#charcoal pen my love...

[sleeplesssoporific]

YOU. *Grabs you and you squeeze comedically* I FUCKING LOVE YOUR ART. D'YOU HEAR ME? DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? I ADORE IT. YOUR HYBRID AU COMIC? GORGEOUS. I'VE NEVER BEEN MORE DESPERATE TO WRITE SOMETHING BASED OFF ART. I'LL FUCKING GET YOU, AND WHEN I DO...WELL, YOU'LL NEVER UNDERSTAND HOW MANY HEARTS I'M GOING TO GIVE YOU. OHHHH, WHEN I FUCKING GET YOU.

*being squeezed* AHHH THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!! I'm so glad you liked it hehe :)

And honestly your ask inspired me to draw more...

I have more that I drew but I'll post it later.

ALSO ALSO I KNOW YOU!!! I REALLY LIKE He's Actually Attractive?!?! I ACTUALLY HAD IT SAVED TO DRAW SOMETHING FROM IT

[kooffeecup]

espresso and sketches ◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ

doe eyed boy steals your favorite café spot everyday!

genre : fluff, romance

pairing : barista jungkook x reader

word count : 750+

espresso & sketches :

The bell above the café door chimed as you hurried inside, shaking rainwater from your coat. Busan’s autumn storms were relentless, and the only thing worse than your soaked socks was the fact that your favorite corner booth was taken. Again. 

You glanced over, irritation fading as your eyes landed on him,the guy who’d claimed your spot for the third time this week. Dark hair fell over his forehead as he hunched over a sketchbook, long fingers smudging charcoal across the page. His black hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing a constellation of tattoos you’d spent too many coffee breaks trying to decipher. Jungkook, according to his nametag. Barista. Art student. Mysterious regular booth-thief. 

“Usual order?” a voice asked, snapping you back. You blinked up at Nari, the afternoon shift manager, who smirked knowingly. “Or do you need a minute to… decide?” 

You flushed. “Americano. And a croissant. Thanks.” 

As Nari rang you up, you stole another glance at Jungkook. He’d looked up now, staring out the rain-streaked window with a faint smile, as if the storm pleased him. A half-finished latte sat forgotten beside his sketches. You wondered what he drew landscapes? Portraits? Bunny doodles? You’d noticed the rabbit keychain on his backpack.

--- 

The next day, you "accidentally" arrived earlier. Your booth was free, but victory felt hollow when Jungkook wasn’t there. Until...

“Need a pen?” 

You jumped. He stood beside your table holding a tray of clean mugs, apron tied haphazardly over a band T-shirt. Up close, he was all soft edges round cheeks, doe eyes, a silver hoop glinting in one ear. 

“Uh,” you said intelligently, staring at the notebook where you’d been tapping a dry gel pen for five minutes. 

He set down the tray and pulled a Sharpie from his pocket. “Here. Less… sad-looking.” 

“Thanks.” You took it, fingers brushing. His hands were warm, ink-stained. “I’ll, um, give it back when you’re done with your shift?” 

He tilted his head. “Or you could keep it. I’ve got twelve more.” “I’m Jungkook.” 

“I know.” You gestured to his nametag, then winced. “I mean...I’ve seen you around. Drawing.” 

“Stalking, huh?” His lips quirked up, and your stomach flipped. “Don’t worry. I’ve noticed you too. Always scowling at me for stealing your seat.” 

--- 

It became a routine: you’d scribble essays in your booth; he’d slide you mismatched pastries (“They’re gonna toss them anyway”) and linger during his breaks. He loved indie films, hated celery, and could mimic any birdcall. You learned his sketches were of strangers in the café—the old man who did crossword puzzles, the girl with purple hair who wrote poetry but he’d never drawn you. 

“Too distracting,” he said when you asked, erasing furiously as you sat modeling for him one slow Tuesday. The paper tore. “*Yah*, stop laughing! Your nose does this weird crinkle thing....” 

“My nose is normal!” 

“Cute, though,” he muttered, refusing to meet your eyes. 

--- 

The turning point came on a Thursday, when you found a shivering white bunny abandoned in a cardboard box outside your apartment. You texted Jungkook a panicked photo: ???HELP???

