" butterfly - a symbol of death, rebirth, transformation

The parallels between Jayce and Singed, wanting to keep Viktor alive, creating a monster, and now Jayce having to destroy that which he created, a consequence of him breaking his promise

Viktor appearing as though he is connected to both the void and something celestial, godly, a balance

TLDR; jayvik divorce era will be the death of me, they were made for each other and will be the death of each other

#can you tell im mentally ill #my level of copium is immesurable #dont mind me just the ramblings of an insane man #jayvik sextape act 3 TRUST #arcane season 2 #arcane spoilers #arcane viktor #arcane jayce #jayvik #rambles #if you actually did read this all the way through thats crazy and i love you

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jammyness · 29 days ago

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I'm really proud of myself for completing a whole year of this watercolour series for Postcards From a Better Future!

They were all 4x6" except for the biiiiig one I did for December (currently in the mail to supporters!)

I'll start a whole new series for next year and if you want to get in on the ground floor for that, make sure you sign up for the postcards tier before December. I'm offering 50% off the first month with the coupon code POST

You can also gift it to someone else if you know someone who could use a little cheer in their mailbox every month :)

On the back of each postcard you get a little letter from a character in the webcomic I'm developing (Skuttleboat Cove).

They print and ship from the USA so it takes a little bit longer for it to arrive to international destinations but it does ship worldwide :)

Thanks so much to everyone who has joined me on this journey so far! 🤗

#postcards #postcards from a better future #solarpunk

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theendless22 · 8 months ago

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I Know Places…

Summary: In the third quarter quell, tensions run high, and time is ticking. It’s your last opportunity to confess your feelings to Peeta before it’s too late, but the cameras are watching, and they love a good show. It’s a good thing you know places. (Not proof read, sorry!)

Warnings: Mentions of the Prim Reaper, mentions of voyeurism, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex.

Pairings: AFAB x Peeta Mellark

My Masterlist

It’s the first glimpse of dawn in the quarter quell, you’re stood with your feet in the sand, the grainy specks of gold digging inbetween all of your crevices. Head hung low as the sky is painted with pastels. It’s too artificial for your liking, you know someone who’d like it though. Watercolour splotches in the sky look like the painted canvases you’re now all too familiar with, but these splashes of colour aren’t a sight for sore eyes, they’re a soul shattering reminder of the freedom you’ll never get. You find it shameful that your favourite colour isn’t orange, otherwise you could’ve learnt to grow appreciation for the sunset.

You stand with your hand on my waistline

You don’t even need to turn around to know who’s graced you with the featherlight touches, slender fingers burning patterns into your skin, marking you. You glance over your shoulder, your hand shielding your eyes from the golden rays. Your gaze once fixed on the rippling water splashing against your ankles, now narrowed as you gauge the expressions on his face. He’s nervous, you’re sure. Brown puppy dog eyes flickering from your face to your waist, soft smile with a little bit of teeth as he gauges you too. You’re nervous, and he’s sure.

It's a scene, and we're out here in plain sight

“Lovely skyline tonight…” He whispers, giggling as you roll your eyes at him. “I’m not a fan…” You reply, sighing quietly. “Not a fan of the colours?” He quirks a brow at you his hand wrapping round to rub your stomach, almost maternally as he buries his head in the crook of your neck.

Fuck.

You forgot about the whole fake pregnancy thing. You whip your head round, eyes wide as you push Peeta by the chest, eyebrows furrowed and lips pouted as he topples over, falling to his knees, he gasps in shock.

“Knock it off.” You mutter under your breath, becoming self aware of the numerous cameras documenting your every motion, you glance around, frowning when you realise your “allies” are staring right back at you.

“What was that for?” Peeta mutters, looking up at you from his spot on the sand. He runs a hand through his hair, returning to his feet again. Confusion etched on his face as he steps closer to you.

“You know I’m not good at acting right?” You ask softly, soft eyes pleading with him as you trail your hand down his arm, interlocking your hand with his. He nods at you, squeezing your hand in reassurance. “I just…I’m finding it hard pretending, that we’re…something.” You whisper, your gaze dropping to your feet, you kick at the sand in frustration.

