#and think sketch pages aren’t good enough

[mel0vly]

Guys I’ll post art soon dw im just super self critical

[write-and-buried]

And you can hold me

Authors Note; HOW DID NOBODY HUG THIS MAN. I had to come out of semi retirement to give this man the hug he so desperately needs

Content warnings; none - just sad boy being sad

Note; this blog is intended for adult audiences regardless of content, by proceeding you agree that you are over the age of 18, have read any relevant content warnings, and wish to proceed.

It wouldn’t run without the donations. One of the bands from PittFest had set it up, funded enough for three years without blinking an eye. A 24hr coffee cart in the emergency department. Not in the waiting room, tucked in a little alcove off the staff entrance. Protein bars, coffee, tea, fresh fruit, all arriving daily, and a staffing roster of four shifts of 6 hours each, ensuring a never-ending supply of caffeine and sustenance for busy doctors, stressed patients and parents, and the occasional late night maintenance worker.

Given the location, you lucked out on the shift you did. Six to midnight, midweek. You missed the start of the night shift by an hour, relieving your coworker who had somehow managed to get milk in her shoes barely giving you a handover before leaving as if she was being chased. The start and end of the shifts were the worst. Sleep deprived, run down doctors, nurses, custodians, all weary and thankful for your existence. You were lucky enough to have a steady trickle of customers across the evening with enough time to sketch in between if you were lucky.

They were a quiet customer based too – all too lost in their own thoughts or already on their phones requesting lab results. In the few months you’d worked here, you’d only learned a few names. Dana, the charge nurse who got a chamomile on her way out the door with the kind smile and impenetrable attitude. Whittaker, whose diet seemed to consist mostly of energy drinks of varying flavours, who reluctantly bought a banana or apple once a week when another doctor ordered him to, shy and sweet. Dr Abbott, who forces you to call him Jack and lets you experiment with weird espresso combinations and has genuinely good feedback on the flavours.

The rest passed you like ships in an inky sea, never rude or demanding, but too consumed with things far more important than sketching barista who isn’t tall enough to see over the cart.

It’s a little under halfway through your shift. Everything is stocked, all the equipment is clean, everything in its proper place you take the time to work on the jellyfish sketch that has been consuming you for the past few days. Something about the floating ribbons of tentacles has sunk its teeth into your subconscious, demanding to spill across a page. You’ve just finished enough to stretch your neck out, stand from the crappy wheelie chair tucked into the little nook behind the cart. That’s when you see him.

He’s tall, clad in a hoodie over scrubs, glasses sticking out of the pocket. You immediately categorise him in shapes. The rounded slump of his shoulders, the blunt square of the fists he’s clenching at his sides, the oval rise and fall of his strong chest as he forces breaths in and out. He looks so sad. So tired and worn down, the words claw out of your throat before you can stop them.

“Rough day?”

He starts, just a little, his hand coming to scrub down his jaw to hide the brief shock as a laugh follows.

“Yeah, yeah… aren’t they all” His voice is weary, tired. You glance briefly at your watch 9:30pm. If he’s a day shift worker he’s currently sitting on hour 14, most likely without a proper break or meal.

“Coffee? Fruit? I think there’s a blueberry muffin hiding somewhere back here”.

“No” he drags a deep breath through his nose as if even the act of speaking is costing him precious energy “Thank you, though”.

“You’re welcome”

His head tilts curiously as he looks at you. Giving you a tight-lipped smile before he leaves out the staff exit, muffled music following him as the door swings closed.

--

He keeps looking for you. It’s not on purpose, not a conscious decision. But every time he leaves now, he flicks his eyes to the coffee cart, looking for you. Sometimes you’re standing on tiptoe to hand a customer a coffee, sometimes you’re tucked into the corner with your sketchbook, just your shoes visible, the worn graffitied pair you seem to wear every day. He knows Dana orders tea from you sometimes on her way out after a particularly energising shift to help wind down, he’s seen the disposable cups from other coworkers. There’s just not a good reason to bring you up in conversation, no good reason to ask a single question about you that won’t have half the ER gossiping about how he had interests other than work.

The months since PittFest have been long. Gloria crawling all over her star emergency department, Langdon returning from inpatient, McKays schedule changing with an ongoing custody battle, the slow repair of a friendship with Collins. He didn’t need anything else to occupy his mind except the Pitt, and yet you were there. A sliver of his shift spent thinking about you, about the sweetness in your voice as you jumped to offer him a kindness after a day that seemed to have none.

It was another mean shift. Sometimes the days felt cruel – as if luck had taken PTO and left the universe short staffed. Car accidents, children hurt worse than childhood ever should, a pair of scrubs swapped in a vending machine after a surprise arterial bleed when the patient lifted their hand.

It was a day when he didn’t feel like anything he did was enough, the memories of all of it, Adamsons hand growing cold, the tile under his ass as tears cooled on his cheeks, the sharp points of the star digging into his palm as he clung to nothing but a brief snapshot of childhood comfort.

“Another rough one?” Your voice breaks through it. Enough for him to start again, coming back to himself as he whips to look at you. You’re wringing a cloth, your cheeks slightly pink.

“They all are” he replied, a grief laden chuckle forcing the words out, just enough to convince a stranger that he’s fine really. That a beer and a baseball game and thick sleep on his couch in his empty apartment is going to be enough to heal him, to keep him coming back.

“Coffee?... Tea?” you ask, the cloth strangled between white knuckles.

“No muffin this time?” he asks, quirking a brow

“Sold out” You say, a shy smile blooming across your cheeks when you realise he remembers you. It’s cute. It’s too cute for him to notice, the sweet and cute combination of you already seeming precious to him. He tries to resist it, the pull towards that sweetness

“Want a hug?” the words pull him up short, his eyes snapping to yours as you cover your mouth in shock.

You watch his face change, a hint of amusement sparking across his features as you feel your cheeks heat. You don’t know what made you say it, except the thought had occurred to you more than once, that he looked like he could use one.

“I-I… oh my god” you stutter, squeezing your eyes shut, hoping to pull on some long dormant super power to rewind time by thirty seconds to keep the stupid words from coming from your mouth

“Yes” he says softly, so soft you almost don’t hear it.

Looking up you see his lips purse slightly, shrugging his shoulder, the backpack strap lifting a little higher as he does.

“I’d like a hug please” He says, louder now, slowly coming towards the cart, approaching you as if you were a skittish kitten.

You nod, swallowing hard as he comes around the side of the cart. He’s taller than you thought, towering over you as he slowly slides his backpack onto the ground, nestling it next to your canvas bag as he stands and waits.

“Um, okay… come, uh, come here”  you nod, tucking yourself into the little alcove where you hide to draw sometimes, the crappy chair you rescued from the outside dumpster with your sketchbook laying open on the seat.

“Pretty” he comments, nodding towards the sketch, another seascape, corals and bright colours, with the whip of a tail pushing sea grass across the ocean floor.

“Thanks” you say, trying to tug bravery from the hidden spot behind your rib cage. Inhaling once you find it, slipping your arms around his waist, relishing in his height so that he cant see the cringe on your face, or the heat in your cheeks as you awkwardly link your arms around his back.

You smell like sugar and sweet fruit. Crystalised pineapple and something earthy and warm tickles his nostrils as shock settles into his bones that you actually did it. He was expecting you to laugh it off, roll your eyes, tease him a little. But instead you wrapped your arms around him and fit yourself against him with a shaky inhale and now he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Warmth is the first sensation that bleeds into him. Your forehead pressed into his sternum as you shift a little on your feet. It races through his bloodstream like sunlight through an open window before he realises he hasn’t moved since you touched him.

Slowly his arms come around your shoulders, easily folding you into his embrace. His eyes shut softly as some thread between you lets you rock a little back and forth, his hands splayed around your back. His next breath feels broken, a comfort his body has forgotten and suddenly aches for breaking his ribs as your thumb skates a tiny circle on his shoulder blade.

God, when was the last time he touched a body that wasn’t broken? That he wasn’t trying to put back together, that he wasn’t losing. He feels the muscles in his face relax as his eyes drift shut, his head tipping forward to catch more of the sweet scent of you, some burning sensation starting behind his eyes.

You feel it. The breath he takes, deep and soothing, moving you both with the force of it as the full weight of his arms around you becomes a little tighter. You try not to consider how well you fit directly into his embrace, how the tiniest twitch of your fingers seems to have lifted some weight off his shoulders, the relief in the exhale that curls around your hair. He smells like antiseptic, the sharp sting of hospital cleanser and a hint of old spice hiding somewhere underneath.

“Are your days always like this?” your voice is soft, muffled slightly by his shirt as your thumb keeps gently tracing the curve of his shoulder blade

“Hugging strangers? No… no this is new” He says and is rewarded with the tiniest shake of your shoulders, a tiny laugh.

“Rough… I mean”  You say, and he can hear the smile in your voice.

“not all of them, but today was pretty bad”

“I’m sorry” you say instinctually “But… thank you”

“For what?” he replied

“Coming back. Can’t be easy, to have so many days like this and keep coming back for more. Must feel like there’s nobody else, that if you don’t do it, then nobody will, and then people will just… get hurt, and be alone and scared without anyone to help them.”

He tilts his head down, eyebrows scrunching in confusion as you angle your face upwards to meet his eyes. You don’t say anything, just offering him a mirrored version of the same tight lipped smile he’s given you for the last few weeks. His arms tighten around your shoulders, pulling you closer into his body as the heat builds behind his eyes.

The natural end comes when you hear the squeak of sneakers coming towards your card. He pulls away from you, sucking in cool air at the immediate loss of your warmth. The customer is quick, and he watches you rise onto your tiptoes to hand him the coffee and fruit he ordered.

The awkwardness settles over you both like a blanket when you’re left in one another’s company again.

“Go home”  you say softly “Sleep in your bed, have sweet dreams”

“That’s the best advice I’ve been given in a while”

“Next one will cost ya” You say with an awkward giggle.

“Hug? Or advice?” He replies, picking up his backpack and turning to go

“Hugs are always free. But I’ve gotta charge you this first time”

“Sure, what’s the going rate?”

“a name?” you say quietly, looking away from him quickly.

“Michael Robinavitch” he says quickly, swinging his hand out to shake yours as you reply with your own “But everyone calls me Robby”

“Sweet dreams Robby”

It’s the first real smile he’s had all day as he nods, music filling his ears as he leaves into the sweet smelling night air.  

--

Thanks for reading! This could easily turn into a series/obsession if there's any interest for it <3

[dollyzdaydreamz]

Arthur Morgan x Magician! Reader

Love and Fascination

Description: Arthur Morgan never believed in magic, until it nestled it's way right into his heart by you: A sharp-minded illusionist raised amongst the outlaws, turning pistols into props, and cons into theater. He reluctantly agrees to assist you during an upcoming heist in which you act as a distraction, putting on a magic show for the aristocrats while Dutch and Hosea rob them blind. You plan on introducing a new trick you coined 'The Bullet Catch.'

