I gotta catch up on some posting, I don’t think I’ve ever been able to continuously work on art since I started college but the drive is BACK baybee I’ve been going HAM
I post more on instagram but I’m gonna try to check back in here more often I miss this hellsite. Commissions are open so if you want some work done feel free to message me or check my site!
A unique Ferrari has been seen lapping Fiorano today during a brief yet intense shakedown. While the V12 engine note reverberating around the track may have sounded familiar, the car’s arresting looks are unique although guaranteed to strike a chord with the marque’s aficionados. With its Rosso Magma finish and sophisticated racing livery, the new Ferrari Omologata is a clear descendent of Ferrari’s great GT tradition spanning seven decades of history.
Commissioned by a discerning European client, the latest offering in Ferrari’s line of unique coachbuilt one-off models is a vibrant evocation of the values that define Ferrari in relation to GT racing: a car that is equally at ease on the road as it is hitting the apex on the track in the hands of a true gentleman driver.
The Ferrari Omologata project took a little over two years to complete from the initial presentation of sketches, starting with images that covered a variety of inspirations, from racing heritage to sci-fi and references to modern architecture. The idea from the onset was to create a futuristic design with distinctive elements reinterpreted in a fresh manner to provide potential for a timeless shape that is certain to leave a lasting impression.
To achieve this, the designers unlocked every possible area of freedom from the underlying package of the 812 Superfast, keeping only the windscreen and headlights as existing bodywork elements. The objective was to exploit the proportions of the potent, mid-front layout to deliver a very sleek design defined by smooth volumes and undulating reflections, uplifted by sharp graphics with sparingly distilled surface breaks wherever dictated by aerodynamic functions. The trickiest aspect was striking the ideal balance between expressiveness and restraint: the Omologata had to ooze street presence whilst maintaining a very pure formal language.
The designers carefully studied the stance and attitude of the car from all angles, defining a tapering front volume from the flattened oval grille. The rounded section over the front wheelarches, emphasized by a contrasting stripe wrapping across the bonnet, seems to naturally extrude from the grille. Rear of the door, the flank develops into a very potent rear muscle that neatly blends upwards into the three-quarter panel. The entire volume is rendered deliberately imposing through the elimination of the rear quarter light, while three horizontal transversal cuts in the fastback volume visually lower the rear mass. The tail is surmounted by a prominent spoiler which adds not only downforce, but a more aggressive, sporty stance. Overall, the car appears to be poised to attack the tarmac even at a standstill and, seen from the rear, the deeply set single taillights underline the tension.
Uniqueness in more than name
Satisfying every safety constraint for road homologation without interfering with any of the usability and tractability of a Ferrari is always a huge challenge for the design team led by Flavio Manzoni, the more so when starting from an existing platform. Omologata was indeed a keyword that resonated throughout the development of this, the 10th front-engined V12 one-off Ferrari has delivered since the 2009 P540 Superfast Aperta. Beyond the clear instructions coming from the client and down to every detail on the car, the designers effectively took into account countless variables to make this a bespoke model through and through, one which could easily find its place in any Ferrari showroom. The quest for the ultimate touch went as far as developing a new shade of red just for the livery, to match the fiery triple-layer Rosso Magma over darkened carbon-fibre finish.
Inside the car, a plethora of trim details suggests a strong link to Ferrari’s rich racing heritage. The electric blue seats, finished in a tasteful combination of leather and Jeans Aunde fabric with 4-point racing harnesses, stand out against a full black interior. In the absence of rear quarter lights and screen, the atmosphere in the cabin is purposeful, reminiscent of a bygone era. Metal parts on the dashboard and steering wheel are finished with the crackled paint effect associated with the great GT racers of the 1950s and 1960s as well as with Ferrari’s engine cam covers. A hammered paint effect so often used in cars such as the 250 LM and 250 GTO finds its way on details such as the inner door handles and on the Ferrari F1 bridge.
A fitting one-off exercise, the Omologata manages to encompass a range of subtle Ferrari signature design cues without falling into nostalgia. Its hand-crafted aluminum bodywork is sprinkled with almost subliminal details, in a way that challenges the enthusiast to identify the various sources of inspiration that played a part into its inception.