He arrived in ten minutes, hair messy, carrying a bag of lettuce and a first-aid kit. “You named him already, didn’t you?” he sighed, kneeling beside you to check the bunny’s paw. 

“His name is Snowball.” 

“It’s July.” 

“Jungkook—” 

“Fine. But he’s staying at my place. Your building doesn’t allow pets.” He glanced up, suddenly serious. “You’ll visit him, right? Every day?” 

You nodded, hyper-aware of his arm pressed against yours. Snowball... relocated to Jungkook’s studio apartment became your excuse for movie nights, grocery runs, and late walks along the harbor. 

--- 

One rainy evening, as you huddled under his umbrella, Jungkook stopped mid-sentence about his sculpture project. 

“What?” you asked. 

He turned to you, droplets catching in his lashes. “I’m tired of pretending I adopted a rabbit for charitable reasons.” 

Your heart raced. “Oh?” 

“Yeah.” He stepped closer, umbrella tilting to shield your faces from the streetlamp glow. “Turns out I just wanted an excuse to see you smile every day.” 

When he kissed you, it tasted like espresso and the green apple gum he always chewed. Somewhere in his pocket, Snowball’s spare key pressed against your palm...a silent promise. 

--- 

Six months later, you finally appeared in his sketchbook,not scowling, but laughing, with Snowball nestled in your lap. Underneath, he’d written: *My favorite muse.* 

[fraugwinska]

Follow up idea to the person who suggested that lovely birthday doodle request,, Reader who can draw proficiently as a hobby and often sketches folks at the hotel in their sketch book. Alastor is a bit offended that no matter what it seems as though he’s no where in this book, when they retire for the night he brings it up almost as if he’s jealous and they laugh at him. He’s upset because now he feels as though they are making fun of him until they retrieve another book and turns out they draw him in privacy (he’s so special he has his own book) It’s so cute too theres little heart doodles and them holding hands everywhere

Darling, how can I say no to 1) you *handheart* and 2) to such a cute pürompt? Make way, guys, gals and non-binary pals, here comes the fluff-queen!

❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️

Pictures of You

“ME NEXT! ME NEXT!” You tugged your sketchbook out of Niffty's small but surprisingly strong fingers. The little demon giggled and almost fell from your shoulder, making you laugh.

“Niff, any more doodles of you and I'd have to pay you royalties. Also, Angel asked first.”

You grinned, turning another page of the thick binder to an empty canvas and twirled the coal pen in your hand. Husk had just involuntarily changed his sleeping position from 'face in hands' to 'face on counter', groaning at the impact, so you wanted to start anew. Niffty resumed to braid your hair – you often let her just do what she wanted, she had a knack for it anyways – and huffed. “You only want to draw him because he can do impossible poses.” “Well, he is flexible.”

“Comes with the job, sweet cheeks.” Angel, who had entered through the door, grinned at you, taking his pink heart-shaped sunglasses off while he walked behind you, leaning over your shoulder. “Aw, toots, you really are talented, Husky looks like a snack there. Can I have that when 'ya done?”

“Have what, my effeminate fellow?” Angel jumped as Alastor materialized behind him without warning, releasing a startled 'Jesus Christ on a cracker!' while his lower set of arms clung onto your tensed shoulders. The radio demon laughed heartily, bending over slightly to look past Angel's head. He craned his neck and reached with his cane, forcing you to lean sideways so he could examine what you were drawing.

You flinched at the contact with the strangely warm metal, but didn't look up from the page. You only gripped the black coal tighter, feeling it beginning to crack. Alastor hummed in what sounded almost fond praise, giving a brief tap to Husk's shape on the paper.

"Marvelous! What a talent you have." he proclaimed. "Although I have to ask again, my dear, how come you never draw me? Surely I could..."

You lifted a finger, face scrunched up in concentration and shook your head, eyes firmly on the almost finished sketch. Alastor clicked his tongue in a displeased way, clawed fingers impatiently tapping the microphone at the end of his cane.

"Really, dearest. I have a great interest for-"

"Hold on!"

"-a unique idea of the possibilities-"

"Done!"