Who better to shoot said bullet at you than your lovely assistant?

Warnings: guns, shooting, magic tricks. (SFW: slow burn, fluff, humor)

Arthur’s pencil scratches softly against the page, the sounds of camp life fading beneath the focused rhythm of his strokes. The fire crackles nearby, voices low and mingling in the background, distant and unimportant compared to the figure sitting a few feet away, legs crossed, fingers stained with soot and gun oil as you tinker with the barrel of a flintlock pistol.

You aren’t cleaning it, not really. You’ve got a handful of little springs and gears laid out beside you, some strange, contraption-like thing half-assembled in your lap. Arthur doesn’t know what the hell you’re building, but he’s seen you do it a dozen times. You made a habit of transforming tools of violence into illusions, danger into delight. He’s seen coins vanish from your fingers and pulled out of his ear mid-conversation, and once a dove, living and breathing, fluttering out from his own damn hat.

He still doesn’t know how you did that one. In his journal, your silhouette takes shape. Not quite accurate enough for him, he never thinks he gets your eyes right. They’re too sharp, too knowing. The kind of eyes that look like they’re always seeing through people, and yet somehow still something soft. Something he’s not sure he has words for.

“She’s a mystery I been trying to figure out for years. Grew up same as the rest of us. Smarter than most like Dutch, as kind as Hosea, and more beautiful than I should notice. But I do. A lot.”

Your brows are furrowed now as you lean into your work, strands of hair falling into your face. Arthur pauses to discreetly sketch that, too. His pencil hovers near the edge of the page as you reach into your satchel and pull out a small packet, gunpowder maybe. Or glitter. With you, it could be either.

Always messing around with those toys, but it puts on a good show, brings quite a bit of money in for us. Dutch calls it art. Hosea says it's a gift, while Grimshaw calls it ‘nonsense.’  I think it’s somethin’ else entirely.  I think it really is magic.

A sharp voice breaks the quiet.

“Would it kill you to do something around here?” Grimshaw snaps, arms crossed over her chest as she storms toward you. 

You don’t look up. “I’m workin’,” you reply.

Grimshaw’s lips thin into a line. “Those toys ain’t boiling stew and washing the clothes around here.”

You sigh, dramatic and long-suffering as you dodge her attempts to pull you up, “Fine, fine. I’ll go be a good little maid.” 

You shove your contraptions into a small bag before standing and dusting off your clothes. You meet her piercing gaze with a chuckle, Grimshaw can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but you wanted to see her smile today, so you pause and think of something. 

Before she can react, your fingers reach up toward her tightly pinned hair.

“What? What are you—?”

You tug, gently but swiftly, and pull something free: a wad of cash.

One you definitely did not borrow from Dutch earlier that day. 

“Would you look at that,” you muse aloud, counting the cash under your breathe, “Seems you’ve been sneaking around, Miss Grimshaw.” 

The girls at camp nearby stifle their laughter.

“Now where in God’s name did you find that?” Hosea asks from where he’s sat, brows furrowed in concern. You never understood why he was always so fussy when it came to you borrowing things, he’s the one who taught you the art of pickpocketing after all. “Ask Grimshaw, it was in her hair!” You shrug.

“Don’t you frame me girl! I-” 

“Here! Let me get rid of it for you,” you chuckle, before covering the money with both hands. 

When you finally lift your palm to reveal the band of cash, it’s gone. 

Not really though. You plan on using it to buy some more tools for an act you’ve been working on.

Grimshaw can’t help but let out a reluctant smile as she swats your arm,

“Get outta here before I make you disappear,” she warns. 

You finally head toward the wash bins, feeling glad you cracked a smile out of the old hag for a change. Things like that were what drew you into magic in the first place. Sure you were good at pickpocketing and putting on a good act with Hosea need be, but that was something entirely different.

You still remember the first time Mr. Trelawny had ambled over to you at camp one day when you were just a kid. He approached with a troubled expression, saying he saw something odd in your book before he pulled a live dove out from between the bindings. 

You watched as it fluttered up and away into the trees surrounding the camp, before he tipped his hat and walked off as though nothing had happened.

Your sleeves are rolled up, knuckles raw from scrubbing when you finish washing the clothes. The gang has begun to settle into their evening routines. Dutch is talking too loud near the fire and the girls are gossiping in soft hums behind the laundry line.

You slip away quietly, brushing your hands on your clothes as you spot Arthur near the edge of camp. He’d been gone for a few hours, perhaps collecting a debt for Strauss, but now he was leaning against a tree, seemingly deep in thought.

“Thought I’d find you sulking,” you call out as you approach.

Arthur glances up, already smirking. “I don’t sulk.”

“Brood, then.”

You fall into step beside him as he pushes off the tree, the two of you meandering into the woods without needing to say much. Your boots crunch against dry leaves, the quiet between you neither awkward nor heavy. 

“It’s a shame to see you takin' Dutch’s pocket money again,” he starts, blue eyes flicking toward you with a playful glint, “thought Hosea knocked that habit outta you years ago!"

You roll your eyes, “Oh, I just needed a little reimbursement for my new act.”

Arthur hums before giving you a lightheartedly suspicious look, “And Hosea’s been missin’ a few cigarettes, you know anything about that?”

“I’m helping him quit.” You dismiss the accusation with a deft hand, before fishing two cigarettes out of your pocket and offering him one.

He snorts, and you catch the way his shoulders shake just slightly, how his eyes crinkle in the corners when he laughs. You loved that the most, when you can get him of all people to crack.

The path winds toward the creek, the fading light casting golden slants through the trees. Something a few feet off catches your attention, so you hike your skirt up a little to avoid getting splashed and jog towards it. 

Arthur startles, already rushing toward you, thinking you were about to jump in, though he falters when he sees you crouching down to pick at a small flower growing near the edge of the river bank.  

You stand back up to face his puzzled expression before chuckling, “What, did you think I’d jump in and vanish?” 

“I’m never able to tell with you,” He huffs, jumping slightly when you lean toward him. 

“Calm down,” you mutter, leaning up to gently tuck the pink flower into the rope surrounding the brim of his hat.

“There! How delicate.” You tease, leaning back to observe his new accessory. 

He rolls his eyes, though he has no intention of removing the flower. 

“It’s a carnation flower,” you murmur, gazing out beyond the creek. “I once helped Hosea find a few for Bessie long ago, he told me they symbolized fascination and love.” 

Arthur glances at you from the corner of his eye, half expecting you to reach the punchline of a joke or find the flower morphed into some crude object, but it doesn’t come. 

Instead, a long silence follows as you watch the water ripple for a beat, hands tucked behind your back with a content little smile, one that he’s drawn too many times to count.  He doesn’t say anything right away. Just keeps his gaze fixed on the water.

Your words linger longer than they should, stirred into the breeze and the soft gurgle of the creek. He watches the water move, the way it never stops, and feels a bitter echo of something old and worn stirring in his chest.

Love.

He’d had it once. Twice, if he was being honest with himself, though he rarely was. Mary had left because she had to, not because she stopped caring. And Eliza, life took her before she ever had the chance to stay. He’d buried that kind of hope a long time ago, somewhere between the hollow ache in his ribs.

So when he first noticed that feeling creeping in for you, the quiet kind that sits in his gut and won’t let go, he tried to snuff it out. Told himself you’d leave, too. Run off for something cleaner, safer. Or worse, die in this mess of a life you were living, just another name carved into the back of his mind like the others.

But you didn’t. You stayed.

And over the years during rare peaceful moments, like this one, he’d let himself think about it. Just for a second. What it might be like if he had enough saved up. If he could drag himself out of the muck and go straight, just for you. You’d mentioned it a few times, after all, what Bessie and Hosea had. The quiet companionship. The warmth. The home.

He wanted it, too. God help him, he did. But wanting never got a man very far. Not in this life.

A carnation. Fascination and love.

He huffs a breath through his nose, barely audible, like he's trying to shake the meaning off him.

Then, you break the silence with a casual, almost too-casual:

“Would you ever shoot me?”

Arthur’s neck nearly snaps from whiplash, 

“What?!”

You look at him, shifting from one heel to the other, head tilted in curiosity. 

“Well, would you?”

He frowns, “That a trick question?”

You shrug. 

He scoffs, before giving you a sideways look, “You sure as hell got a way of keepin’ people on their toes, woman.”

You huff, “You didn’t answer.”

“Fine. Would I shoot you?…” Arthur pretends to consider it, scratching the coarse hair on his chin, “Depends on which one of my guns goes missin’ next.”

You laugh, “And what about your journal?”

That catches him. His gaze narrows suspiciously, “What about it? Did you take it-”

“No, of course not. I’m just saying, everyone likes to call me mysterious but,” you bump his arm lightly, “I’ve got my eye on you, Morgan.”

He arches a brow, “That so?”

“Mhm. I’ve noticed you scribbling away like…Michelangelo more than usual. All quiet and delicate-like.” You tease, flicking the flower in his hat.

He gives you a pointed look.

Eventually, you both start heading back to camp, the last of the sun dipping below the tree line. The crickets have begun their nightly chorus, and the firelight glows ahead like a beacon.

“Well,” Arthur says, hands resting comfortably on his belt, “it’s been a strange walk, as per usual.”

You pause, processing the comment, before tipping your hat, 

“Thank you, I do my best.” You say as you turn towards your tent.

You had spent the last few days collecting materials for your latest act: ‘The Bullet Catch’ You begged Sadie to accompany you into town to visit the gunsmith, acting as a clueless farmer’s daughter in need of assistance, sent into town to buy a few weapons. 

The first few bits of information were quite useful, it even helped you narrow down which gun to use. As the older man droned on about each gun with a proud grin with you nodding like an airhead, you’d discreetly tuck extra bullet casings and whatever else you could get your hands on into your dress pockets, throwing in a praise for his abundance of knowledge here and there.

A few days later, Arthur finds you crouched over again at your makeshift workbench, entirely absorbed. You’ve been fiddling with the same revolver for hours, muttering and sketching symbols into a notebook filled with diagrams and half-finished ideas.

He watches from his usual spot as he smokes his cigarette, trying not to care.

Then you stand up suddenly and bolt forward with the kind of determination that only ever means trouble.

“Arthur!” You whisper sharply, approaching him with a wild look in your eye. 

He eyes you warily, already pushing up off the tree trunk and regretting he was there in the first place, 

“Oh no” he sighs.

“Oh yes,” you say, grabbing him by the wrist and yanking him, “Come on, I need you to do somethin’ for me.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” He drawls. 

You drag him behind a wagon, glancing around like you’re planning a robbery before your sharp eyes meet his. He falters a bit under your stare and proximity, clearing his throat a little as he presses himself closer to the wagon albeit nervously,

“What do you want?” 

Your eyes gleam with barely-contained excitement, “I need you to help me with an act on that boat heist coming up.”

He stares. “How?”

“You can draw this gun on me,” you start, discreetly showing him the pistol you’d been working on,

“What?”