“Fuck.” Eleanor paced back and forth. She knew she had done the right thing in going out there and she hated that. Hated that Silver, of all fucking people, had been the voice of reason in her head.
But he had been right.
She walked over to the desk and poured herself a shot of rum. Slinging it back, she let the rum hit her throat. It made her eyes sting, but it eased the tension in her neck and shoulders. She poured another.
Over in the corner Silver cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose I could have one of those.”
Eleanor considered, and then shrugged. She reached for another glass and poured a decent amount into it before going over to him.
“Here.”
“Thank you.” Silver lifted the glass she handed him. “To surviving.”
Eleanor stared at him for a moment and then shrugged again. She raised her glass in response. “Surviving.”
Out of the corner of her eye she watched Silver drink.
Vane must have been furious when he hadn’t gotten the page. She imagined it then, the rage he would have had. And how she had had to….Her hand trembled for a moment and she gripped the glass tighter. She had had to give up Max for this and now. If it didn’t work. It would have been for nothing and she couldn’t let it be for nothing.
The rum had warmed her now. It was going to be a long night. She couldn’t leave. Even if the roar outside the her office had lulled, it hadn’t ended. The men were still there and there might be one or two that weren’t satisfied with the deal she had given them. Better not to chance it. She glanced at Silver again.
“We should fuck.”
Silver choked on his rum. He wiped his mouth on his hand and stared at her incredulously. “I’m sorry?”
“That noise isn’t going away, even though it’s apparently celebratory now. So I’m not going anywhere tonight.” She made a face. “And you’re not going anywhere.”
“You’re not going anywhere and I’m not going anywhere,” Silver repeated. “So we might as well fuck?” He gave a short laugh. “I suppose you want to ask Randall to move.”
She had almost forgotten the injured pirate on the divan. He was asleep now, turned inwards away from them. There was no need for concern on that front.
“No need for that.” Eleanor said airily. “There’s the desk.”
There was the first spark of interest in Silver’s eyes at her words.
He was the first man, sailor or pirate that she had ever suggested this to, that hadn’t immediately jumped at it. It almost made him interesting. Eleanor truly didn’t care if he were interesting or not. All she wanted was a distraction. And to get revenge on Vane…She brushed the thought away.
“Over here.”
She unclipped the cuff from the divan and led him to over to the desk where she fastened the other one to the drawer.
Silver raised his eyebrow. “Going to make it a little awkward, don’t you think?” He shook his wrist, as though to demonstrate.
“I don’t trust you not to run away.” She said, reaching for the rum again as she hopped up on the desk.
“But you trust me to fuck you.” Silver said sardonically.
“I don’t trust you at all.” Eleanor retorted.
Silver smiled. “Good.” He leaned in and took the glass of rum from her. He lifted it to his lips and took a sip, his eyes on her the whole time.
As he did that, Eleanor reached a hand forward, stroking him through his breeches. She had noticed his cock earlier, even despite everything going on. It hadn’t been of any importance earlier. So he had a nice cock? So what? But now…now she was pleased by the swell of it pressing against her hand.
Silver sucked in a breath and took another drink of rum.
Eleanor smiled as she drew him out.
* * *
Silver licked his lips carefully before he glanced down to eye her hand on him. It certainly wasn’t a displeasing sight by any means. And while he had been seen to recently by Blackbeard and her crew that had been a fairly straightforward experience and there had been enough participants involved that he hadn’t felt a great deal of pressure to perform expertly. This might be different.
“What exactly are you aiming to get out of this?”
“I’m aiming,” Eleanor drawled, “To get off.” She leaned back, letting go of his cock to stare levelly at him. “What about you?”
Silver wasn’t a fool. He knew she was an important partner of Captain Flint, otherwise Flint wouldn’t have left him here. It was in his best interests to get her on his side as much as possible. He had no guarantees at the moment that Flint would truly make him a member of his crew and not simply kill him once he returned.
“I want you to ensure that Captain Flint takes me aboard his ship and knows I’m a valued ally in the search for the Urca.” He smiled. “I want him to be certain of it.”
