#evocant

send me a ◑ for a GUILTY turn-on.

Send '❀' if my muse is one of your favorites

✉ for an 2 AM text

[text] I'm running on three hours of sleep and ten cups of coffee and I can't fucking draw anything.

[ text ] I recall ‘terrible confidence’ being a turn on for you. Pride will be paid in the form of slavery. Let’s say for a week?

Her finger twitched over the screen and she was tempted to simply ignore it. He was right -- annoyingly so. And she could not pass up the opportunity to have him her slave for a week in the event that she won -- and winning was of the utmost importance when pride was on the line. She was notorious for it; if she didn't have so much, maybe she would have apologised to Dolce already.But her brother could not apologise to her without being half-asleep, so she wouldn't do it either.

[text] I would extend the same terms for when I win, and I turn you on instead of the other way around.

[ text ] Betting money would be boring. Let’s bet pride.

[ text ] That sounds like a challenge. I like challenges.

[text] That's something we have in common, then. 

Don’t you know that you’re supposed to send nudes?

Peek into my character's past: 〆 for a childhood story 

If Gabbana had been less fond of their father, she would have taken Dolce with her and ran away from the possible embarrassment that would come if this moment was ever leaked to the press.

However, she was a Daddy’s girl through and through, and she had no qualms with seeing Dolce in a dress as they got ready to go with their dear Papa to yet another party. They needed to be shown off, even at this age, and with no Maman to argue against their exposure to the life of ass-kissing and occasional lip service, Papa had all the freedom in the world to take his children with him everywhere he went — and everywhere really was everywhere.

"You look beautiful, Dolce," a 7 year-old Gabbana gushed, patting her brother’s face affectionately with a wide grin after they were led to a table for all the children unfortunate enough to be taken to these kinds of gatherings. Somewhere along the line, both managed to make friends — somehow. And, with most of those new acquaintances gone, Gabbana had all the time in the world to fawn over her brother. “Très beau, très beau.”

Eventually one of the children came back, and poked Gabbana’s arm. Dolce made a face at that — no one touched his sister — but the elder twin merely swatted the offending finger away. “What?”

"Are you…twins?” the wide-eyed boy (his name escaped her then; she never really paid attention to people near her age except for Dolce, but he was an exception). 

“Oui.” Their French upbringing still remained heavy upon the young girl’s tongue, accented as it was even as she spoke English to the boy. “Don’t we look the same?”

There came a fervent nod and an exclamation “you look like you’ve been — cloned!”, before Gabbana became distracted by Dolce asking her if they could go somewhere else (preferably home which, at the moment, was a hotel nearby), clearly displeased by the stranger.

"What if we were?" she challenged anyway with a smirk, letting the boy gasp in amazement as they walked towards the room where Papa told them to go if they were in the mood to leave.