“And then shoot me.”

He yanks his arm out of your grip. “Have you lost your goddamn mind!”

You shush him aggressively, looking around to see if anyone has noticed, “My mind is perfectly intact!” you whisper-shout.

He levels you with a slow, drawn-out sigh. “You want me to shoot you with that little gun a’yours?”

“Yes, it’ll be fine I promise.” You reassure him, hooking your arm in his and leading him away from the wagon as he frowns.

 “Do you trust me Arthur?”

“Not entirely,” he mumbles quietly. “Huh?” 

“Nothin. Just…” He sighs, regretting that he’s even considering this, “Lemme think it over.” 

You jump in excitement and wrap your arms around him in joy, nearly toppling him over, 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you–” “I haven’t said yes!” Arthur groans, patting your back reluctantly though his smile betrays him, “...Just said I’d think about it.”

Later that night, Javier is gently strumming his guitar as Bill is yammering about his time in the navy with Lenny while the two of you sit near the campfire.

Arthur sees you glancing at him every so often from the corner of his eye, likely anticipating the verdict on his decision. He sighs, glancing skyward like he’s asking the heavens why they put him here, before meeting your expectant gaze.

“Hosea’s gonna kill me,” He mutters. You perk up a bit, but clear your throat to suppress your excitement.  

“Only if I die.” You point out. 

“That ain’t funny.”

The riverboat was lavishly decorated, all red velvet drapes, flickering chandeliers, and the clinking of champagne glasses. The hum of laughter floated above the murmur of cards being shuffled and chips clattering onto tables. Among the glittering crowd sat Arthur, slightly hunched in a suit that felt too tight around the neck, his hat removed but his eyes sharp beneath his brow.

He sat off to the side, watching the stage like a hawk.

Dutch and Hosea had slipped off somewhere, muttering about strongboxes and guards and using the show as cover. Arthur didn’t care much for the plan, just about your safety, hoping you weren't going to call him up for that stupid 'Bullet Catch' or whatever you called it.

You stood center stage, lit by multiple stage lights, dressed in a deep burgundy dress that shimmered with each step. Your gloved hands flourished as you tossed a silver coin into the air, making it vanish mid-spin, earning gasps and polite applause from the crowd. But Arthur wasn’t looking at your hands.

He watched your face, calm and charismatic, that gleam in your eye. The way you lit up onstage, brighter than any spotlight. Around camp you were clever, yes, but seemingly withdrawn from reality. Here? Here you were electric, moving like you’d been born in front of a crowd.

“…and now,” you started, drawing the room in, “for my next trick, I’ll need a volunteer. Preferably…” your eyes scanned the audience slowly, pointedly, “a handsome one.”

Arthur felt it in his gut before you even looked his way.

You extended a pointer finger, locking eyes with him. “You, sir! Don’t be shy.”

Arthur rolls his eyes dramatically, rising from his seat with a tired grunt.

A few people chuckled, some clapped encouragingly, mistaking his reluctance for bashful charm.

Arthur groaned, half under his breath. “Knew she was gonna do this…”

He stepped onto the stage, boots thunking against the wood, and leaned in slightly. “This better not be that bullet thing,” he whispered.

You winked, “It’s absolutely that bullet thing.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes, but didn’t argue. 

You turned back to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, what you are about to witness is a feat of precision, trust, and a complete disregard for common sense.”

The crowd laughed, but Arthur didn’t as you handed him the revolver,

“Please check the chamber, then show the audience,” You instructed.

He did. Six bullets, all real.

“Now,” you say, turning to the crowd, “we’ll remove five.”

You plucked them out with a flourish, letting them clatter one by one into a crystal bowl. The last you pushed back in the chamber yourself, then clicked it shut.

Arthur took the gun back, and for a moment, the noise of the crowd fell away.

You give him a subtle, almost imperceptible nod.

Arthur swallowed. Stepped back. Took aim.

The gun fired.

The sound cracked through the hush of the stage, and the audience gasped, some screamed and lurched back. 

You stagger back, clutching your chest.

Arthur feels his blood run cold, seeing his life flash before his eyes for a moment, thinking he really did kill you. He knew he shouldn’t have agreed to this. He starts towards you,

But then your hand comes up.

In your palm, nestled neat and smoking, sat the bullet.

Silence.

Then applause. Wild and thunderous as the audience members rise from their seats row by row.

You bowed, unable to contain your laughter as sheer thrill washes over you. Arthur let out the breath he’d been holding, shoulders sinking. He checks over you nonetheless, still unsure of what the hell just happened and how you didn't have a hole in your chest.

But then, just past the spotlight, Arthur spotted Dutch and Hosea, half-shadowed behind the audience, making urgent gestures.

He moved closer to you, “We’re done here.”

You gave one last curtsy and followed him offstage, the cheers still ringing behind you.

Outside, the cool night hit your flushed face like a slap. Dutch was grinning like a madman,

“That was brilliant,” he laughed. “They didn’t even see us clean ‘em out!”

“You two,” Hosea barked, glaring at you and Arthur with the weariness of someone who aged ten years in twenty minutes, “have lost your goddamn minds?! I thought I’d have to bury you!”

“No need for burial, dear Hosea, I’m quite alive,” you chuckle, basking in your little post-show afterglow with a dreamy sigh.

“Told you it was a bad idea, you could've given the old man a heart attack!” Arthur says. "The magician is never to blame," you reply, "besides you agreed to help." "Oh, really? Because..."

Hosea gives you both an exasperated look, about to say something else as the two of you bicker, but dismisses it entirely with a shake of his head. “I’m gettin' too old for this…” he sighs.

A few days later, the camp was buzzing with normalcy, until Sadie slapped a newspaper down on the table with a heavy hand.

There you were. Front page. Caught mid-performance, gun smoke still curling.

‘MAGICIAN CATCHES BULLET IN MIDST OF RIVERBOAT ROBBERY’ Sadie reads in mock grandeur.

“What the hell?!” Bill squawks.

“She did what?” Mary-Beth gasped, snatching the paper.

“Damn! I knew I should’ve gone.” John huffed, shooting Abigail a glare.

She scoffs, “With your face half eaten?”

“Son of a bitch,” Arthur muttered, scanning the article. “They really believed it.”

You grin, leaning towards Mary-Beth to get a glimpse at the paper.

“You little heathen!” Grimshaw suddenly snaps, storming over and giving you a sharp slap to the arm. “Don’t you ever do something like that again!”

“Miss Grimshaw, it was for the heist—“

“I don’t care! If I ever hear that you ‘died’ again, I’ll kill you!” she shouts, waving a ladle at you.

You frown, “That’s actually not how it works, I’d already be–Ow!” you’re painfully cut off when she thwacks you with the ladle.

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose as he walks away from the chaos, “I need a drink.”

Arthur sets a fire as he camps out near Emerald Ranch after helping John steal an oil wagon. He sighs, already missing your company, the way you turned a heavy situation lighter than a feather.

You begged to accompany him, even came up with a few counterplans to distract the workers at the factory, but Grimshaw had been punishing you with extra chores. 

He rolls his shoulders and leans back on his bed roll, ready to retire for the night, but then his eyes catch a familiar flower sprouting out near the log beside him, a Carnation. 

He instinctively reaches into his satchel, fingers searching for the familiar leather of his journal to sketch it, only to feel a soft pile of what feels like flower petals.

His brows furrow, and he grabs a handful before bringing them up to his face…more Carnations.

“How the hell,” he mutters, his satchel had been on his person the entire day. No one had even touched it.

But then the cogs in Arthur’s brain turn as he thinks of a sneaky little someone. 

Arthur turns one of the flowers between his fingers.

He huffs, suppressing a grin and shaking his head a little at that funny little ache in his chest that never quite goes away when he thinks of you, those two unworldly, magical feelings that bubble up in the pit of his stomach, Love and Fascination.

thanks for reading ^ - ^

♡ like this post if u think Arthur is juicy asf

♡ leave notes to lmk what u think

♡ dont be shy to request fics

[quibbs126]

So I did some more Transformers drawings, and I figured page was full enough

I mean, it isn’t really, I could have fit more in the corner if I wanted, but I can’t think of anything else to draw there, so might as well post it now

So I suppose, let’s talk through all this

First off we have an Optimus I never finished, because I couldn’t get that bending shoulder to look right. It just looks off, and I can’t finish it until it looks right. So I never did

I think he’s supposed to be sad and yearning after the breakup with Megatron, and talking about it with someone

Anyways, then we move on to the Dinobot section, which I made because I started Beast Wars and like Dinobot, and had been attempting to draw him at work the previous day

I think I draw him too skinny, which is why I made that middle one, to be more accurate. But I also kind of like drawing him skinnier? I know it isn’t accurate, but I like making him so. Like he’s got muscles, but has a lean body type. I don’t know

Then today, I wanted to draw a happy, smiling D-16, who’s doing so at something Orion did for him (this isn’t supposed to be a recreation of the race scene)

I was going to do it more like the Dinobot style, but then I ended up going back to 3D boxes anyways

Honestly I think it’s one of the ones I’m most proud of, look at him and his sweet little face

Still can’t get the sticker right though

But anyways, on to the last thing, the Bee and Elita

Honestly I think the two of them need some ships in this universe too. Megatron and Optimus got their whole situation, but what about them? Elita doesn’t really have any options presented right now outside of maybe Arcee and I guess Airachnid (but personally I’m not here for the toxic yuri right now), and I don’t really know about Bee

The sequels should give them new characters to have subplots and shipping with. It can’t all be Megatron and Optimus hogging the spotlight (even if I do like them)

As for the drawings of the two themselves, I mean it’s alright. I think Elita came out better though. But it’s also my first time drawing them, and it takes some practice for me to get them right

I’m realizing as I type this that I have a sketchbook, and I got good at drawing Dinobot after drawing him on sauce paper a few times. So like, I could just do that to try and practice the characters without needing to be at work, and having a handy place to keep those references. Hm, well that’s a solution for later

It also does not help that I don’t have good references for them, especially in their cogged forms. These are about the best I got, and they aren’t the best quality either, I do not know how to draw their heads (well mostly Bee’s)

I also don’t think I’m drawing the Transformers One cast right. Like their bodies and general proportions I mean

Like, I noticed from this random screenshot I saw today that D-16’s noticeably wider than Orion

And I also know that the quartet have their own distinct face shapes from one another

I just don’t know how to convey those things in my drawing of them, it doesn’t want to work

Also I don’t think I have the basic structure of how their bodies work down either. I noticed today that almost all of them have more cylindrical shoulders than the rectangles I sketch, and also they have those middle circle joints

This is an observation I’ve had before, but the Transformers One designs to me really feel like action figures/toys with the way they’re built and designed. I don’t really know how to explain what I mean, but it’s how I see these designs in particular, which I can’t say with Animated or I think Beast Wars either. If this makes sense

But yeah, that’s the drawings. I don’t really know how to end this

[prettyyoungandbored]

saw you wrote for Charlie and I desperately need to read Charlie fanfics that aren’t my own. So here I am, being that girl, who is requesting a Charlie x FemReader in college. I was thinking that they’re in the same class and Charlie thinks she’s beautiful and tries to work up the courage to ask her on a date. Nothing crazy, just something fluffy and sweet ❤️

M’am, you helped really ignite my love for Charlie Dalton with your brilliant work so I am truly honored by this.