Eleanor shrugged. “All right.” She reached for the rum and poured more into both their glasses. “Here.”
Silver took his and waited.
“To our allyship.” Eleanor said. “And to getting off.”
Silver smiled. “To both of those endeavors.” He clinked his glass against hers and they both drank.
And then Eleanor set her glass down and looked at him.
Silver leaned in to set his glass down beside hers and then leaned in, drawing her skirts up. He sucked in a sharp breath as Eleanor’s hand returned to his cock. She knew what she was doing; he gave her that. The thing was, how did she want to get off? He liked to know, to figure out what people expected, but more importantly, what they desired.
Slowly he pulled her skirts up to mid-thigh.
Eleanor raised an eyebrow as he paused and then offered a half-shrug, as though to say, ‘go ahead.’
Silver sank to his knees, angling so his cuffed hand wasn’t pulled at too much. His other hand he slid carefully up her thigh and then he slung her left leg over his shoulder as he leaned in.
He found the slit in her drawers and parted it, gazing at her thoughtfully.
“Get on with it.” Eleanor murmured above his head.
Silver licked his lips and then licked hers. He felt the quiver run through her at his touch and did it again, smirking slightly. Women, men, no matter who, when it came to getting off, it was all the same. He circled her mound with the tip of his tongue, brushing across fair curls, feeling her folds growing more aroused as he did. He pressed against the small bud of her clit and let his tongue just linger there, feeling her heat.
Her hand rested onto his head, tugging at his curls. “Harder.”
“All right.” Silver took a deep breath and set to. He enjoyed this, he did, but again, usually there wasn’t the amount of pressure accompanying the act.
He sucked hard at her clit, pressing a finger between her folds as he did. She clenched tightly around him, and he smirked. Teasing her clit with the tip of his tongue, he slipped another finger inside her, curling them softly. He felt her start to tremble around him and kept going, finger fucking her with deep strokes as he nipped at her clit, letting the pressure build within her. His own cock had hardened slightly between his legs, and he wondered if she would object to him getting off after this. It would be uncomfortable to leave it all night and he’d rather not face Captain Flint with a hard on the first thing in the morning.
The fingers in his hair tightened pulling at him.
“Ow!” Silver slid back from under her skirts to look up at her indignantly. “What?”
“Enough.” Elanor reached for his shirt, tugging him up. “I said we should fuck and I meant it.” She took a drink of rum, licking her lips.
Silver swallowed, watching the motion of her tongue. “Are you sure? I mean, I can get you off like that.” Half of him wanted to know just how long she could hold out before he could make her come.
Eleanor paused, her fingers still holding his shirt as though considering it. “No,” She said decisively. “I want to fuck.”
“All right then.” Silver said a little breathless. He could do that.
* * *
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Eleanor reached for his shirt again, pulling Silver in to kiss him. She tasted herself on his tongue and it sent a jolt of arousal through her. She liked that he had gone down on her so readily, without her even telling him to. Her cunt ached where he had been busy. In truth she could have easily let him keep going. It would have been easy to come from that and it would have been satisfying. But she wanted more than satisfying; she wanted a good distracting fuck, and for that, tonight, she needed his cock.
Her teeth scraped Silver’s lower lip as she reached for his breeches, shoving them down so she could grip his bare cheeks, pulling him close between her spread thighs.
Silver groaned into her mouth and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Then she felt his cock press against her drawers, and she swallowed her irritation. He was a satisfying length at least. Worthy of giving Vane a run for his money at least.
Fuck Vane. She didn’t want to fucking think about him. Not now, not tonight, perhaps not ever again.
She dug her nails into Silver’s ass and he hissed.
Silver jerked his head back to glare at her.
“Come on.” She said. “I don’t have all night.”
Silver smirked. “We both know that’s not true.”
Eleanor tilted her head and gazed at him. “You’re right.” She said after a moment. “So you better make it worth my time.”
“Do you have any oil?” Silver asked instead of making one of the many jokes she had imagined him doing.
Eleanor sighed, but released his ass to gesture at the drawer he was cuffed to. “In there.”
