Hellfire Gala Quicksilver
I commissioned the wonderful @ecairnsart to create this gorgeous Hellfire Gala art for the lovely @esteicy-blog 💙 Pietro deserves to have beautiful fashion!
[ID: Pietro Maximoff stands facing the viewer while looking off to the left side in profile with a solemn expression on his face, he has brown skin, white hair, and wears earrings in his right ear. He wears black pants, futuristic running boots, a blue sash is tied around his waist with corded accessories, tucked into the sash is a white high collared shirt with geometric designs on the chest. Over the white shirt he wears a blue jacket with silver detailing, the fastenings on his chest resemble lightning blots, a sheer blue cape with starry sparkle detailing is draped over his left shoulder, crossing over his back and gathered in his right hand. /End ID]
Artist Comments: Pietro's outfit is influenced by Balkans & Roma Folk clothing to reflect his background. The embroidered jacket has a lightning bolt inspired motif to reference his classic costume. The Boots are a hybrid of traditional/fantasy boots and futuristic/modern running shoes. One other detail is that Pietro does not wear any metal parts in his outfit (buttons, chains, etc.); he's always had a rocky relationship with his dad so I think the idea of him wearing an outfit that doesn't include anything affected by Magneto's powers is a subtle but interesting detail.
278 notes
·
View notes
Since it persists on being too hot to focus on my more useful OUAT fics, have a disgustingly self-indulgent Pinocchio Swap AU turned "Please Let Piccolino Have A Loving Family" AU moment 🙃🥰
"Grandfather," Pinocchio asks, standing on his tiptoes to peer over the worktable, "why are there so many clocks here?"
He half expects Mr. Marco to scold him for asking such a silly question, but instead the man just chuckles fondly and pats Pinocchio over the head, earning himself a giddy grin. "Ah, that's just because I like fixing them, lad. They need a more delicate touch than doors and plumbing, you see."
"But only one of them is working. Why's that?"
"That is because I don't have the time to spare for them all." Mr. Marco gestures vaguely towards the single working clock, hanging from the wall on the back of the workshop. "That one, though- August helped me sort it out, when he'd just arrived here. Do you want to see it?"
"Yes!" Pinocchio immediately interrupts his curious poking around the table, all but bouncing with enthusiasm. He likes learning about things August is involved with. August's always doing some really cool stuff, it seems.
As such, he lets the old man pick him up and lift him high enough that Pinocchio can see the clock from up close, and doesn't protest when the boy leans even closer, marvelling at the nice carvings in the wood - Pinocchio doesn't wiggle out so much to risk falling, which would for sure earn him a scolding, but still, it's the principle of the thing. He wouldn't feel so certain that he's safe being held like this, with some other people.
He thinks he knows a little of how things work in Storybrooke, now. Not everything, of course, but at least what he needs to get by on a normal day - he knows he can close the window blinds at night if he's worried someone will enter as he sleeps, and that he doesn't need anyone's permission to do so; he knows he can go crawl on August's lap if he's lonely and the man is writing or talking to someone, so long as he doesn't get too much in the way; he knows that if he wants to go pet Dr. Hopper's dog there are multiple adults who'll hold onto Gina for him, because dogs are so much bigger than her and she gets frightened easily around them.
He still doesn't know whether Mr. Marco is okay with Pinocchio calling him Grandfather or not, but that kind of thing is so confusing here, he's not sure he's ever going to puzzle it out. Back home he was supposed to address all older people like that, but Storybrooke? Beats him. Maybe it's too formal for them, who knows.
The clock ticks by another minute. Pinocchio squints at it, following the moving hands with his finger for a moment - the numbers are written a little different from what he remembers, but it's not too long before he can safely declare: "It says it's six minutes past two. That's it, right?"
"Very good," Mr. Marco praises him, and it doesn't feel like a mockery, even if he does sound genuinely surprised. "You know how to tell the time already, then? What a clever boy."