I hope you love it!

Doodles - Charlie Dalton

Pairing: Charlie Dalton x Fem!Reader

NOT MY GIF

For as long as he could remember, Charlie always opted to sit in the back row of every class he ever attended. He loved that it gave him a chance to drift off when needed.

It was no different when he attended Harvard University.

He took a seat and opened his notebook, ready to doodle for the next hour and a half. Just as he reached for his pencil, the damn thing fell on the ground.

He leaned down to grab it when another pair of hands got a hold of it first. His eyes trailed up the hand and he found himself eye-to-eye with her.

Her being the girl who sat next to him. When she took the seat next to him on the first day of class, he thanked whatever higher being there was for giving him the opportunity. But just as he went over to talk to her at the end of class, she’d left.

Before every class he’d promised himself he’d talk to her. Talking to pretty girls had always been easy for Charlie. He’d never had a problem talking to girls.

Why is she any different? he thought to himself.

The answer came on the second day of class when she giggled at one of his doodles and suddenly, Charlie felt like the king of the world.

In the next couple of classes, he would doodle something and she’d smile or giggle. Sometimes it was a characature of the professor, other times it was just random doodles.

And yet, he’d never uttered a word to her, nor she him.

Until now.

“Can’t draw without your pencil,” she chuckled softly.

The fact she was smiling at him made him lose his breath. For the first time in his life, Charlie didn’t feel worthy of a pretty girl’s smile.

He took the pen, trying to hide his own smile. “No I can’t.”

She took the seat beside him as he stared off, excitement brewed inside. She’d noticed him. She probably did only because she was curious as to why he stared at her from the corner of his eyes.

He wasn’t sure why but something inside of him - maybe it was the old Charlie - told him to seize the opportunity.

So, while the professor droned on and on, Charlie was busy conjuring up a way to ask her out. Then he realized his answer - a doodle. But it needed to be good enough to get her to say yes.

That’s when he started drawing a flower. He tried with a rose first but it proved to be a difficult task. Rose petals were not his strong suit.

So he started on asters. Asters had to be easy right?

Wrong. Again, petals were his worst enemy as his aster pedals looked like hot dogs.

He moved onto cosmos and started to get somewhere. He sighed in relief. He was finally getting somewhere.

That’s when he saw a folded note on his desk. He picked it up and in cursive handwriting it read, “No boob drawings today? Are you ok?”

He looked over at her and she smiled at him. He smiled back and mouthed, “you’ll see.”

He continued on with his cosmos flowers until he felt it was enough.

Now it was time to bring it home with the question. What could he write to make this girl go out with him?

That’s when it hit him.

=================================

As Y/N gathered her stuff at the end of class, she noticed a folded piece of paper on her desk. On it was a handwritten note.

OPEN ME.

She opened it to find a bunch of flowers sketched out all over the lined paper. Then, in the middle of the page in red ink, it read:

I suck at drawing flowers, but I’ll have some real ones for you on Friday night. Meet me at the library at 7 pm.

[bless-my-demons]

Redamancy: Chapter Three

Jasper Hale x Reader

Series Summary: What happens when your soulmate is a vampire that struggles to maintain a diet of trying not to kill you? Common sense says run for the hills, nothing is worth your life - but my heart is whispering why not, what’s there to lose?

Warnings: None

Notes: So sorry last weekend’s chapter was late this week, I’m back to my regularly scheduled posting! I’m so excited so many of you like this series so far!!

Word Count: 1131

Series Masterlist

• January 25, 2005 • Forks High School •

Reader

My second day at Forks high school started much smoother than the first. It was pretty much uneventful until I decided to eat lunch alone outside on the picnic tables in the quad. It was an overcast day much like all the others and maybe a little chilly, but still decent enough since it wasn’t currently raining. It made for the perfect condition being that no one else really wanted to eat outside.

That is, until I spotted none other than Jasper Hale headed in my direction.

“Mind if I join you?” He asks, pointing to the opposite end of the table I’m currently occupying.

“Not at all.” I respond, idly tidying my area self consciously.

“Sorry, sometimes it’s a little overwhelming inside and I come out here to get away.” He says by way of explanation, laying down the sketch pad he carried with him along with a few pencils and a smudge stick. “Mostly I just come out here to draw uninterrupted.” He sits and flips to an empty page, tilting it a little away from my view.

“I get it, large crowds aren’t my thing either. Plus in the two days I’ve known Emmett I can already tell that he probably creates a hostile drawing environment.” I finish with a light chuckle, turning my attention toward the unfinished apple in my hand.

“You draw too?” He asks, eyebrows lifting as he begins a rough sketch on the blank paper.

“Oh heck no, I don’t have any artistic abilities like that, as much as I wish I did.” I frown, taking a bite of my apple.

“I didn’t think I had it in me either, but I took some classes, watched some videos online, and doodled around a lot. Finally got the hang of it although I still don’t really think I’m that good.” He trails off, concentrating on his pencil strokes. “It helps with the stress though, especially when there’s a lot going on.”

“That is… actually kind of neat. Having an outlet that’s also inspiring, creating art and it centering you in the process.” I muse out loud, watching a face beginning to take shape on his paper.

I’m about to ask who he’s drawing when the bell signaling the end of lunch rings out in the empty air surrounding us. I gather my trash and stand while he tucks his supplies away.

“Thanks for keeping me company today.” I tell him as I gaze into his beautifully golden eyes, not quite ready to part ways with him.

“Thanks for allowing me to disturb your peace and quiet.” And as if reading my mind, “Mind if I walk you to your next class?”

“Oh um, sure.” Trying not to seem too excited by the proposition of spending more time in this gorgeous boy’s presence. I tuck some loose strands of hair behind my ear and walk towards him.

“Lead the way, darlin’.” He announces, sweeping his arm in the direction of the main school building, a smirk on his lips.

I laugh and shake my head at his antics, a blush creeping up my cheeks as I walk past him in the direction of my economics class.

Ditching my trash in the trash can as we leave the quad, I miss the way he grins at the accomplishment of making me giggle. I also fail to notice the astounded looks of his adopted siblings as we pass them unaware of their presence through the windows of the cafeteria. Faces reflecting their shocked thoughts at seeing their brother openly flirting with a female compared to his normal stoic facade.

“How did you do it?” Emmett asks, leaning against the locker next to mine.

“Could you be a little more specific?” I ask, a little confused by his blunt question.

“You’ve been here less than a week and my brother is wrapped around your little finger.” He says, holding up his pinky to wiggle in my face.

I laugh and shut my locker, “Emmett, I’ve had all of like two interactions with Jasper, you’re looking into this a little too much.”

“He usually keeps to himself, this isn't the normal Jasper we’re talking about.” He falls into step slightly behind me on my way to the last class of the day, his large build not moving through the throng of students as quickly as I am.

I turn to look at my new friend, “I literally have no clue, it’s probably nothing Em!” My heart picking up speed at just the thought of Jasper. Is he actually interested in me? Is that what Emmett is getting at?

There’s no way, beautiful people like him don’t go for people like me.

I turn and leave Emmett behind in the hallway as students finish rushing through the halls, the tardy bell ringing.

American History, the class I share with Jasper Hale and it also happens to be the last class of the day. Unfortunately though, his assigned seat is on the other side of the room. At least it’s more forward than mine, leaving me to observe him for most of the class period without him seeing.

History is also my worst subject; whether it’s world or US history, I hate it all the same. So many mistakes and atrocities, I wish I could let it flow in one ear and out the other without having to remember it for tests.

Today though, I get the sense our teacher has had a difficult day since he’s decided to let us work together freely. Seeing as I don’t really know anyone yet, I’m forced to work alone.

As if he could feel my discomfort and irritation with the assignment, Jasper Hale appears at the edge of my peripheral vision, claiming the abandoned desk next to mine and turning a few heads of our classmates.

“You’re thinking so loud I could practically hear it from across the room.” He mutters lowly without looking up from his worksheet.

“I’m thinking too loud?” I respond defensively as I cut him a look that would normally skin boys alive.

“Would you like some help or not, doll?” He asks, a grin sliding across his lips as his eyes meet mine in challenge.

“I-uh, I hate history.” I manage to blurt out, a little flustered that he so easily bypassed my frustrated facade without a blink.

“I do want that explanation eventually, but we have work to finish and only,” He breaks eye contact to glance at the clock above the board, “thirty seven minutes left before you’re on your own.”

“Alright Hale, what did you get for number four?” I deflate and accept his offer to save me from the misery of suffering through this stupid assignment alone.

Next

[riordanness]

does he know? — [emercy]

pairing: perseus jackson x emma rebekah

wordcount: 2.2K

warnings: none i think

dedicated to @kozumesphone , the emercy captain 💿🫧

Does he know? That was always the question lingering in the back of her mind, whenever she laughed at one of his not-so-funny jokes, when he caught her gazing at him a little too long, when she slipped up and mentioned something about him she probably shouldn’t know without being obsessed with him.

Does Percy Jackson know? How much I love him?

Emma sits in her usual place, perched right on the edge of the pier, one battered Converse dangling while the other is tucked up under her thigh. Her blue sketchbook is open in her lap, but her pencil is idle.

Her blue grey eyes are fixed on the ocean horizon, but they aren’t seeing the view. Instead, all she can picture are his sea green eyes, the way they glitter with mirth the same way the ocean does. The way his black hair is impossibly messy at all times, no matter how many times he tries to smooth it down. The single dimple in his left cheek when he grins like a maniac after teasing her about something.

She glances back down at her sketchbook, the page open to a messy sketch of her best friend.

Emma chews her lip, her pencil fixing up a few small details in his hair.

If only he knew.

If only… two words she found herself thinking and wishing and saying almost everyday now. Two words, wrapped up in delusion and hopeful dreams.

“Em!” Her thoughts are broken by a familiar, boyish voice, and an equally familiar footstep pattern as Percy Jackson runs down the length of the pier.

Percy scrambles to a stop beside her, flinging himself down to sit with his legs dangling beside hers. “Hey,” he says easily.

“Hey, back,” Emma says, a smile on her face, the one that always is when Percy is around.

Percy’s sea green eyes are first on the water, then they drift down. “What’s that?” he asks, and his voice sounds kind of funny, like he can’t decide whether to be amused or confused.

Emma frowns, following his eyes. Oh. She’d completely forgotten to close her sketchbook. It lay open in her lap, the page covered in tiny little Percys, a dozen or so messy sketches.