She leaned back, taking another sip of rum as he took it out. She wasn’t used to men taking this care. Vane certainly didn’t, well not for the most part. And she had enjoyed that, in a way. There was something satisfying in the ache throughout her body afterwards, something she carried with her throughout the day. A physical memento of their time together.
Silver slicked his fingers and reached under her skirts again. “Did you really want me to fuck you dry?”
Eleanor rolled her eyes. “What difference does it make?” She caught her tongue between her teeth as he slipped two fingers inside her again.
Silver shrugged. “None. It’s just curious is all.” His fingers pressed further, curling inside her.
Her clit still tingled from his earlier ministrations. Her cunt already knew how good his fingers felt. Eleanor resisted the urge to spread her legs wider and simply wrap them around his hips and put his cock inside her herself. Instead she emptied the glass and set it down again. “What’s curious about it?” She demanded. “Have you never had a good fuck that left you panting and aching afterwards? A mark here or there that served as a reminder for days after? If you haven’t…” she shrugged again. “Then I’m sorry for you.”
“As a matter of a fact, I have.” Silver said quietly. “I just didn’t want to cause any unnecessary pain.”
He kept stroking her cunt, making her grow more and more aroused until finally Eleanor reached down and captured his wrist with her hand. She didn’t have to speak this time. Silver knew what she wanted. He withdrew his fingers and wiped them on his breeches.
Eleanor settled expectantly on the edge of the desk. Her cunt was dying for it now. She needed this.
Silver lifted her legs, pulling them closer, brushing the tip of his cock against her. She shivered, and slid her hands down to grip his bare ass again.
“Fuck me.”
Silver thrust into her with one slick motion. Eleanor exhaled as he filled her, and again, she was pleased at his length. She put her legs around him as he moved inside her.
She reached for his mouth, kissing him, wanting to taste herself again. Her fingers gripped his ass tightly, and she felt the motion of his thrusts in her palms as they pressed against his bare flesh. This was what she needed. This pure, raw lust of a fuck, and nothing more. She felt sweat rolling down her chest, between her breasts. The room was too warm, the rum had made it so and yet she liked it, the swelter of it as Silver panted, thrusting inside her.
But after a short while, Eleanor realized that this angle, while acceptable, was not enough.
“Stop.”
“What? Now?” Silver panted, staring at her.
Eleanor reached for the key to the handcuffs. He watched her in silence as she unfastened the cuff to the drawer. “Give me your other hand.”
Slowly Silver did and she clapped the other cuff on it.
“What the fuck?”
Eleanor pushed him backwards. “Lie down on the floor and put your hands above your head.”
Slowly, he did, grimacing as his bare ass hit the wooden floor. Eleanor slipped off the desk. Her limbs felt heavy with desire and she was tempted to simply sit on his face have him pleasure again like that. Instead she lifted her skirts and straddled him, sinking back down on his cock. “There.” Her eyes closed at the full length of him pulsing inside her. That was much better. Now she knew she’d be able to come, that she would walk away from this encounter with the satisfaction she had desired.
She started to ride his cock at a steady pace, keeping her eyes closed.
* * *
Silver watched her as she rode his cock, her eyes closed, her body moving in a slow hypnotic rhythm. His thighs trembled. His arms ached where they rested above his head. He would have liked to touch her more, to open her bodice and cup her breasts. But this, not being allowed to do so, made the idea of doing so, even more tantalizing. He felt himself grow closer and closer to completion and tried to hold back since she hadn’t shown any signs yet.
Eleanor opened her eyes and stared down at him. “What?”
Silver licked his lips. “I fear I’m going to come before you do.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Release me from these.” Silver raised his arms, “And I swear I will only touch you.” He made no promises that he wouldn’t escape. They both knew that wasn’t truly an option. There was no escaping Flint on this island even if Silver were free. And even if he did, if Vane caught him…it would be worse.
* * *
Eleanor hesitated, but the ache in her cunt, the throbbing cock inside her, and the desire to come, merged together into a swirl of desire. She reached for the key and freed his wrists.
Silver stayed where he was on the floor. Only his arms moved to undo the laces of her blouse.
