#I had to make a quick sketch of them | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

abbyromanoff · 5 months

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I have come to request something.

Remember when we talked about Tattoo Artist! Nat. I want that. Daddy kink, breeding, and just have fun. Add whatever you want to it. Obviously, Dom!Nat.

DESIGNS

PAIRINGS: Natasha Romanoff x reader, Wanda Maximoff x reader

WORD COUNT: 628

WARNINGS: smut, strap on usage, threesome, making out, hint of manipulation, innocent!R, virginity loss, Mommy (N), breeding, shy!Wanda, think that’s all :)

NO ONE IS PERMITTED TO STEAL, COPY, OR REBLOG MY WORK AS THEIR OWN!!

“How- how is this supposed to help exactly?” The tip of her cock teased your hole, a smirk planted on her face as she guided you to grind against her length. Her partner, Wanda, was sitting shyly next to the two of you, the ink gun in her hand. She looked down, trying to avoid all possible eye contact with either of you. Nat had always been derogatory, but this was a new level. Not once had she ever led someone to rest on her pulsing erection, and Wanda assumed someone would never agree to the request. Nat was attractive, sure, but she didn’t expect anyone to be as naive as you.

“It’s just going to distract you from the pain, sweetheart. We don’t want to hurt you, right, Wanda?” She nodded, giving you a hesitantly warm smile as you gulped nervously.

“Uhm, I’ve never-“ You cut yourself off, fears rising as you nearly admitted your pureness.

“Oh, baby, will I be your first?” You shook your head, yes, sniffling as your hips jutted lower, causing her cock to ease into your hole slowly. The tip was embraced with your warmth, and she moaned lowly at the contact.

“Well, I’m so honored. Why don’t you place your hands on my shoulders and let Wanda work, okay?” You did as told, your gaze falling to her breasts that were hidden by a sports bra and a loose tank top. She smiled, grasping your chin and leading you in for a long, passionate kiss. Wanda placed the pen against your lower back, following the sketch as you hissed in pain. But it wasn’t from the buzzing object, it was from the painful ache in your core as Nat stretched you out.

“Don’t worry, the pain will go away soon, little one.” She squeezed your lower cheeks, teasing her thumb near your tightest hole and causing you to bite your lip.

“No bitting, Mommy wants to kiss those sweet lips.” She groaned as her mouth collided with yours once again, her tongue making an appearance against yours.

“Mm, why don’t you give my partner here a little peck, hm? I bet she’s just dying to touch you.” The pen came to a stop for a quick moment, her hooded glances now being returned by you. You let her lean close, chuckling at the nervous glances she sent towards Nat.

“It’s okay, it’s just a little kiss.” The two of you whimpered as you came in contact, and her free hand grasped your thigh suddenly. She massaged the skin and caused you to rock your hips further, bringing Nat’s length to your g-spot that cried for attention.

“Mommy!” You screamed against Wanda’s lips, and she couldn’t help the fingers that trailed to your aching clit. Your hands groped your breasts until Nat guided them away, leading you to lower her top and suck on her hardened nipples. Wanda now lacked your lips, and she could’ve cried out because of it.

“Nat, you aren’t being fair.”

“Shh, get back to work and let me play with this one, I’m having too much fun with them.”

You weren’t given a warning when the buzzing stopped, nor were you informed when her drops of cum filled your cunt. You gasped in shock, placing your hand on your stomach and feeling the area. Your womb was now painted with her liquid, and your release coated her cock deliciously. She smirked, patting your back and letting you stand, which you failed to do easily. Wanda gave you one last glance before returning to the back.

“So, if you ever need another tattoo, call me.” She handed you a note with her number scribbled on it. “I’ll even give you a discount for being such a good customer.”

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starstruckmiraclekitty · 5 months

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“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Simon asked, a frown sketched across his face as he took in the sight before him.

You were curled up in the fetal position on your bed, one of Simon’s hoodies adorning your frame as you let out silent, muffled sobs into your pillow.

To be honest, you weren’t really sure what the issue was. Your day was fine, just as it always was, but once you got home the weight of the world just seemingly crashed on your shoulders. You couldn’t bring yourself to cook, to bathe, to do anything other than curl up in bed and cry.

Simon’s frown deepened at your lack of reply, and he knew in that moment what he had to do. He walked over to your side of the bed, placing a chaste kiss to your temple before making his way into your shared bathroom.

The sound of running waters had your ears perking up, as you flipped over to find Simon hunched over the tub, seemingly preparing a bath.

Your suspicions proved correct, as a few moments later Simon exited the bathroom, a small smile on his lips.