“Oh, um…” Emma isn’t sure how to reply. Unfortunately, she’s just gifted enough for the likeness to be fairly accurate. She can’t exactly pretend it isn’t him.

“Do you like it?” she offers.

Percy grins, looking up at her. “Em, that’s insane. That’s—like, so good! You’re incredible.” He reaches for her sketchbook, then hesitates. “Can I?”

Emma nods, handing him the book.

Percy spreads in on his lap, thumbing through the pages. Only now does Emma realise how often she draws him. Or things related to him. The ocean, a trident, sea animals, skateboards, glittering sea green eyes, and dozens of sketches of Percy.

He’s quiet for the whole time, silently studying her art. Finally, he closes the book and hands it back to Emma.

“So?” she asks nervously, chewing the inside of her cheek as she watches him. “I haven’t really shown anyone my work before, cause it’s just for fun and I’m not like, super good or anything—“

“Emma.”

Percy’s voice stops her nervous ramble.

“You’re incredible. Like, dude, that’s really good art.”

“Even the creepy ones of you?” she jokes.

Percy smirks. “Kinda weird that you know my face that well, to be honest. You’re kind of a stalker, Rebekah.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Okay, Jackson. You’re my best friend! I know your face well, weirdo. And, you’re easy to draw.”

He laughs, that boyish, fun laugh she adores. “I’m joking. If I could draw, I’d probably just draw you all day too.”

Does he know how much that comment alone made my stomach erupt? Does he know how many nights I lie awake, replaying the sound of his laugh around in circles in my head? She thinks, studying his face for as long as she could, before her gaze flits back to the ocean.

“Whatcha doing out here?” Emma asks finally.

“Looking for you.”

His easy and simple answer sends a flurry of butterflies through her stomach—so she just grins into her lap to hide the flush in her cheeks. “Yeah? Well, here I am.”

“Here you are,” he echoes, and something about the way he says it feels… strangely intimate. Emma isn’t quite sure, but the look in his eyes is something that she hasn’t seen before. Something more.

She clears her throat, changing the subject and clearing the weird, uncomfortable tension in the air. “Hey, wanna go swimming with me?”

“What kind of question is that?” Percy laughs. “Yeah, of course I do. Always.”

Emma grins. “Okay. Meet back here in ten minutes.”

“Ten?” he jokes incredulously. “I can be changed in three.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Bet.” She clambers to her feet and is off in a second, running towards the little cluster of cabins at the edge of the woods.

Soon, they’re both back. Percy in his blue board shorts, his black hair messed up from yanking his shirt over his head. Emma has pulled on her black bike shorts she always swims in (she claims they are more comfy than typical swimmers), and a modest lavender bikini top.

Chucking the towels to the deck of the pier, they race to the end, like they always do. “First one in the water is a rotten blueberry!” Emma yells at the last second, watching with glee as Percy doesn’t have time to stop, and jumps into the canoe lake with a splash.

“Hey!” he yells indignantly once he surfaces. “No fair!”

Emma points at him. “Rotten blueberry.”

Percy sticks his tongue out at her, which she can’t pretend isn’t completely adorable.

“Okay, okay, you totally cheated.”

“Cheated?” she repeats, standing at the edge of the pier, one foot dangling over the water. “I didn’t cheat; I tricked you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just get in already so I can dunk you for that.”

Emma laughs, gazing at him for just a second before she jumps in. She can’t deny that part of the reason she loves going swimming with Percy so much is so that she can check him out subtly. At least, she hopes it’s subtle. His abs are tan and gorgeous, and his sea green eyes always glitter to match the sunshine on the water. His dark hair curls slightly at the ends, especially when it’s wet, which matches her curls—making her happy inside.

The water explodes into bubbles around her when she jumps, and she smiles underneath it, the water being one of her most happy places. When she surfaces, Percy is right there, looking amused.

“Ready to drown?” he teases.

“Drown? Nuh uh,” she says back, splashing him a little.

“You are so going down now, Rebekah,” he laughs, lunging at her, his strong arms wrapping around her middle, trapping her arms to her sides.

Emma squeals, then laughs, then tries to squirm out of his grasp. “Hey, let go!”

“Nuh uh,” he jokes, echoing her earlier tease. “You’re going down.” And down, she goes, underneath the water. Normally, being dunked by anyone even half as strong as Percy would freak her out, but she knows him. Better than anything, and good enough to know all of his tricks.

A swirl of current is now in place of his arms, holding her underneath the surface, trapped in a watery embrace. And then, just as she can’t possibly hold her breath for even one more second, a bubble appears around her, and Emma gasps for air.

Percy’s water bubbles always amaze her, and this one is no different. It surrounds her completely, firm and smooth to the touch. She sits cross legged on the bottom of it, sucking in the clean, cool air.

Percy is visible, a few metres away, grinning. He swims over easily, and slides into the bubble too.

“Hey, stranger,” Emma says.

“Well, hello, miss.”

She can’t help but smile again, her heart full of Percy. Emma leans back, eyes shut, her curls resting on the curved edge of the bubble. Relaxed and happy, she lets out a contented sigh.

Percy knows what she means by it. He always seems to. “This is nice, isn’t it? When it’s just us. We don’t get that as often anymore.”

Emma hums in reply, not opening her eyes.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Percy says suddenly.

That’s when her eyes open, and she pushes herself up. “Um. Yeah. Sure.” It sounds kind of ominous.

“How come you draw me so often?”

It sort of catches Emma off guard, but of course he’s asking that. He saw the sketchbook, the dozens of pictures of him inside of it. Hell, she’d be bloody curious if someone ever drew her like that.

“Um…” Emma isn’t exactly sure how to answer this straight away. But then, she closes her eyes for a second, grabs onto her shred of courage, and just says it.

“Because you’re my favourite thing in the world, and people always draw their favourite things.”

Percy almost looks… confused? “Me? Why on earth am I your favourite thing? Also, I am not a thing. I’m a Percy.”

Emma laughs, then nods. “You’re my favourite Percy, then.”

Percy grins, that dumbass troublemaker smile that always makes her heart flutter and her mouth feel warm. “I’m your favourite Percy,” he repeats quietly, in a happy, gentle kind of way.

“And you are my favourite,” she continues, “because… well…” Emma takes a deep breath. “Because you just are. I adore you with every single part of my being. You’re my best friend, my partner in crime, the only person in the world who understands me perfectly and accepts me completely the way I am. You’re my protector, my muse, my tease. You share your snacks with me, you let me steal your clothes, and you never care how many Taylor Swift songs I make you listen to. You always match my energy perfectly, and our sarcasm is exactly in tune. You let me play with your hair as I tell you stories about what our future will be like. You’re incredible with kids, and every time I see you with the younger campers I fall deeper in love with you. You’re the perfect mix between skater dork and lover boy.”

Emma breaks her rant for a breath, but then leaps back into the ramble.

“Remember the first time we met?” she asks, a nostalgic smile on her face. “You were a soggy twelve year old boy, half drenched in the rain and crying over your mother, dragging poor Grover. I told you that demigods have to be better than that. You retorted that ‘You’d be sad too if your mum died’. And I replied that ‘Well, better that than frostbite’, and that confused you so much you laughed. And ever since, we’ve been best friends. We’ve gotten through every quest together, every monster we fought side by side. You understood my humour when no one else did, you comforted me when nightmares got too embarrassing for me to admit. You were the reason I got through my really bad year mentally when we were fifteen. You are the one I crossed the country for. You jumped into the River Styx for me. I still wear this stupid thing—“ she holds up her wrist, which bears a woven bracelet of black, sea green, and orange thread. “—Because it’s the colours of your hair and eyes and camp shirt. You are the reason I keep going, Percy Jackson. And I am not letting you go. Because I love you.”

There are seven counts of heartbeats before Percy replies.

“Oh, Em…” he manages, before there are literal tears glinting in his gorgeous eyes. Emma has never seen him cry from something like this. From being… happy.

“I love you too, you dumbass,” Percy laughs. “And even though that speech was both the most adorable thing in the world and entirely corny, I—I loved it. Thank you for being you, Em.”

Her heart is full, warm and so happy she wants to cry too. No one has ever been glad that she is her. That is, until Percy.

She does cry, then, a few grateful tears on her cheeks.

There, in the middle of a bubble under the canoe lake, Percy pulls her into the tightest hug he’s ever given the Daughter of Aphrodite.

“You mean the universe and back to me, Em,” he whispers into her hair, and when he finally dips his head down to kiss her, it’s like bubbles are shooting up around her insides, popping and flooding her system with salty sunshine.

He does know, she thinks giddily.

[kayentokk]

Portraying Bakugo Katsuki

— Pairing; Katsuki Bakugo x GN! Reader

— Synopsis; People often see Bakugo in a harsh light, and he’s gotten used to it. However, when you portray him in your fluorescent light, he thinks he likes it a bit more. Based on this Drabble I made. —contains; fluff, doting, frustration, soft! Bakugo(?)

—wc; 682

—A/N; just a cute lil thought

“Ughhh,” that was the 10th time you sighed, in 3 minutes.

You frantically dragged your poor abused eraser across your paper, for the 6th time, and created a hole in your erased pencil stained paper. Angrily, you balled up the paper and threw it in the trash bin by your desk, which was overflown with countless of your other crumbled up drawings.

It was like nothing was working. You had great models right in front of you on your tablet screen, and you just didn’t like what you were producing.

Shutting the computer screen, you dug your head into your arms and closed your eyes. Deciding that he’d had enough of your ‘fits’ Bakugo gruffly asks,

“The hell is wrong now?”

“I just can’t do it,” you reply defeatedly.

He sighs, ”do what?”

“This art class assignment,” you groan, “no matter what I do or who I draw my creative juices just aren’t flowing to me, ya know?”

He just grunts a “mm”

Then it hit you, and you sat up to stare at him. And almost like clockwork, he had sensed what you were thinking and immediately huffed out a,

“No.”

“Awww cmon’ pleasee?”

“No Y/n.”

“Please? I’ll help you with anything, anytime.”

“No.”

“You just want me to fail,” you mumble under your breath with a pout.

“Oh for fucks sake,” he says running a hand through his hair, “make it quick.”

He gives in. He always gives in to you. Most times, he wants to punch himself in the face for it, but he just can’t say no.

“Yay! You’re the best Kats!” You quickly perk up.

“Yeah yeah,” he replies.

You got him a stool from your kitchen and placed it next to your spinny desk chair.

“Okay sit and I’ll tell you how to pose.”

He sat with hesitance, as you pulled up a picture on your phone of a model with their arm over their head facing towards the left, the perfect pose.

You showed him with the biggest smile on your face,

“No.”

“Aww cmon,” you whined.

“Y/n.”

“Fine, just sit still, straighten your back, and lift your chin.”

He did as you asked, a bit awkwardly at that but he did it. You turned your lamp light on the right side of his face and sat for a moment amazed at what you saw.

His sharp jawline relaxed but still prominent in his features, the vein in his neck bulging a bit at you staring deeply at his features. His beautiful dark crimson eyes aren’t tensed or harsh they’re just perfect, and his skin almost glowing from the radiating fluorescent lamp light.