Eleanor sucked in a breath as his thumbnail traced the curve of her breast. She kept her eyes open, even if she wanted to close them again. She had no need of Silver’s face during this. She kept moving atop his cock, knowing she was getting closer but still needing more.
And then both his hands were on her breasts, cupping them roughly, squeezing them, eliciting a sharp moan from between her lips. He drew his nail around her nipple and then pinched it, and Eleanor gasped, rocking forward on his cock, feeling her clit pulse in response.
“Shall I keep doing this?” Silver whispered, his hands still moving on her breasts. “Shall I make them ache for my mouth, just as your clit aches for it?”
“Shut up.” Eleanor hissed, even as she meant, keep going, keep talking, keep fucking. She was so fucking close, her whole body was aflame.
“You could keep me cuffed to the desk even after you’ve finished.” Silver murmured, kneading her breasts almost gently with his hands. “Have me under your desk as you go about your business of the day, under your skirts, my tongue in your cunt.”
Eleanor shuddered, the first waves of pleasure starting to break over her. She leaned down over him, gazing at him, and then she kissed him, biting his lips as his hands moved to cup her ass, rocking her more deeply upon him.
She cried out as he broke off the kiss to bite at her nipple, the pain and pleasure mixing sweetly inside her, and the dam broke, pleasure washing over her again and again, until she had no breath left in her body.
Silver groaned as he came, spilling inside her, and her thoughts flickered briefly to tomorrow, to remember that she’d need to take something. She was always careful, she would not carry a bastard pirate into this world, no matter how good a cock the father might have had.
Eleanor rolled off him and lay on the floor, skirts tangled around her thighs. Her cunt throbbed with satisfaction, her nipple stung where she could still feel his teeth.
Silver drew a breath. “Well, that was…”
Eleanor pushed herself up, her hand finding the key and the cuffs.
Silver’s face fell as she held them up but he made no protest as she led him back to the spot besides the still slumbering Randall.
Eleanor returned to her desk, straightening out her skirts and tying the laces of her bodice. There was a darkening mark upon her nipple and she felt her face flush.
She took her coat and went over to the window, making a bed for herself upon the window seat there. Silver remained silent and she was thankful for that. She would tell Flint he had been useful and that it was worth his while to take Silver with him, and that would be the end of it.
As for the thought of keeping Silver under her desk, well. She would save that fantasy for another day when she had need of it. Eleanor closed her eyes and slept, one hand curled beneath her head, the other resting curled against her chest.
Title: Untitled/Nico is cool
Genre: Fantasy, noir?
Words: 1000+
Summary: A secret and malicious exchange of a magical item is cut short by a fae-like rogue. Present tense. Mild violence, knives.
There are cities whose streets at night are extravagance, the warming glow of their lamps seeping up the sides of buildings and forging a dome against the coldness of the outside, the upward. People weaving through the open roads in heavier crowds than the day, feelings and moments stirring up the settling dusk. These are the people who are amusing to watch, amusing to speak to. To walk among them and pretend you belong.
This is not one of those cities. This is a city that is not silent but quiet, that whispers uncertainly to itself. The streets glow but do not dare overstep the boundaries of their lamps. there are people, but there are not supposed to be, so they are few. These streets are an undertone, a hush, a lengthy acknowledgment as opposed to a denial or celebration. Just an acknowledgment.
The shadowkin’s eyes pass over these streets with the same length the streets grant the darkness. Much less interesting to observe. Much more dangerous to walk. Less interesting, more exciting. More tempting.
He spots his target. A meeting in an obscure corner. Taking care to be quieter than the streets, he slinks along the rooftops until they come into earshot. He is quite close; they are speaking very softly, even for this type of city.
“...time enough for that later,” one says. She is wearing a hood that hides her face. “I can’t afford to stay, what is the status of our arrangement?”
“Completely unscathed,” replies her accomplice, who is similarly dressed.
“And you have it with you?”
He pauses. “Are you the designated recipient?”
The recipient leans close and whispers something the shadowkin cannot hear.