“C’mere, love.” He beckoned you to the edge of the bed, before lifting your body in his arms, and making his way into the bathroom. “Gonna take care of you.”

A comfortable silence fell between the two of you as Simon worked to undress you, his eyes taking in every inch of your body as he did so. He let out a soft sigh, before pressing a kiss to your lips.

He then made quick work of his own clothes, before lifting you into the tub, and sliding in behind you.

The water was just the right temperature- The warmth seeping into your sore muscles, as the smell of your favorite bath bomb filled your nose. The kind gesture brought a smile to your lips as you laid back against Simon.

“You want to talk about it?” He asked, his hands finding their way to your shoulders, massaging the soft flesh there.

You shook your head, relishing in his touch. “Just want to be here with you.”

“I can do that.” He grinned. “We can stay here for as long as you like. I’ll order some take out for us later. Tonight’s about you.”

His hands left you for only a moment, to lather your shampoo across them before making their way to your hair. You groaned, leaning further back against him as his fingers expertly combed through your hair and massaged at your scalp.

All of the worries, and sadness that filled your brain from before now vanished, the only thing mattering in that moment was the man behind you- showing you love in the way he knew best.

#simon riley imagine #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #cod imagine #mw2 imagine #ghost x reader #ghost mw2

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heylinfanclub · 2 years

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Me: 3/4th face easy

Also me: challenge yourself

Me: but…. EASE.

#me.#therapy.#(I just want things to not be stressful but I want to improve #(I suppose if I say it that way I should just #(TRY TO BE LESS DISAPPOINTED BY STALE ART WEEPS #(gOOD LUCK ME #(i just wish I had more examples of artists like me who just kinda. hooo. don’t grow super quick.#(just them short bursts of ‘oh shit I just started to understand a concept’ twice a year #(someone with grander ideas than what they’re capable of #(I recognize I have improved. but it’s still. it’s the composition. the colors. i just. grabs face and cracks neck #(depth of anatomical knowledge #(I wish I could go to schooooool even though I hate art classes #(or just. idk. sketch with friends. low effort socializing wiTH my hobby and not just making thing for myself by myself #(there’s so many damn factors to my issues that’s why I go nowhere cause I address one while the others fester #(there are people younger than me who are ‘better’ and people who get better faster and I recognize that those aren’t the only factors in #(— the equation of their artistic method. they could have different resources- focuses- time to study- mentors- inspiration— things I don’t #(things that help them I could never know so I shouldn’t judge our improvements on the same scale #(but I just. envy is my bosom buddy #(I WILL IMPROVE. MENTALLY AND ARTISTICALLY.

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nothingtoseeherebyeexx · 7 months

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james ‘longing stares’ potter and regulus ‘furtive glances’ black, everyone

i missed them sm…i had to make a quick sketch of them

#i love jeggy #they’re my babies #regulus black #regulus arcturus black #james potter #james fleamont potter #jegulus #starchaser #sunseeker #james x regulus #regulus x james #marauders #marauders era #fanart #jeggy #jegulus fanart

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colleendoran · 1 year

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How Do I Do Stuff

The question was phrased a little strangely, and I don't want to embarrass the person by posting exactly what was said, but I'll answer it and hope this clears everything up.

I do almost all of my drawing by hand. No, I don't trace in Photoshop. Not a judgment on those who do, but I come from a generation of artists who did not use Poser programs or other digital tools. We learned to draw using a technique called the Sight Size method. I know a lot of people assume everyone - including the old masters - traced everything using optical tools, but while it is true some people did, it is just as true that most didn't, and you can draw with great accuracy if you learned how to draw the old fashioned way.

Sight Size breaks everything down into its barest components of geometric shapes and you build from there. Once you learn it, you never forget, and it applies to everything you will ever draw.

I learned it using a set of Famous Artist Course books my mom had since she was a kid, and they are still the gold standard. They're often on ebay. If I were you, I'd buy them.

I actually find using figure reference really annoying because I like exaggerations and modifications from reality in my final work.

This page from Neil Gaiman's Chivalry was drawn and painted without figure reference of any kind.

I don't know why people assume I trace all the time. If you were to try to use photographs to replicate these figures, you would find they are slightly off. There is no tracing here.

This is not to say I never use reference. This page, for example, was referenced from a photo of my mother. Isn't she pretty.

But this page of Sir Galaad was drawn and painted without reference.

He's pretty, too.

If he were real, I'm sure a lot of people would be very happy about it. But he's not. And had I reference, the art would have gone a lot faster. I had a time trying to nail this face that is very alive in my head but doesn't really exist.