You quickly began sketching, noticing the small drop of sweat that rolled off of his neck and down to his collarbone, he was nervous. He’d never been sketched before.

“Calm down I’m almost done,” you said trying to ease his nerves.

When you were finished you put your pencil down, looked at the drawing, looked back at him, and smiled. You were content, no more than that, happy? You finally got the drawing you wanted. You captured his full essence on the paper, from the neck up.

You turned the notebook around to show him, well there wasn’t many pages left after an hour of you trying and failing, with the biggest grin on your face.

“Look! It’s good right? You’re such a good model maybe you can do this for me all the time-“

“Y/n,” he promptly cut you off.

“I know I know, thanks for helping me. I’ll go get some water for my hard working model,” you giggled while getting up to walk to your kitchen.

Bakugo found himself staring at the drawing intently, was that really him? The way you captured him on the blank piece of paper made him seem almost, calm?

You came bustling back into the room with two chilled glasses of water.

“Here ya go, and thanks again,” you said handing him the water.

“Mhm,” he grunts.

And deep down inside he thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind you drawing him again…

@/firefly-graphics for the divider

[mirllop]

Pages Full of Maybe (BakuDeku) - drawing!katsuki

basically katsuki is a chronic doodler/artist as a way to deal with his emotions. legit let my imagination run wild w this one soooo

––––

Katsuki has anger issues. He knows he does. He just feels this overwhelming rage well up inside of him and has no idea how to handle it other than shouting and screaming. His therapist (that Aizawa forced him to start going to, much to his chagrin) said some bullshit about his anger controlling him and about how it should be the other way around. Whatever. Some stupid shit. It was irrelevant.

But when he feels that full-body frustration, frustration so deep in his bones he can barely do anything but scream and shout and rage at people, he knows it’s best to lock himself in his room and wait it out. If his anger is like a deep well, it's best to wait until the bucket comes up empty rather than try to tip it over manually.

Sometimes Kirishima (or other nosy do-gooders of the "squad") will pester him, but for the most part, when he’s in that sort of mood, his classmates know to leave him alone.

So, what does he get up to during his alone time?

Katsuki draws. He fills pages upon pages, sketchbooks, notebooks, post-its, cards, sometimes even his own arm, filling his skin with ink when he’s run out of paper. There just aren’t enough canvases to contain his sprawling doodles, sketches, and full works. He's at the stationary store every other week.

His class notes are practically graffitied with the amount of ink he manages to plaster on, coherently coming together to portray the visions in his mind. Aizawa says nothing when the tests he hands back are filled to the brim with doodles in the margins.

Maybe he likes it because paper is the only thing that can't fault him for his emotions. It can’t shun him after he’s been too harsh, it can’t tell all its little friends about his issues. It can't rage back. It simply sits patiently on the desk in front of him even when Katsuki presses his anger too hard onto the sheet and it tears. The only indication of its pain is the small cry it emits in the form of a krrshh –– but he can't even be painted as a villain for it. After all, it's just paper.

His hand traces anything he can think to draw. Sometimes, when all he's trying to do is make heads or tails of his frothing emotions, the pieces come out beautifully abstract. Sometimes he draws objects, places on campus, scenes from movies he watched with Izuku.

Sometimes he draws the faces of his friends (not that he'd ever admit to calling them 'friends'). Kirishima, laughing at something Bakugou did (he doesn’t even remember what it was. He just remembers the lightheaded feeling that came from causing that sunshine-like grin). Mina with her gossip face on, telling the group about so-and-so’s crush (that Bakugou definitely did not care about. Sue him if he listened. It was only because he should have the most intel possible to be a good hero, okay???).

Kaminari, getting really passionate about different electrical gadgets and showing the group a new type of charging plug. Sero’s surprised yet beamingly proud expression as a result of finally nailing that lasso he'd been working on for weeks.

His friends.

Izuku. Getting excited over something stupid, his cute round face lighting up, forest eyes shining with passion. Izuku. Rambling about some hero’s Quirk, coming up with infinitely clever improvements to their style. Izuku. Hovering over him after having pinned him down in a sparring match. Eyes shining with victory. Face streaked with dirt and sweat. Izuku.

Pages and pages and pages and pages of Izuku.

If anyone discovered these pages, Katsuki would be done for. He’d never show his face again. They weren’t just drawings to him — no, more like a chronicle of his life. He refused to call them a "diary" of sorts because diaries are for thirteen-year-old girls to gush about their stupid crushes that will never love them back. So no, his endless drawings aren't a diary. Fuck that.

Hours upon hours, alternating between furious scribbling and meticulous measuring, always resulted in a messy pile of papers surrounding Katsuki like a mad composer. He might as well have taken a stack of papers and tossed them in the air –– the space surrounding his desk would have looked the same. But after seeing the scraps of paper and the endless drawings scattered around him after each emotion-fueled session, he could breathe. Calm was washed over him like a gentle, cool wave to his bubbling, boiling magma.

He knew he'd never show them to anyone, but he secretly hoped he could. Maybe someday. The only person... it'd be Izuku, and it'd a small drawing of some random object. Meaningless. Insignificant to anyone but him.

Maybe he'd move onto showing him some of his people drawings. Then, and Katsuki barely allowed himself to imagine this future, maybe he'd finally show Deku himself through the lens of Katsuki Bakugou.

Maybe.

But for now, these drawings were locked up tight in top right drawer of Katsuki's desk. He kept the key pressed between the pages of his favorite childhood All Might biography (that he and Izuku had spent hours poring over the pages of) on the fifteenth page of chapter 7. Sue him for being a sentimental bastard, alright?

For now, this secret was all his. For now. But maybe that future would come. Maybe.

Maybe.

[xxnashiraxx]

With Stars to Fill My Dream (6) - My Thoughts You Can't Decode

I have been looking forward to this chapter for so long!!! I'm so excited to share this one with you all- I worked hard, and I think it shows, and I hope it's good! 💖 Please let me know your thoughts, and have a wonderful night! 🦇

FYI- This story will be going on a 2-week hiatus as I'm going to the east coast of the US for vacation!! Please look forward to Sunday, September 8th for Chapter 7!! 🖤

Summary: A street-smart, musically inclined human girl with a tragic past gets abducted by a nautiloid after her painfully average shift at a retro singing diner. What's worse- putting your all into Olivia Newton-John and Travolta for lousy tips, or getting your guts ripped out by a gnoll? Or worse- getting turned into a hideous humanoid squid? Ofelia Montez will have to see if she can survive long enough to find out.

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. Mentions of past abuse and trauma. Canon-typical violence and gore.

Word Count: 7,184

Please enjoy some screenshots below as well as the opening under the cut! 🖤

“Ugh, what is it that you’re furiously scribbling down?” Astarion asks, folding his legs over his lap as Ofelia hunches over that journal she’d shown them the first night. She flicks her eyes up at him and he tenses.

That’s right. She’d seen a little too much today- ever since the boar she’s been distancing herself from him. It’s slight but still noticeable, and he needs to get close again or else he may lose her…

“I’m drawing,” She murmurs, uncrossing her legs to stretch and hold the book against her thigh. They sit near the fringes of camp, Gale beginning to prepare for dinner as the others set up tents and wind down for the day.

“What is it you’re drawing?” Ofelia perks up, and he mentally breathes a sigh of relief that she seems to want to engage with him again.

“I like to journal, and when I’m done I’ll fill the spaces around the page with things I’ve seen that day. Here look,” She scoots over to him and he stiffens in her presence as she thumbs through it. His eyes track over the wizard’s face, Shadowheart’s, Lae’zel’s, and even Wyll’s. There’s another form on the opposite page beside her messy penmanship, and instead of a bust, it’s the entire figure. The angles are sharp, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and long legs. The more time he spends looking, the realization begins to dawn on him who she’s drawn, and the ruby irises glare back at him disapprovingly.

“Oh,” He murmurs, regretfully watching her flip the page to a warg, a goblin, and Withers. There are a few spaces where she’s filled them with just eyes, more of them red than any of the others. He sees birds, the tiefling man- he snorts- depictions of the moon and different weapons. They’re impressive for just sketches, and she turns to another page where she’s been focusing on each of their heads. His breathing goes still when she shows him his.

“Sorry if it’s a little strange, I usually draw from memory or references, so I’ve been going with what’s around me, hence sketching you all.” Her smile is sheepish and fragile and he nods, not paying too close attention.

He reaches up to touch his lips- are they really that plush? Are his brows that full? Are his ears really that long, or is she exaggerating? And the dot on his cheek- there’s no way he has blemishes. What’s she playing at?

He smiles softly, covering up the warble in his voice with a slight laugh.

“Darling, my ears aren’t that big.” She chuckles.

“They’re pretty big, trust me,”

[thoughtfulangeltidalwave]

You and Me (Part 18)

The dim light of the cell cast long shadows across the stone floor, the faint sound of the guards’ footsteps echoing down the hall.

Y/N sat at her desk, pencil in hand, a sketch of Mr. Jingles slowly coming to life on the page. Her thoughts, though, wandered elsewhere.

The door creaked open, and without a word, Dean stepped inside. He settled himself on the cot beside her, the weight of his presence familiar, comforting even in this place. He didn’t try to fill the silence with unnecessary chatter, and she appreciated that.

“Hey,” he said quietly, drawing her gaze from the sketch to him.

“Hey,” she murmured back, offering a faint smile. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

He watched her for a moment, his fingers fidgeting slightly, clearly unsure of how to begin. “You know… I’ve been thinking about the kids,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost as if the words carried more weight than he was used to sharing. “Lily’s been fussing a lot lately, always crying, and I just… I can’t help but want to give her the world, Y/N. To keep her safe. Danny too. He’s a handful, but he’s got such a big heart. I just… I’m scared I’m not enough for them, you know?”

Y/N could hear the sadness in his voice, the fear that came with being a father, even one as dedicated as Dean. She set her pencil down, her fingers tracing the edges of the paper as she thought about her own children.

“I get it,” she said softly, her voice distant. “I’ve had a lot of moments where I didn’t feel like I was enough for them. But we do the best we can. You’re doing the best you can, Dean. And that’s all they need, really. To know you love them.”

Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on her. “Yeah… it’s just hard, sometimes. My wife… she’s not exactly the most attentive. She’s got her own things to deal with, and I feel like I’m the only one holding it together. I just don’t want to screw them up, you know?”

Y/N looked at him, her heart aching for him. She could see the weight of it all in his eyes. She’d never really thought about how much Dean must carry every day. His family, his responsibilities, his own fears, all hidden behind that tough exterior.

“I don’t think you could screw them up, Dean,” she said gently. “You’re too good. You’ll figure it out. We all do, one way or another.”

He smiled at her, but it was a sad smile, as if even that small bit of reassurance wasn’t enough to ease the burden he carried. “I wish it was that simple.”