The deliverer grunts and withdraws something wrapped in black cloth from his cloak. The recipient takes it almost too quickly.
“High Ones, don’t unwrap it here—“
The shadowkin has heard enough. He lets himself fall onto the top of an overhanging streetlight, balancing there in a crouch, and becoming just louder than the city. The recipient notices him and shoves the package into her cloak with a curse.
“Who’s there?” she calls to the shadowkin, who she cannot see and does not know.
“Interesting exchange you had just now,” he says, just loud enough for his voice to carry. The deliverer turns now. Their hooded cloaks hide their faces well, but not well enough to hide their unease. The shadowkin drops to the ground, his own cloak itself a shadow. He stands up slowly, to play on their anxiety. Directly under the light, the harsh shadows hide his own face.
“Get lost, kid,” says the deliverer, “this is no time of night to be messing around.”
“I could say the same to you,” the shadowkin says, moving forward, “‘cause I’m not messing around.” He wills the black crystal in his hand to release, and it does, extending instantly into a slender black staff, even tossing a satisfying glint of light to match the shadowkin’s eye.
The deliverer and recipient glance at each other, and the recipient sprints away into the darkness. The shadowkin springs after her, not an instant wasted. The deliverer makes to block the shadowkin’s pursuit, but he thrusts the staff into the deliverer’s shoulder, knocking him aside enough for the shadowkin to slip by. He rescinds the staff as he charges after the recipient, leaving the deliverer far behind them.
The shadowkin does not lose sight of his target. The streetlights flash by as he chases down a narrow and precise trail meant to throw him off. But the shadowkin was made for this, and he acts as the recipient’s shadow. Finally, she retreats to defend herself or ward him off, and he is met with a slashing knife. One slash, two slashes, he dodges both and his staff extends to deflect the third. He drives the end into her ribs, knocking her to the ground. In an instant, he has her pinned, a knife to her throat.
“You’re pretty quick for a kid,” the recipient growls.
“And you for a human. The crystal.” His voice is young, and despite its menacing tone, pleasant to hear. Like there’s something floating within him. But there is no laughing mark upon his face.
“Belt pouch,” the recipient finds herself saying truthfully. She curses herself for the lapse of judgment, then moves her hand slowly...
The shadowkin keeps the knife to her throat as he removes the crystal, wrapped in velvety black cloth, from her person. He tucks it safely away in his own belt. Then he presses the knife down enough to draw blood. The steel is cold and biting, and the recipient holds her breath. “I will kill you,” he says, his words dark but with that strange underlying lightness. Her own knife is clasped in her hand, positioned to strike the shadowkin in the neck. But she holds, afraid, uncertain, and because she cannot summon any desire to hurt him.
But the deliverer can. The shadowkin casts an alerted glance over his shoulder before rolling away from the blow (and the recipient), with barely a heartbeat to spare. The deliverer stumbles forward, nearly tripping on his accomplice, who is now on her feet, wiping the blood from her neck and yanking her hood over her head. The deliverer wastes no time in swinging at the shadowkin again with nothing but a trusty fist, which the shadowkin dodges easily. The deliverer rushes forward, attempting to tackle him, but in a single well-placed movement the shadowkin uses the deliverer’s own momentum to send him flying into the cobbled street. Pleased with himself, the shadowkin is nearly caught by the recipient’s knife, which he barely manages to dodge, his back slamming against the wall of a building. But before he lets the recipient get the better of him, the shadowkin drops to the ground and rolls out of his compromising position. In the fleeting moment he remains crouching, his cloak seems to be one with the shadows filling the street and washing over the buildings, and he is emerging from them as if he were made of them. In some senses he is.
The deliverer is standing now as the recipient moves to corner him. Enough time spent on this fight, the shadowkin thinks. He readies a few crystals in his hand and lets his enemies draw near each other. “I’ll be taking my leave now,” he says as he throws them to the ground. They shatter, releasing a dense smoke. The shadowkin dashes past his enemies. When the smoke clears, they reel to see him perched on a nearby street light, cloak hanging completely still and dark clothes blending into the night. He smiles slightly — a fair, otherworldly smile — before vanishing into nothing.
