#should i just make my own skin tone palate that from a glance is recognisable as his

[engagemythrusters]

seriously tho if you have expertise in colour theory and want to help me pull skin tones correctly that would be helpful thankyouuuu

okay who is going to tell me why when i pulled colour from a different photo of temuera morrison... skin tones dont look even remotely the same... and also it makes the clone i just made look orange... even tho it has never made temuera morrison look orange.

[ncghtshifts]

maggotmouth​:

               in monty, alma’s met her match ; a worthy opponent to her wits. they’re like her ━ they have that need to be excellent so deeply carved into their bones they can’t smooth it off. she recognised it the first time she saw them dance, had it confirmed when she’d heard they’d been a principal dancer once. where had it all gone wrong?   surely someone with that much ambition would never step aside with grace and dignity. alma certainly wouldn’t.   “hardly peg-legged, which makes me think you were just looking for an excuse to say ‘peg’.”   her comment was something between a quip and a sneer, smirk pulling up the corner of her mouth, a wire rod roped through her cheek by the other mother to fashion her lips into something more palatable. her eyes flitted up to monty’s as they yanked her foot into their lap, “i won’t flinch,” retorted, a promise both to monty and herself. they press the gauze against the nail and her lips purse in a harsh line, the white pucker of an old scar. broken toenails were an occupational hazard in their line of work. “━it’s a broken nail, not a broken toe,” though she’d danced with broken bones before, her solo recital at the end of her first term, twisting her body into something beautiful when all she wanted to do was crumble.  “d’you think i ought to rip it off? or leave it be, see if it heals on its own.”  maybe it wouldn’t go black… wistful thinking, perhaps. more than the pain, alma hated the idea that she wouldn’t be able to wear her opened-toed jimmy chu sandals in the spring. such a waste. “wrap it tighter,” alma started, reaching out without sparing a thought to how monty would react, a coldness rippling through her as her hand collided with theirs. her eyes snapped up, meeting monty’s bright blue ones, and she drew her hand away, allowing them to continue their bandaging without her interference.  “sorry,” alma remarked, rebuking her need to control everything, her apology wriggling out like a choked up razor blade, foul and acrid in her mouth. tucking her chin against her shoulder, she breathed in the familiar scent of her own skin ━ sweat, cinnamon, white musk, claret ━ a comfort as the pain began to subside in lieu of adrenaline, and toyed with the strap of her leotard.  “i’ll keep my hands to myself. scout’s honour.”

Something about Alma’s constant running mouth has Monty excited. There’s not a lot that won’t shy away from them - their own fault, it’s a goal to make people glance away from their simpering gaze. When they meet the few that can meet it, even fire back their own heat - it was rare enough that Monty greeted Alma’s smirk with their own, raising a brow as if to ask if she were challenging them, “Hardly need an excuse for that. I like to be fairly open about who gets their give and take with me. Why, tryna make the list?” Monty kept up the work, gauze slipping around the bridge and dip of Alma’s toe, though their brain had momentarily derailed. A poor habit of theirs, but they couldn’t help but wonder if she was as feisty during the heady moment of meeting a stranger's bed as she was just now. Monty had their bets, “If you rip it off after all my hard work, I’m gonna fuckin’ sue you. Could’ve done that and had this over with in two seconds flat. I mean, do whatcha want, but nails always look like they belong to fuckin’ aliens once ya rip ‘em off - trying way too hard, it’s like. Just be normal?” They weren’t used to being bossed around like this. If it wasn’t coming from the ballet masters, Monty usually sneered in the face of jilted suggestion. But when Alma spoke, everything she said sounded more like a command. They couldn’t help but commend her for that - it was a talent she should be proud of, to have a tone that intended to be heard, even if she were whispering, “Are you tryna heal your nail or lose your entire toe, Tinkerbell? Now I don’t trust you - are you gonna go home and wrap it until you cut off the fuckin’ circulation?” they asked, head dipping forward with brows raised, as if to prompt out an answer despite it obviously being a joke, “Are you even capable of keeping your hands to yourself? I can smell a control freak from a mile away. Besides,” Taping off their handiwork, Monty gave a satisfied pinch to the base of Alma’s toe to make sure the gauze was secure, “that’d be quite the shame.” Letting the statement linger for a few moments, Monty extended a hand to Alma after coming to a stand, “Need crutches? A wheelchair? I’m not fuckin’ carrying you, that’s for sure.”