She shrugged, offering a small, understanding nod. “It’s never simple. But you’re not alone in it.”

He nodded, as if that small truth, shared between the two of them, could carry them both through the hard times ahead.

But as Y/N glanced down at her sketch again, the small comfort of their conversation started to wane. The weight of her own past—the ghosts of her children, the memory of her husband—crept in quietly, and she clenched her hands into fists.

“I miss them,” she whispered, barely audible.

Dean’s expression softened, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of understanding in his eyes. “Come here” he said softly, holding out one of his arms to her. 

Slowly she took it, moving from the desk to her cot where she lay with her head in his lap as he held her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like this, but here even in her cell in his embrace she felt safe. 

“I know you miss them,” he said, his voice low and steady. “But you didn’t do this. I know you didn’t, you aren’t a killer” he safe resting his head on her shoulder.

She couldn’t help but let the tears well up, though she kept them from spilling over. She was so tired of carrying the weight of everything alone. But there, in that small moment, with Dean’s words hanging in the air like a fragile thread between them.

“I am Dean,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat.

“I don’t believe you” he did didn’t say anything else, he just held her as tear fell down her face.

As the silence between them deepened, the weight of the moment bore down on them both. Y/N was being destroyed by her secrets and Dean felt powerless to help.

But just as Y/N was starting to feel courage to say something, the sound of the door sliding open broke the quiet.

“Y/N,” Paul’s voice came from the threshold, warm but with the usual undertone of authority. “Your sister’s here to see you.”

———————————————————————

Paul escorted Y/N to the meeting room. She’d been waiting for Sophie’s visit for a while now. Though she was grateful for the support, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of anxiety.

When she entered the room, Sophie stood up quickly from the table a look of defiant confidence crossing her face. “I’ll leave you two to talk, but I’ll be just over here if you need anything” Paul said in a low voice to her.

Y/N hesitated, her hand resting on the edge of the door frame, and then she stood tall, gathering her thoughts, trying to steady herself for what was to come.

Sophie walked over to her, her posture immediately stiff with purpose. She was the same as always—serious, but with a warmth in her eyes that made Y/N feel safe, even if it was hard to admit it aloud.

“Hey, kiddo,” Sophie greeted softly, walking over to Y/N and wrapping her in a brief hug. “How are you holding up?”

Y/N tried to smile but failed. “I’m making it,” she replied, the words feeling hollow.

Sophie pulled back, studying her face. “I’ve got some news. Good news, I think.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. She tried to steady her breath. “What’s that?”

Sophie paused, her eyes flickering with a hint of hesitation, before she spoke. “I’ve been talking to John, Sebastian and his team in New York. They’ve been working on your case, trying to get a clearer picture of what happened with your husband. And, well… they’ve got a solid case, Y/N. They’re building it up, piece by piece. Your husband… he wasn’t the man he appeared to be.”

Y/N’s stomach clenched. She wanted to feel relieved, wanted to believe in the hope Sophie was offering her, but the memory of her husband—his anger, his cruelty—was still so vivid. It made her feel small, insignificant, despite everything she’d already been through.

“They’ve found evidence that he was an abusive alcoholic. Sebastian’s team they… they tracked down witnesses, people from the old neighborhood, and they’re pulling together enough to make a real case. You’re not the monster they tried to make you out to be, Y/N. Not even close.”

Y/N’s hands trembled, and she bit her lip, trying to keep herself together. “I didn’t… I didn’t want it to be like that. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I just—I wanted to protect my children.”

Sophie’s expression softened, and she took a step closer, her voice low and comforting. “I know. And that’s why we’re going to keep fighting for you. Because you did what any mother would do. You saved them.”

Tears welled in Y/N’s eyes again, this time not from pain, but from a release she hadn’t realized she needed. For so long, she had carried the weight of everything, questioning her choices, her actions, even her worth. But now, there was a glimmer of something—hope, maybe—that she could finally hold onto.

“I’m scared,” Y/N admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared that no one will believe me.”

Sophie reached out, gently resting her hand on Y/N’s. “They will. I promise you. This is just the beginning.”

As Sophie spoke, Y/N couldn’t help but glance over at Paul, who had quietly stayed in the corner, watching the exchange with a thoughtful look on his face.

Sophie noticed the look, following Y/N’s gaze. “You know, I spoke to that Mr Edgecomb before I came in. He’s got your back, Y/N, apparently all the guards in the Mile do. And you’ve got his. Don’t forget that.”

The words settled over her like a soft blanket, but Y/N still couldn’t shake the sense of being lost in this maze of memories, of guilt. She wanted to believe in the future Sophie was painting for her, but the past held too many shadows. Still, for the first time in what felt like ages, she allowed herself a small glimmer of hope.

“Thank you,” Y/N whispered to Sophie, the words carrying the weight of everything she couldn’t say.

Sophie gave her a small, knowing smile. “We’re not giving up, Y/N. Not now, not ever.”

[xrlyz]

Hello! Hello! No pressure to respond to this at all but….

I recently (like a month ago and I was going to interact with you but I’m scared of people and I don’t have an ao3 acc 😔) started following your “I Saw Stars” fic and

OHMYSTARS ITS SO GOOOOD

I just finished chapter 20 because I’m procrastinating my studying for my last exam and oeojehqlshvsmsjdgshhsjs my mind is all over the freaking placeeeeeee.

I don’t want to distract you too much and you don’t have to respond but if you want can you describe what you think Jack’s clothing looks like (mainly his armor, but his normal wear also intrigues me) 👀

I love drawing and your fic is giving me so much motivation, but I like to have the original imaginers ideas if they have a specific look or feel in mind

Also if you do want to respond and rant more do you have any specific ideas on how his weapons look? :D

I probably won’t post this stuff on my acc if I do draw it because people I know irl know it and that scares me, but I will find a way to show you!!! >:}

Hijack has hijacked my brain and it is amazing thank you for your fic I love it so muchhhhh

I hope you have an amazing day/night/morning/whatever it is where you are!!!!

If you’re still swamped with exams good luck!!! You’ve got this!!! And if you aren’t I hope you can relax you’ve earned it! 💫💖✨

(Also sorry if you have gone into more detail about the clothing at any point. I have the memory and brain the size of a walnut that’s being fried by chemistry and atomic theory atm…….)

I'm finally getting back to you on this. Hi 👋😅

Okay, so, first of all. THANK YOU SO MUCH OMG. When I first saw this, I squealed and got actually angry that I didn't have the time to respond right away. I'm so glad you're liking my fic so far! I'm SO hyped to see what you're planning!! I'm literally vibrating rn from excitement. ❤️❤️❤️

Anyway, on to the recently growing issue that is Jack's clothes. Istg his outfit is on the FBI's most wanted at this point, and let me tell you why. The reason I avoided describing what Jack was wearing like it was the second coming of the bubonic pluage was because, funnily enough, even I didn't know what Jack was wearing.

Fics with the same or similar trope of Jack being a Dragon Rider have existed before, TROAS is a perfect example of that, so creating an outfit for Jack that didn't feel unoriginal was hard. Thankfully, I took a few hours out of my day today to finally tackle this issue.

Edit: Deciding to put a cut here so people don't have to scroll so far just to get to the rest of my page.

Instead of describing it to you, I figured it'd be easier if I just drew something of my own and then showed you, so that you and any other fan who'd like to do fanart of I Saw Stars can have a reference photo at the least. Obviously, you can alter and change things about my designs. They're far from perfect, and I'd love to see what you can come up with! These are just the things I thought of.

Jack's normal wear:

I figured it'd be cool and also really cute if Jack kept his original hoodie and just slapped some light leather armor on top of it. (Only because Valka forces him to, of course.) As for the staff, *starts sweating* uhm... honestly, I just imagined it being made out of wood. I know nothing about different types of wood or their durabilities, so I'll definitely research that and find an actual material for his staff. For now though, I bestow upon you creative liberty on that fornt. 😅

Jack's dragon riding armor:

This is sadly just a concept sketch and not a full body like the last one. The reason for this is that I genuinely don't know what else to add other than the hood that I gave him. It's hard to make something that's not only white, made of scales, and has been redesigned by like five different authors by now, but that also has to be physically possible.

Note about Jack's character design in both photos that you might find helpful: Jack's primary shape used in Canon is a hexagon (like an actual snowflake). I decided to keep that in his normal attire, but for his armor, I switched his primary shape to a heart, so he matched Artemis. You don't have to do this, but I thought you might like the distinction a bit.

Anyway, thank you so much again! I can't wait to see what you cook up with the motivation my fic has given you!!! Also, I hope your finals go well. Those are always super stressful all the time 😭

Have a great night/day! And to anyone else who sees this, yes, you can draw fanart of my fic and use these as references, but please notify me if you post fanart and give credit to the fic if it's specifically inspired by mine. Not because of, "Oh no! Someone didn't credit me!" But because I adore and appreciate any and all fanart or affection, me and my fic get because it means you guys are enjoying my stuff! I love to see it, and I love to give love back, so tell me if you make stuff! I WANT TO PRAISE YOU 👹👹👹

[quibbs126]

*sigh* I don’t know. I don’t even really know why I’m posting this in the first place, I don’t really like it

I’d say what it is, but you can read what’s on the tin. I thought it’d be cool if I drew that g2 Optimus design, because I think it’s cool looking and Optimus might look good in black and red, and with pink eyes

This was my reference by the way

But no, I couldn’t figure out how to make him look right. I thought maybe I could try sketching him in another style, but no, that didn’t work either. But I finished the sketch and thought it looked halfway decent, but when I went to do lineart I realized it wasn’t. But halfway through lineart I just gave up and slapped it together, slapped some colors on him, wrote some stuff on the page, I guess to fill up the black spaces I know I wasn’t gonna fill with actual drawing, and now we’re here

It’s the fucking arms I tell you. I still don’t know how they’re supposed to work, and I don’t know how to pose them either. So they look like shit. But I can’t just not have them, so they have to be there

And I don’t really know what’s happening on the shoulders either, particularly the wheels. I know I made them too small but I don’t know how to make them look how they do on the toy either

I considered trying a more stylized art style since the 3D was fucking with me, but my brain couldn’t figure out how to do that either, so I’m stuck doing the same thing over and over again, drawing in circles and wondering why I’m not getting anywhere, while simultaneously being unable to figure out what I’m doing wrong

So now we’re here. It looks bad. The shoulder pentagons are too small. The face is too tall. The colors on the face are all wrong. The arm is all off anatomy wise. I forgot to color in the black on the back despite going in and adding lines for them. The grill’s off. The chest doors don’t look like doors the open up, they look stuck to the rest of him. He barely looks 3D because I’m bad at doing this

But I got far enough, and I knew that even I start over on a new canvas, I wouldn’t want to delete it by this point, so I might as well finish it instead of having it taunt me every time I see it. So here we are, as I’ve said multiple times