As you finished, you stretched your cramped hand, setting down the charcoal on the armrest of the red plush sofa and rubbing your fingers to get rid of the black stains. You ripped the paper out of the sketchbook and handed it to Angel, carefully avoiding Alastors burning eyes and ignoring the angry static pops sizzling on your skin.

"There you go, Ange. You can lock it in with a little coat of hairspray, otherwise it will smudge easily."

You hastily stood up, letting Niffty tumble down your back onto the sofa with a wild giggle while you quickly assembled your things. You saw Alastor open his mouth and interrupted whatever speech he might've wanted to deliver you, your heart racing and mouth unusually dry.

"Oh, would you look at the time, I promised Charlie to get laundry done by the evening, I better get going. Maybe another time, yeah? Okay, bye!"

You were already through the door by the time he had registered you leaving, mouth half-open and ready to protest against whatever injustice he felt you had done him. His eyebrow twitched slightly at your retreating figure, eyes flickering between the corner you disappeared around and Angel Dust, the latter laughing mockingly at the deer.

"Aw shucks, failing again, deer daddy? What is it now, the fifth time she blew 'ya off?"

"The seventh.", Niffty corrects him, scratching on the black spot where you had set the charcoal in between your work. Alastor gave her a sour expression, while Angel leaned back, eyeing the sketch of his subject of interest with lovingly.

"Maybe she took 'ya by heart, Smiles. Don't 'ya always say 'ya got a face for radio only?"

***

Alastor was fuming.

Everyone was in that damn book, everyone. And yet, he was nowhere in it to be found.

In his opinion he was far superior in beauty of aesthetics then, for example, Angel Dust, or Vaggie. Hell, Husk had even made an entry, and all he did was lay around and drink himself into oblivion. Why would you take the time to sketch these nobodies in detail instead of him? Was he that unimportant to you, did you deem him that unworthy? Or was this your subtle way of making fun of his appearance, his laughable predicament of being a predator in a prey body?

He thought he'd have been generous enough not to reprimand you, or destroy that damned book all together after all this time. It was your luck that he had developed a strange fondness of you. Alastor only ever bothered himself with a few souls since his arrival in hell, and his encounter with you was a happy coincidence indeed. You were so much less annoying, so much more quiet and respectful than most of the demons around him, with your charcoal pen behind your ear and a keen eye for beautiful things that you turned into artworks like it was your second nature.

And even though you've always seemed to take a liking to him, his patient questions for a sketch, a portrait or just anything of him was met by you with dismissiveness, awkward excuses or outright evading, only ever drawing other sinners, even the cursed piglet Angel called a pet. But never, never him.

This couldn't go on any longer. He would talk to you about it, and either you would draw him willingly or you would draw nothing at all.

Your room was located only three corridors down his own suite, right across of a broken down door. Despite the late hour you had left the door cracked open, music faintly streaming through it along the orange light of your desk lamp. Which meant you were still awake. Still working. Still drawing.

The door made no sound when he pushed it open, carefully peeking his head inside. He was right, your back was hunched over your desk, completely lost in your work while your voice hummed along with the little melody from the radio.

The radio he had gifted you. He snapped his fingers and the music screeched loudly before coming to a stop, the radio dying instantly and making you jump in your seat.

"JESUS!" You whipped your head around, clutching your heart. He gave his best charming smile, red eyes narrowing in on you.

"No dear, it's just me." he smiled maliciously and closed the door behind him, it clicking ominously shut. Locked. You laughed awkwardly, brushing a loose strand of hair out of your face and hastily closed the thick, black sketchbook on the desk shut, a different one than the one from before. A new one. Another cursed one without him in it, surely.

"Haha, thank satan, I'm not dressed to meet the son of god." you quibbed, avoiding his gaze and twirling your pencil, something you always did when you were nervous.

He didn't join into your joke, instead he walked over to your dresser, where the filled sketchbook from before laid. Open, showing a detailed drawing of Keekee stretching in front of the fireplace. The blasted cat was the last straw.

"Why," Alastor spoke sharply, barely registering his antlers sprouting in angry cracks, "are there any and every sinners and creatures depicted in that... doggone, ridiculous thing?".