The large hand gripping your chin like a vice, tilting it upwards takes you back to the time when he touched you like this, and you have a hard time deciding if you like it or not. “Everybody is watching and I-I know we have a reputation to uphold but I…I don’t like that people will think it’s real.” A stray tear rolls down your cheek,

I can hear them whisper as we pass by

It's a bad sign, bad sign

“You don’t want him to think that, do you? You don’t want Gale to think it’s real, do you?” His voice raises slightly, unable to withhold his disappointment and frustration, eyebrows raised as his hand drops from your face. You screw your eyes together, pouting at the mention of his name. It’s not like you liked Gale in that way, not anymore at least, it’s just easy to persue someone like Gale, convenient. You’re not much of a risk taker, and Gale’s not much of a risk, you think it’s better to play it safe than to be starry eyed like Peeta.

But you know the other tributes are staring at you now, and you dread to think what Finnick and Johanna have to say about this ordeal, regardless of if they can hear you or not, your face drains of colour at the thought of everyone finding out that the relationship you and Peeta have is a lie, that your pregnancy is a lie. You don’t like lying because you know the consequences of it all too well.

Somethin' happens when everybody finds out

See the vultures circling, dark clouds

Love's a fragile little flame, it could burn out

It could burn out

“Peeta I-…” You stutter, cradling your face with your hands to shield your defeated face from prying eyes. “You don’t want the Capital to think this is real, do you?”

'Cause they got the cages, they got the boxes

And guns

He sighs, gently holding your hands, slowly pulling them away from your face. His thumb trails across your cheek, swiping the salty droplets away before they have a chance to resurface. “I understand.” He mutters

They are the hunters, we are the foxes

“It’s hard to pretend to be in something you’re not, I get it.” He cradles your cheek, smiling sadly at you as you flutter your eyes open to look at him, his face drops. “Pretend to be in something I’m not?” You whisper, eyebrow raised in confusion. He pauses, his eyes sunken as a single tear slides down his soft cheek, voice croaking as he whispers “In love.”

And we run

You grab his hand and pull, fingers interlocking as the skyline etches away, replaced by the tall sways of green foliage in the forest. Stares of your newfound allies and the surveillance of the Capital and the people in Panem long forgotten in the back of your mind as you lead Peeta deeper.

Baby, I know places we won't be found, and

They'll be chasing their tails trying to track us down

'Cause I, I know places we can hide

I know places

“Where are w-“ Peeta’s voice trails off as you push up against a tree, chest pressed against his as lips attack his in a wordless promise, hands cupping his face. Your thumbs glide across the chubby flesh of his cheek, caressing so soft because you’re scared he’s going to break.

I know places

His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you even closer, his soft lips departing from yours, foreheads resting against each other. “You’re right.” You whisper, eyes screwing shut as you sigh, your hands on the base of his shoulders. “I am in love.” Peeta sighs, his hold on your waist faltering. “I can’t pretend this is real because I don’t want to pretend, what I feel is real.” You give him an eskimo kiss, maintaining eye contact with him. “What I feel with you…is real.” You whisper, leaning up, your lips ghosting over his before you press against him again.

they take their shots, but we're bulletproof

Tears of an angel drip down onto your own face, you whine against his lips, pulling away to kiss the salty streams away instead, one by one until they no longer come back. He smiles at you, hoisting you up into the air, you wrap your legs around his waist, allowing him to gently sink to his knees, laying you down onto the floor.

I know places

He takes his time with you, because you both know in the end it’s only momentary. Large hands shifting you to your side, pulling the zipper to your bodysuit down, one hand on your stomach as he slides it off your shoulders. He kisses the exposed skin, gently nibbling on your neck. “Peeta..” You gasp, legs bent as you thread your hand into his hair, fear racking through your body when you wonder if this is being documented. You don’t even have to say anything before he reassures you, knowing just by your gaze “I know sweetheart, I know.” He whispers into your ear, hands ghosting over your bodysuit, and then he peels it off altogether. Soft lips dipping to suck on your nipple, his right hand cupping your other breast, rolling the other nipple with deft fingers. You whimper, eyes shut in pleasure.