I really wish I was better at drawing Transformers. I should be at this rate, it’s been a couple months. But no, I don’t know how to improve and I keep staying with the same mediocre art, because I don’t seem to like trying. I do try, but it’s not improvement, it’s just me making the same mistakes over and over again. Like with arms and the joints

Why can’t I get better? Am I just not trying? I don’t know how to try better

I have thoughts I want to share with people because I think they’re neat, and I know any thoughts I do have will only gain traction and be seen if there’s art attached, at least here on tumblr, and because I am an artist, I have to try and draw them. Especially because I’m anti-social and a cheapskate, so I can’t ask someone I know who can draw Transformers good and I won’t commission anyone for it either. I’ll only get what I want if I do it. But I’m bad at doing it

So it’s either write it out and see some people like it, but it’ll only be for the next couple days before it gets forgotten and I too forget about it, and it’ll never do as good as if I did draw it, or draw it but not as good as it needs to be, so people won’t really care about it anyways. Because my flat drawings aren’t really good anyways, just mediocre, and I write too much on my drawings and go on tangents, meaning people probably aren’t gonna reblog it with their own thoughts on anything I said either

But this is just me being greedy anyways. No one’s entitled to give me their opinions, especially when I know my thoughts are stupid anyways. I don’t really know anything about Transformers, not like other people do, I’m just some casual person who just got here and should just go back to Cookie Run at this rate, but is stupid and keeps thinking that maybe she’ll get good at this and have opinions people actually care about

And don’t go on here telling me that I shouldn’t put so much emphasis on what other people think, so long as it makes me happy. It doesn’t work like that with me. Drawing the thing’s only half the fun for me, and sometimes that varies. The real fun comes from telling people about the thing I made, and the ideas I made for it, especially when they tell me what they think of it. If I draw something and nobody sees it, and I don’t tell anyone about it, what was the point of me drawing it? Even if I enjoyed it, heck when I do, I’m even more motivated to show it to people, because I’m proud of it, or that pride comes later when I see people really do like it. These things are intrinsically tied together for me, I can’t separate them

What’s even the point of all this? I’m just complaining at this rate about basically nothing, at least nothing to do with what I drew. But I don’t like what I drew. But I made it so I have to show it, at least to get a semblance of what I was going for out there. I’d like to think maybe if it did, someone better could get what I’m going for and do it better, and I can see it better, but no one ever does. I’m not good enough for that. Maybe some people did, but not anymore, I’ve grown too big for my britches. And also we’re not in the same fandoms anymore

And I write all this, but it feels almost performative. Like I’m putting on an act of frustration and disappointment and anger and whatever other emotions I can’t quantify right now. Because this’ll still be on the post. I’m still gonna post this. I’m still gonna diligently put my tags in it like any other post. Like I’m doing this for show. I’m not, but I’m making a deal of it publicly online, aren’t I? So I must be doing this for attention

*sigh* Well I suppose it’s my own fault

I’ll probably try to attempt this again some day, maybe even later today or tomorrow (actually probably not, I work tomorrow), because I never got out what I wanted, but I can’t figure it out right now and I’m too lazy to make it any better. So take this not very good quality art that I really shouldn’t even be posting, but hey, it’s content, isn’t it?

[glettokono]

I just wanted to say that I always get super excited when I see that you’ve posted something new. Your style is so cool and it just really flows. I was wondering how you make your panels interesting and not too grid like, but not hard to follow. Any advice?

Hi!!! Thank you for the kind words and im so glad you like my works!! Unfortunately, I cannot give any practical advice, because I always do everything SO HAOTIC because I have ADHD and have a very hard time finishing an idea. An idea just flashes in my head, and what I manage to sketch becomes the basis . And most often nothing works out for me) Usually, I draw a storyboard on paper in the office, and in the evening at home I transfer it to the computer, and I always have too many frames and they don’t fit into the format, or too few frames and I have to - either remove or add something. I don’t make a very precise sketch, I just throw out ideas and see how it goes) And to be honest, most often I miss and I can’t fit all the frames into one page, and there aren’t enough frames for the second page) Comic where i needed to add more frames to make it more understandble:

Comic where i made the final page the way i made it on paper(but it is sometimes to hard ro understand what i made in paper xddd):

or the bad example where the skethc was good but i didnt make it right so at the end the finale comic is so messy and hard to read)

so I’m not an adviser, I just insert frames as they are inserted, and try my best to make them clear to read) sometimes I succeed, sometimes not) I think my main advice is to read more good comics, look at beautiful pictures and try to repeat it) learn, get inspired and work, work and work! Over time, you will learn) I myself am still learning, I make mistakes, but every time I try to do something new and more correct!

[alllthebadpartss]

We Buried the First Draft

It was still twitching when we put it in the ground.

Warning: contains longing for a home I can never come back to (novels are homes, too, we spend enough time there)

I remember the first time I finished a novel. Not the first time I started one—God knows there were dozens of those, half-formed and feral—but the first time I typed “The End” and believed it. I printed the pages out, held the weight of it in my arms like a child I had somehow made.

And then I killed it.

The draft was too long. Too messy. Too full of itself and me and everything I wanted to say but didn’t yet know how to. Still, it breathed. You could feel it—beneath the overwrought metaphors and tangled pacing, something was alive in there. Something with sharp little teeth. It wanted out.

But instead of setting it free, I buried it.

And like anything buried too soon, it came back.

Writers talk about the revision process like it’s a matter of pruning. You trim here, tidy there. But what they don’t tell you is that revision is a form of possession. That your old words don’t leave easily. That when you try to change a sentence, it fights back.

I’ve opened old drafts and found lines I don’t remember writing, things I’m sure I never would have written. Some were beautiful. Others felt like they were written by a stranger who had watched me sleep. I started finding them in places I didn’t leave them—on note apps, scribbled in the margins of unrelated documents, even once in an email draft I don’t remember opening. I laughed it off at first. We all leave ourselves little hauntings.

But then the story started to whisper at me again.

There’s a myth among some authors. They say that first drafts aren’t meant to be good, just finished. That a first draft is a map—you don’t build the world yet, just sketch where you might go. But what happens when the map doesn’t want to be redrawn?

That happened to me with my first finished novel, a blood-slick war story set in Vietnam. The original draft was something wild and angry. There were whole sections written with trembling hands and a heart full of smoke.

When I rewrote it, I stripped it down. I made it sharper. Cleaner. More "publishable." My family praised it. An editor called it “promising.”

But the twitching never stopped.

Sometimes I dream in the voice of the original narrator—not the rewritten one. His voice was broken, accusatory. He didn’t care about neatness or tone. He just wanted to be heard.

In the new draft, I muted him. Gave him context. Structure. A spine.

He has never forgiven me.

Some nights, I go walking without meaning to. I find myself in front of the desk, the soft blue glow of the laptop like an open wound. The file of the first draft is always there, no matter how many times I delete it.

I open it. I read the first sentence. It’s wrong. It’s always wrong. It changes when I’m not looking.

And that’s when I know: I didn’t bury it deep enough.

The publishing industry loves a polished story. It craves clarity, hooks, arcs, branding. It wants your book to fit, to behave, to serve. But the wild ones—the ones that twitch and mutter and bleed—they don’t go quietly. And I think, sometimes, we’re too quick to bury them.

Not everything should be smooth. Not every story should be safe.

There was something raw and holy in that first draft. Something sacred in its mess. I can’t bring it back now—not as it was. But I can remember that it lived. And maybe that’s enough.

We buried the first draft.

It was still twitching when we put it in the ground.

And sometimes, when I’m very quiet, I swear I can still hear it digging.

[isbus]

So I’m back…

But this time, I have a tutorial!

Do you have a 3DS?

(If you say yes to that, then we’re cooking).

Do you want to draw something similar if not better than…

THIS?!

Then boy I have a tutorial for you!

Since this was drawn on a 3DS, I can’t really tell you anymore than for a 3DS. Sorry..

Step One: Prep!

Grab your 3DS and go to “Nintendo 3DS Camera”! Or whatever it might be called if you have a “New” one.

Optional: If you want you can take a picture within the game- if it’s capable of doing so.

For me I’m gonna use a screenshot from Miitopia.

Step 2: Background!

Part 1: Plain Backgrounds

If you want something like the following image, follow this part’s instructions.

Take a random full screen sized image. Any image will work as long as it fits the screen perfectly. (Take a screenshot from a game such as Tomodachi Life or Miitopia).

Tap the image so that it says graffiti.

Then use a stamp, such as the dialogue bubble.

Hold the stamp and make sure it fills the corners.

Then you have a plain white background! This one you can press finish,but the other method you can’t.

Here’s a quick video tutorial, because I don’t think I phrased it right!

(I took it on my phone, that’s how easy it is).

Part 2: Backgrounds that aren’t pure white!

If you want to make the starting image (but your own), then follow these steps!

(Once again, I’m using Miitopia screenshots for an example).

Once again, GRAFFITI!

Instead of using a stamp, you might have to just color it yourself. Mainly because the stamp method is harder for backgrounds like the first one.

COLOR THE BACKGROUND, BUT DON’T DRAW ANYTHING ELSE. (Unless you just want to draw a background). Trust me, it’s easier.

Boom! Plain background ready for sketching.

Don’t press finish cause it can decrease the quality with enough graffitiing and finishing.

Step 3: Draw the Base!

You gotta draw that body-ody-ody!

Just draw a bust or whatever is easier for you. “Omg IsBus you have to have drawing skills?!” Yeah I know. How could I?

I’m gonna draw the bust up because it’s easier for me.

(Don’t look at me like that.)

For the plain BG ones, just do the same thing for the rest of the steps but for your screen.

Since the background hasn’t been saved, don’t use the eraser because it will remove the white BG. Unless you are using the first background method, that is. (Use the white pencil.)

Step 4: Draw the character / Coloring Page Step!

On the plain BG you can draw what ever but for me and my Miitopia character, I’m gonna draw him. If you did the color-only-a-part-of-the-drawing method (like I’m doing), you can do whatever still.

Think of the white area as a green screen; you can draw whatever you want on it.

This phase is like the pencil part of a physical drawing. White out the base as you get to parts you want over it (for example: hair or clothes).

Bam! Coloring page!

Part 5: Coloring!

Remember when I called it a coloring page? This is why.

Color the drawing how you see fit!

If you’re using the all white bg, then you might have to use the stickers or the rainbow pencil. I recommend the stickers if you want to shade/shine, but if you want more options, use the rainbow brush.

If you’re basically doing what I’m doing, you can use the colors from the image to color your character!

Once you’re done coloring the image, remember to ink the lines again! Use a medium brush for coloring but a thin brush for inking the lines.

Part 6: Final Details!

For people who want any additional details, or need to clean up edges.

If you did the plain bg you can decorate and clean up as much as you need!

If you’re doing what I’m doing, you can clean up the edges of the white spot and add additional details.

And Voila! You did it!

If you have a 3DS and followed my tutorial, show me what you did! I wanna see it!

Have a good day/night! And thank you for reading!

~IsBus