His words were spat with so much anger he missed your scared and confused look when you pushed your chair back, almost tripping and scrambling to get away. "What? Alastor, I..."

He hit the book once, almost tearing the thick parchment. "And not one mention of me? You have no idea how utterly vexing and insulting it is to feel ignored, or rather unnoted! What did I do, oh do tell, dear, that makes you think of me so below you that you just outright forget my existence?!"

Again, he hit the book, feeling it starting to rip from the amount of pent up frustration tightening his grip. But it did feel good, immensely so, to take it out on the damn thing he would have shredded weeks ago, if you didn't enjoy it so much.

"N-Nothing, you really don't... you don't understand...", you laughed nervously, eyes too pleading, too soft for his liking, as if you mocked him or worse: Pitied him. The thought alone fueled his anger further.

"Then I advise you to make me understand, my darling.", he growled, shoes scratching on the wooden floors with each step as he neared you, pressing you against the desk. "Because otherwise, I have no inhibitions to incinerate every single one of these god damn..."

"I draw you all the time. In your own book."

You grabbed the sketch book from the desk and thrust it in his face, spouting more nonsense with teary eyes that went deaf through his ears, only glaring at the cover and then opening it, ready for anything.

Nothing. Nothing but him.

There was no mention of anyone else.

There was nothing but him. His face. Portraits, stills, sketches, whole sceneries, doodles even.

Pages and pages full of his own features, his eyes looking back at him, so carefully captured in coal lines that his head reeled.

There he was, walking in long strides through the lobby, hair perfect and suit straight, the drawing so detailed it could've been a photography. On the other side was a picture of him, his eyes narrowed, showing no emotion as he stared down at the hotel papers in his hand. The next page, he was captured in a fight with that buffoon Sir Pentious, his is mouth cracked in an evil smile, claws stretched and ready to snap the snakes' airship in half.

And ever in between those artworks: Little doodles, as if drawn with an absent mind, of him and you. Holding hands. Embracing each other. Laughing together. Gazing into each others eyes. Silly hearts all around them.

Alastor almost dropped the book and the shakily uttered your name, for once truly at a loss for words.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Alastor...", he finally heard your muttering, voice trembling with tears. "I didn't know how... I was just... so... so embarrassed, and..."

Embarrassed. The absolute absurdity of it all.

Here he had been, worried you found him beneath the beauty you held in such esteem, wounded even so much as to bring out this unjustified anger. The fool he was. He was an idiot to have not considered the other possible explanations for your reticence.

Slowly, carefully, as if you'd spook and run should he move too fast, Alastor wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close, still holding the book safely in his hand, pressing it into your back. At his will, his shadow lifted a hand and turned the radio on once again, a low hum resounding from the speakers as the soothing, quiet music continued.

"Mon cœur, the unnecessary pain you caused us both. And yet, I'm the one who has to apologize.", he said with an honesty he rarely spoke with. "We're both, evidently, quite hopeless. No use in keeping these feelings and words unsaid any longer then, hm? Can you forgive this old fool?"

You stared at him bewildered, at a loss for words yourself, before a relieved smile cracked your worried frown. Shiny tear streaks were running over your reddening cheeks, he wiped them off your face with a soft swipe of his thumb.

"Of course... As long as I can continue drawing you." You chuckled and pushed your face into his chest, Alastor was more than certain to hide the flush of your cheeks. He chuckled, gripping the book in his hands tighter as he buried his nose in your hair. You smelled like paper, paint and charcoal. And underneath it all lingered the scent of something new, yet familiar. Something... very much like him.

"Draw the both of us like this to perfection, darling, and that would be a deal worth to agree on."

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

A Curse [Chapter 9: Hollywood]

A/N: We're in the home stretch now, besties! Only 3 chapters left until the curse is lifted 🪄

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap situationship, Maroon 5, illness/death, angst, ice cream, Sunshine makes her red carpet debut! 😍

Word count: 6.5k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

Time machine, walls like glass, the dial turned back to 2009. It’s Viserys’ funeral, and no one can even pretend they’re sad. They stopped being sad years ago, and only relief is left. No more long nocturnal hours of the deathwatch, no more hushed sympathetic updates from the hospice nurses, no more unrecognizable white-haired organic matter contorted in his hospital bed. The chains are broken and they are free, all except one of them, the nineteen-year-old son who believes—without proof, without logic—that the curse is not lifted but only transferred, living on in him like an echo down a long hall.