It’s slightly darker out now, but you feel light. The orange sky highlights the contours of Peeta’s face. His brown eyes complimented by the soft hue. And when his head sinks between your thighs, kissing higher and higher up to your core, you can’t help but sigh. And then he touches you there. Hands digging gently into your hips, pressing you against his face as he kitten licks your clit.

He touches you, and it feels like you want to get married.

and you know for me, it's always you

You writhe beneath him, tugging at his hair with weak hands as you arch and moan. “Please…” You whisper, prying his face away from your core. He licks his lips, humming softly at the taste as he stands up. Peeling his own bodysuit off. Each inch of exposed skin is kissed by you, worshiped by your delicate hands. Your touch feels like heaven, and he smiles, he’s found his faith.

I know places

Hands trailing down his chest you pump his cock, mimicking his movements from before, kitten licking the tip. He threads his hands in your hair, stroking your hair as he whimpers. “You don’t have to do this for me…” You interject him, looking up at him through your eyelashes. “I know I don’t have to, but I want to. Please.” You whisper, pleading with him with a small pout on your lips. He nods softly, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip, he watches you with patient eyes. You wrap your lips around him, maintaining eyecontact as you bob up and down his length. He moans, hand gripping tighter in your hair.

in the dead of night, your eyes so brown

Just like you did, he pulls you off, hand on the back of your head, the other on your waist as he places you down once again, you whine in protest and he giggles, prying your legs apart for his view only. “You’re beautiful, I forgot to tell you.” He whispers, slides in between your plump thighs. He rubs his length teasingly up and down your clit. You moan softly, hands trailing up and down his toned stomach. “Can I?” He whispers, hand on your breast as he dips down to kiss you again. All you can do is nod, watching as his eyebrows furrow as you looks at you. “You’re already pregnant so it’s okay if I…” He whispers teasingly, a smile of amusement gleaming in the moonlight. “Come inside.” You blush, tilting your head to the side to avert his burning gaze. Your surroundings fading into a meaningless blur as he sinks inside.

I know places

You moan loudly, his hand slapping over your mouth as he stills inside of you. “Gotta be quiet for me, ‘kay? Can’t have anyone hear us.” He whispers in your ear, teeth pulling gently at your earlobe as he slowly pumps in and out of you, hips pressing against the back of your thighs everytime he’s inside fully. “Peeta…if they can see us then why does it matter if they can hea- oh..” Words die in your throat as he circles your clit, his chapped lips marking you with love bites.

“Because I want you to be mine…my ears only that get to hear your cute little sounds, my hands only allowed to touch…” He pants, moaning and whimpering in the crook of your neck as he thrusts deeper and faster. You thread your hand in his hair, massaging his scalp as you claw at his back, moans of his name leaving your lips like a sacred prayer. “I’m yours, only yours.”

You feel the coil tightening in your stomach. You try to repress your noise but you can’t help it, you clench around his length, moaning softly as you orgasm. He follows shortly after, his warm seed pushed deep inside of you as he thrusts a few more times, prolonging your orgasm. You pull him by the nape of his neck, tongues clashing as you kiss desperately. He pulls out with a groan, his hands on your hips as his head hangs low. He grins at you, peppering your face with sloppy kisses as you giggle.

and I know for you, it's always me

You touched him and it feels like you know that he wants to get married.

He cradles you next to him, pressing a kiss to your forehead, hand tracing patterns on your back. He chuckles softly, beaming brightly at you, eyes full of gratefulness. You lay there and start to giggle too, hand on his chest as you both stare at the sky.

“What’s your favourite colour?” He whispers, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “What?” You ask him in confusion, your eyebrows furrowed. “Your favourite colour, what is it? I’ve never asked.” He whispers, loving eyes staring into yours.

You hesitate, thinking deeply about it before responding.

“Orange.”

I know places

#josh hutcherson #thg peeta #peeta mellark #team peeta #peeta mallark x reader #peeta x reader #the hunger games peeta #i love peeta #peeta mellark smut #the hunger games #Josh hutcherson fanfic #self insert

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