Back in the ancient days, all cartoonists had to learn to draw and paint extemporaneously because reference was limited and digital tools didn't exist. While some high end artists had photography studios and professional models with costume and sets on hand, small fry like me were limited to what was in the house or available at my small local library, which was no bigger than a few rooms of my current house.

Artists kept extensive "morgue files" or "swipe files" which were collected from magazine clippings and photographs so we would have as much of what we might need on hand for quick reference. These ephemera collections could get unwieldy. I have thousands of photographs I've simply never sorted. I finally dumped most of my files this past year.

Have I ever traced anything? Of course, especially if I have to re-use a shot or setting over and over. Making extra work for myself is just silly. It's my job to make pictures, not to perform magical feats, like copying one shot after another over and over without making a mistake.

However, for almost 15 years of my career, I refused to copy or trace anything, and did not even own a lightbox. On the one hand, that forced me to learn to carefully examine what I saw. On the other hand, it was a stupid hill on which many deadlines died.

Only after I realized many professional artists had lightboxes and overhead projectors did I finally break down and get one.

The one thing I use my lightbox for more than anything is for tracing my thumbnail sketches to the final drawing paper. Instead of trying to capture the liveliness of the original sketch by copying what I see - only bigger - I blow the thumbnail up to the size I want the final art to be, then I trace over the thumbnail using a lightbox onto the final drawing paper.

Here's a look at thumbnails from the graphic novel Neil Gaiman's Snow, Glass, Apples.

I enlarged these on my computer to fit onto 11"x14" paper, and traced the thumbs before finishing the art which was drawn in pen and ink and colored in Photoshop.

While I obviously made some changes, the essence of the thumbs is there in the final work. Tracing my thumbs retains some of the looseness of the original sketches, which is often lost otherwise.

So, there is a valid purpose to tracing at times, though in my opinion, too much tracing can weaken drawing ability, substitute for developing skills, and make the work kind of stiff.

If you want to, I'm not your judge. But it's weird to me that people think I must be faking my skills in some way.

Ironically, the word cartoon comes from the Italian word cartone, which is a large heavy sheet of paper - also, the origin of the word carton.

Preparatory sketches were made on this paper which was then transferred to the final work surface via either tracing or by stamping little holes in the paper through which dust was sprinkled, recreating the contours of the drawing for the artist to follow.

So the origin of the word cartoon comes from a process often used...for tracing.

#snow glass apples #chivalry #neil gaiman #drawing

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whiskygoldwings · 2 months

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The Tattooist

The first clone trooper client she tattoos is an act of remembrance.

The man stands forlorn and desperate in the reception area, his borrowed clothes fitting poorly on his slumped frame. His face is tight, like a man on the edge of screaming, holding it back by the skin of his teeth. She recognises this pain, and quickly ushers him into her workroom, calling for A'maa to take the front desk while she speaks to a client. He breaths slightly easier once they are no longer in public, and she gestures for him to sit on the well-worn sofa she reserves for guests.

“I haven't got many credits,” he admits straight up. “They don't exactly pay us. I just wanted to see what could be done for what I have.”

She nods and grabs a pad and stylus, settling herself into her armchair and crossing her legs. “Tell me what you want and how much you've got and I'll see what I can do.”

He swallows painfully, and reaches into his pocket. “I have exactly 134 credits,” he holds a handful of ingots, and she glances down before looking back at his face. “I looked you up; I know it's not much in terms of tattoos. It's just... It's all I could scrape together...” he stumbles over his words, embarassment curling his lips.

“And what you want?” She interrupts, halting his ashamed attempts at explaining himself.

He takes a deep breath, grimaces, then sighs. “My brother was killed in the last battle. His name was Star. The long-necks... The Kaminoans I mean, never let us mourn each other where they could see. But he's my brother. We were born of the same batch, he helped me when I struggled with the maths tests, we had each others backs... I have a million odd brothers, but he was mine...” He presses his thumb and forefinger into his tightly-shut eyes, choking back a sob. “I want to honour him forever. I want to carry him with me, in a way they can't take away from me.” At this he straightens, bringing his hand down to stare at her determinedly. “They can make us wash our armour off, take our possessions from us. They will have to flay my skin from me if they want to take this.”

She stares back, stylus against her lips, and feels a swell of righteous fury in her throat. She's always had a mild force-sensitivity. Not enough to make training her of any worth, but enough that she can get a feel of a person, enough she can get a taste of their emotions.

This is a proud, strong man. And he is not broken by the hardships he faces, as much as he should be.

She will honour his brother with him.