It’s 2005, and Viserys has turned mean: paranoid, volatile, lashing out with fury at his increasing limitations as his brain is hollowed out like a Halloween pumpkin, like a cored apple. He roars and he throws things. He forgets his family are not torturers. Alicent could shut him away somewhere, but she doesn’t, the guilt would eat her alive; and so while nurses are present at the Malibu mansion around the clock, the Targaryens are not spared his wrath. One night Viserys breaks a window and wields a shard of glass like a dagger, and when the nurses flee screaming, Aemond stops Alicent from entering the room and goes in himself to clean up the mess. Someone has to.

It’s 1999, and after years of anomalies that nobody knew were symptoms—mood swings, muscle weakness, difficulty making decisions, balance problems, memory lapses—Viserys has been diagnosed with a disease that must have been lurking in his forebearers for generations, unbeknownst to them without the longevity or genetic tests of modern medicine. And like so many absent husbands and fathers who experience a revelation of their impending doom, he is determined to make up for lost time. He bakes with Alicent in the kitchen. He walks with Helaena in the garden. He stops condemning nine-year-old Aegon for long hours spent with his favorite toy, a charcoal gray Nintendo 64, first edition; the Fire Orange console won’t be released until the following year, part of the Funtastic Colors series. And now that it’s too late, Viserys’ children learn to love him.

Viserys takes Aegon’s hand and asks the boy to show him how to play Nintendo 64, here at the very start like a mirage, already beginning to disintegrate around the edges.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Thursday, August 7th. You don’t have an appointment to see Aegon, but you’re here in Elysian Park anyway. You park on the curb and sweep out into the gilded morning glow, already mid-80s and rising, wrinkled goldenrod-yellow sundress that you left in the drier too long, flip-flops, bare-faced. You barely slept and ran out the door as soon as you clawed your way out of brief, fitful dreams, autumn leaves and endless corridors through apple orchards, distant stars and deep water.

At his desk, Brandon is on the phone and making notes with his flower pen. He gives you a smile; you can only manage a quick wave. You continue into Aegon’s office, where he is engrossed in Mario’s expedition into an ice world where snow falls in unhurried, harmless white spheres. The music is pleasant, but the pools of frozen water are so cold they burn. Mario is making his way towards a block of ice in which a star has been hidden, accessible by navigation through narrow tunnels. Aegon, his green Nike Killshots propped up on his cluttered desk as usual, is surprised but not disappointed to see you.

“Hey, sunshine!” he says, still clicking the buttons on his transluscent orange controller, still swiveling the joystick. “What are you doing here so—?”

“Your dad died of Huntington’s disease.”

He freezes, and on the television screen, so does Mario; a malevolent snowman entity appears and hurls snowballs at the abandoned avatar until he is dead. You wait for Aegon to say something—no, that’s not true, no, you’re wrong, no, that would be a death sentence—but he only sits there, jaw fallen open, eyes filling up his face…and then he jolts to his feet and goes for the door.

You whirl around to watch him leave. “Aegon…?”

He stops in the doorway to the lobby and calls out: “Brando, you’re done for the day. Bye.”

“Oh for cute!” Brandon replies. “Let me just send an email to that moving company and then—”

“No, now. You’re done right now.”

Brandon sounds perplexed. “Okay, literally right now, you got it.” You can hear him gathering up his things, the jangling of car keys, the snapping shut of a laptop, and you remember all the hours you’ve spent gazing into a small rectangular blue-light screen as you combed through Aegon’s filmography, inspired potential that came to a collision of a stop in his mid-twenties. From the threshold, as he waits for Brandon to leave, Aegon watches you with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes thrashing with dark choppy waves like the riptides of the Pacific. You stare back thunderstruck, and only now do you realize how desperately you were hoping you were mistaken.