"Yeah." Pinocchio's chest swells with pride, and he points eagerly at one of the other clocks, the still broken ones. "That one's saying it's half past six, but that's because it's stuck. And that one thinks it's midday. Or midnight, I don't know."
"Yes, that's right. Good job. Say, who taught you so well?"
"An old man in a town. He said that because I had a nice watch, I should know how to read the time."
He doesn't like thinking about that too much, honestly. The old man, yes - he'd met a lot of nice elderly people in his travels, more than he did nice younger ones, at least - but the memory of the watch itself makes his chest clench painfully, like the time he was underwater without air before the dogfish happened.
He wonders what they did with it, after he lost it when he turned into a donkey. He's not even sure it still worked at that point, because it fell pretty hard, and the Coachman didn't give him time to check on it before leading him away with his rope - Pinocchio hopes it didn't break too badly, even if he can't have it anymore. It was a good pocket watch, nice to look at. He'd never owned anything so nice before that, and even though he's received lots of gifts since he came to Storybrooke, it's not the same thing. People are richer there than they were in his old land. They always seem to have something to spare for him, especially August and Mr. Marco and the gruff lady at the diner.
He must have gone quiet for too long, however, because the man gives him a little shake, if not a very rough one. "You alright, lad?"
Pinocchio nods, even though the picture of the golden watch is still flashing in front of him, as if it were the sun and he'd stared at it for too long. "Grandfather?"
"Yes, Pinocchio?"
"Can I see how to fix them, too, when you have time? Like you and August did?"
He's not really thinking he could manage it, honestly. He's not good enough for that. But anything's better than being stuck remembering the same thing over and over again, with no way to stop it. Physically doing something usually works as a distraction, like when he couldn't solve his math problems and he'd just up and start running.
For a couple seconds he worries he won't be able to explain himself if Mr. Marco asks him about it, but the old man doesn't, and instead simply nods, his mouth curling in a warm smile.
"Of course," he says, sounding a little choked up. "You're a smart boy. I'm sure you'll learn very fast."
"Really?"
"Well, yes. Why don't you go look for August and ask him, too? I bet he'll say the same thing."
Pinocchio nods again, allowing Mr. Marco to carefully put him down and darting away towards August's room as soon as his feet have touched the floor. He's not completely certain he didn't say something wrong yet, especially when he was distracted, but it's fine. He's fine. He would have been told, if someone was mad at him. That's how it works in Storybrooke.
And even if he did make someone mad, he can learn how to fix that. Just like the clocks. Just like the golden watch, stuck in another world that it might be.
8 notes
·
View notes
⁽ @wrstson ⁾ ― : starter call. from here .
E . ― THE CRIES OF HER FIRST CHILD WAS SOMETHING SHE COULD NEVER FORGET. From the first moment she had laid the child against her chest- the stream of tears and the refusal to cease of his crying until she had lead him to her breast to feed- from the moment she had seen his face Eve had known she had felt a true sense of love. A true sense of utter adoration- a feeling that nearly raged a burning sense of PROTECTION and LOVE- her first born child, Cain.
Other children would follow after. But it would be Cain that followed in his mother's footsteps, the act of sinning. There was no doubt within her mind- she had cursed her children, from the moment the LORDS voice had revealed the death of her second child. The mourning, the sorrow- the tearing anguish she had felt from not only the babe in which had been d e a d in her arms- but from also the cruelty in which she had blessed her child, her Cain. She had unsaid pleas on her tongue- the torn duty of mourning for a child she had lost- but also the desperate need to keep her first by her side. The last she had seen of her CHILD had been so long ago- and she feared she could no longer remember the look on his face from the last glance her way.
But she could never forget her child- almost as if all the years came back to her at once-
" ... Cain, " Her breath was wispy, filled with a disbelief ( and hope )- "- My baby ... is that you ? "
1 note
·
View note