The design practically leaps from her stylus, as she coaxes little stories from him. Little tales of his brother. His name was Star, he tells her first, and she sketches the rough outlines of one. He named himself, the man tells her, not giving his own name. Named himself after the balls of fury in the universe that were always out of their reach of Kamino. He laughs quietly, painfully, as he tells her the first time they had snuck out on a rainless night, when there was a brief respite in the clouds of Kamino, and by chance, there was a meteor shower over head. They'd all been amazed, confused and delighted by the sight, their little squad of five. One of the trainers, a kind man named Kal, had chuckled and told them “That'll be a shooting star” when they ask him about the phenomena, and Star had whispered to him in their bunks that night that he had decided on his name.

“I used to call him a shooting Star when we were in sims,” the man admits, a crooked grin on his face. “He kicked me in the shin for it once. Think he actually kinda liked it though.”

She adds a trail of dust behind it.

“He was so proud of being an ARF,” the man whispers. “So proud when I was nominated for ARF training alone with him. I was never as good as him, but he always took me with him, wherever he went. When the Commander told us we were getting the training, he basically hugged him. The Commander just gave him a pat on the back and told him never to do it again or he'd demote him quick as sithspit” the man snorts. “He didn't mean it, but Star'd never moved so bloody quick back into a salute, I couldn't help laughing at him, the idiot.”

She tabs out and finds a reference for an ARF troopers helmet on the 'net, and draws the trail of star dust bursting out of it and curling round to meet with the star itself.

“Our battallion wears green. Mainly olive-green. The commander started it, reminds him of the General I suspect. We became Green Company.”

The dust trail gathers sprinkles of olive green, the Star limned in the colour. She hesitates for a moment, then asks. “What markings did he wear?”

The man startles; she'd been loath to bring him out of his memories, but she wants to make it accurate. Needs to make it accurate really. She can feel how important this piece is to the man, and she finds herself strongly opposed to disappointing him.

“He had two stars on the left hand side of his helmet, one within the other.” The man indicates a point on his crown, above his ear. “And his visor was lined in green. He had a stripe vertically down the right hand side, ending just under the visor itself. On his chest piece...”

She lets him continue detailing his armour, drawing another star in olive green within the big one, then delicately tipping the helmet to conceal where the star would have been on the left. She's good, but it would have been too small to depict without potentially bleeding into a solid line, and she doesn't want that to happen. Instead, she marks in the line on the right-hand side, and ensures the big star is representative of what she imagines was on the helmet.

He's trailed off, staring sightlessly at his hands in his lap. She doesn't want to shake him, suspects alarming a trained soldier out of his own mind would be a bad idea. Instead, she uncrosses her legs, and clears her throat lightly. He glances up at her, and she smiles and extends the pad to him.

“Is something like this what you had in mind?”

He blinks at her, than reaches over and takes the pad. She sees the moment when he takes in the image. His eyes widen, and a tear he's been holding back since well before he got here slides down his cheek. He presses his fist into his mouth, other hand shaking where it holds the pad and he nods, clenching his eyes shut. “y-yes... Oh yes...” He stammers, voice thick.

“Where would you like it?”

“Over my heart,” he whispers. “I will carry him always in my heart.”

She stands abruptly, making him jump slightly and reaches out for the pad. “Okay, shirt off and lie down on the bed for me please. I assume as a clone trooper you're routinely screened for any blood diseases?” He nods, standing up with a slightly dazed expression on his face. She nods back and turns away, beginning the ritual of preparing her inks. She's playing a game of avoidance now, knows she won't take this man's money, and if she can keep him from asking about it she may be able to get it finished before he finds out. She suspects he'd do the honourable thing and refuse to get the tattoo. It'll be harder for him to do if it's halfway done. And while normally she'd insist on a full disclosure form and signature, she gets the feeling having no hardcopy evidence of what is about to happen will be a very good idea. The pad will need reformatting after she's done, but she's been required to do that for other clients who want their body art to be completely untraceable, so she doesn't store anything of any import on it for long anyway. She hears the rustle of cloth behind her and smiles slightly to herself, pleased at a plan going well. “Would you tell me more about him please?”

The man takes a deep breath behind her, even as she hears the bed creak as he clambers onto it. “He was always good at slipping by unnoticed. It's how he kept us both out of trouble back in training...”

She finishes mixing up the colours she needs as he begins to tell her about their childhood, what little of it there was. Checks her machine and cleans the patch of skin above his heart as he laughs about a prank played on one of their batchmates. It warms her and chills her at the same time, realising how little they had, but what great things they made of what they did. She prints out the stencil and places it over his chest as he whispers about Star easing him through the tail end of a nightmare, checking quietly that he's happy with the position before pressing the needle to his skin. He breaths in through his nose once when she starts, and she glances up at him, but he smiles and continues on into a story about when they first met their Jedi, and how Star gushed about her afterwards. She sinks into the meditative process of stamping lines into being, bringing colour to life, all the while surrounded by the man's soft voice building a memorial to his brother in their room.

When it's finished, the man looks surprised. “I thought it would take longer than that?” He blinks at her, “And be more painful in all honesty.”

She grins, “You did your research well hon, I'm good at what I do.”

He laughs and sits up, wincing slightly as the skin stretches around the wound. She squirts cleaner onto a cloth and holds it towards his chest, pausing before touching the tattoo for him to give a nod of permission, then wipes carefully across it, removing excess ink and stencil gently. Looking it over critically, she's happy with what she's done, knows she's poured herself into this tattoo as well. The lines are clean and crisp, the colours deep and rich. The helmet tilts up to look at the star above it, the trail of stardust sweeping behind it and curling up to emerge from the opening of the helmet at the bottom. Olive green accents in the tail, the line over the right-hand side of the helmet and around the visor, and the outer and inner two stars. She nods to herself, and grins up at him. “Ready to see it?”

He swallows nervously, but nods. She feels her grin quirk into a proper smile, then holds out her hand to him. He looks at it for a second, then places his own in hers, and she helps pull him from the bed. She keeps hold of his hand as she guides him to the full length mirror just beside the couch, and gently pulls him to stand infront of it. The hand in hers trembles as he stares at his reflection, taking a moment on his own face to gather his courage, then looks down at his chest.

The noise that punches out of his lungs is almost animal, and she grips his hand tightly. He cries openly, other hand reaching up to hover just under the tattoo as he looks down at his own chest. It's several moments before he can say anything, and she stands next to him the whole time, holding his hand as he clenches onto hers. He cries and cries, grief finally allowed expression, as she gives him silent comfort in proximity. His first words are “thank you”, and she smiles at him, as he starts to collect himself and turns away from her to try and pull himself back together.

“I'll give you a few minutes to check it over and make sure you're happy before I bandage it up,” she murmers, and steps quietly out of the room, giving him privacy in his sorrow.

A'maa glances up at her as she steps out, raising an eyebrow. Strictly speaking, she wasn't supposed to be working today, and she hadn't considered that A'maa might have had to turn away one of her own clients when she committed to tattooing the man. But A'maa glances over at the door to her workroom and shakes her head. “Don't worry about it Elaah,” she whispers, “Whatever it was, it was clearly important.”

“Yes,” Elaah whispers back, walking over to cradle herself in A'maa's outstretched arm, seeking the comfort of her own found family. “Yes, it really was.”

It's a few more minutes before the man opens the door, glancing around the edge of it. She quickly cuts off her conversation with A'maa and smiles at him. “Ready to get bandaged up?”

He nods and smiles, face a little blotchy from the tears, though neither she nor A'maa say anything. She gives A'maa's shoulder a quick squeeze, then heads into the room, leaving the door ajar this time. The man stands infront of the mirror again, gazing down at his new ink, and she quickly grabs the bits she needs to finish off. He smiles at her as holds the fake skin bandage up to his chest, carefully sizing it up to fit nicely over the tattoo.

“How much do I owe you?” he asks, and she shakes her head.

“Nothing hon, you paid me in stories.”

He protests immediately, as she suspected he would. “Too late hon!” she grins at him. “It's already on your skin and I'll throw your credits out onto the street after you if you try leaving them behind. Good luck winning this one!” She winks and pats him on the shoulder, turning away to grab his top and thrusting it into his abdomen. He grabs it and gapes at her, clearly not quite sure what to say, before straightening and flashing a sheepish grin at her.

“You planned this from the start didn't you?” He asks, pulling the top over his head and rolling his eyes as she throws him a cheeky wink and nods.

“I've got to give you something, this means so much to me... You have no idea...” He gulps and shakes his head, blinking fresh tears out of his eyes. “Tell you what, I'll make sure anyone else who might be thinking of getting some ink heads this way?”

She shrugs. “I'm not going to turn down customers, but you don't owe me anything. I just hope you think of Star whenever you see it.”

“I will,” he murmurs, a hand going to rest over where the tattoo sits over his heart. He glances up at her. “My name is Trix. I just... wanted you to know that.”

She smiles at him, and gently rests a hand over his own. “Thank you Trix.” she says, smiling up at him, “Thank you for everything you and your brothers do for us.”

He grasps her hand with his other one and squeezes it tightly for a moment, before turning around and walking out the shop.

#the clone wars #clone troopers #fanfic #fanfiction #feels #tattoos #tattoos as healing #star wars #oc characters #also posted to ao3 #CentrauGuardian

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