Out in the lobby, the front door of the half-duplex opens and closes, and now you and Aegon are alone. He walks back to his desk—loose papers, manila folders, framed photographs, that ever-present bowl of Honeycrisp apples—and drops into his chair, drags his fingers through his slicked-back hair, gazes vacantly at the mint green wall and sighs deeply.

“Who told you?” he asks, like hardly anyone knows, like the few who do wouldn’t have said anything.

“Nobody,” you say, startled. “I just kept guessing different diseases, and I didn’t think it was cancer, and…and…Aegon, Huntington’s is genetic.”

He looks up at you. “Yeah. Yeah it is.”

“Have you been tested? Because if one of your parents had it then you have a fifty percent chance of inheriting the gene.”

“No, I haven’t been tested.”

“Why not?!”

“Because I just haven’t, okay?”

“Have your siblings?”

“Yeah, and they’re all negative. But I didn’t take the test.”

“I think you should take the test, Aegon.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because you should know!” you burst out, and your hands are trembling like his do sometimes, dire adrenaline in your bloodstream and your voice frayed like someone has taken a razor blade to it. “Because if you’re negative then you’ll be relieved, and if you’re positive then you can…you can plan for it, you know? And there are treatments that can help manage the symptoms! I looked it up, I spent like four hours last night on Wikipedia—”

“But no one can stop it,” Aegon says. “They can’t even slow it down.”

“You think you have the gene,” you realize, horrified. “You forget things. Your hands shake. And that’s why you’re leaving Los Angeles and avoiding your family, and that’s why you’re marrying Becca—”

“Stay the fuck out of my head,” Aegon says, the first time he’s ever spat his venom at you, and his knuckles are unbruised and yet it feels like he’s hit you, a crack in a wall, bones that split and arteries that hemorrhage.

“Aegon, you can’t run away like that when you don’t even know for sure if you’re sick!”

“It’s actually really common for people in my situation to not want to take a test.”

You speak without any awareness of what you’re going to say. “I would take care of you.”

“You think I want to hear that?!” Aegon shouts. “You think I want to imagine you being there when I lose the ability to walk, and speak, and feed myself, and remember who the fuck I am?”

“I would do it,” you insist. “You believed in me. You helped me. I would help you.”

He shakes his head and glares at you, his eyes going slick and glassy. “You have no idea what you’re offering.”

“Your family has money, they can afford the best doctors and nurses. You wouldn’t be a burden on any of us, but we’d still get to be with you—”

“I saw what my dad dying did to my mom,” Aegon says bitterly, hatefully. “First he was himself, mostly. And then he was depressed, and then he was angry, and then he became a monster. He’s the reason my mother still has nightmares. He’s the reason Aemond lost his eye. You don’t do that to people you care about. You don’t inflict that on someone you love.”

“But what if you move to Texas and you’re fine, and you don’t have Huntington’s, and you don’t die and nothing terrible happens to you?!”

“Then it will be a relief,” Aegon says softly. “And I can always come back.”

“What about me?” you ask, your voice splintering. “If you’re sick, you’re just never going to see me again?”

Aegon smiles faintly, sad, resigned. “I would rather you remember me the way I am now.”

“Afraid? Avoidant? In denial?”

“Just get out,” he snaps, rubbing his face with his palms, wincing like he’s in pain.

“Aegon—”

“No, you don’t know what it’s like to watch someone die of this!” he roars, slamming his fist on the desk. Documents rustle; photographs fall over. “And if I don’t want a diagnosis, if I don’t want to live staring down the barrel of a gun, then that’s my fucking right and you don’t get to say I’m a coward for it!”

“You’re already living like you know you’re dying,” you moan, you plead. There are tears flowing down your cheeks and turning to salt on your lips; your face is hot with blood. “You don’t have anything to lose.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“But you’re making all these choices for the wrong reasons, and you deserve to know the truth, and if you take a test then you can make an informed decision about what you want your life to look like—”

“I would never pick you,” Aegon says, flat, direct, gutting. “So get that out of your head, because it’s not happening.”

You gaze at him helplessly. “Then what are we doing?”

He shrugs, like this is an idiotic question. “I’m your agent. I’m helping you get jobs.”

“That’s not what this is!” you sob. “It’s always been more than that, it’s been more than that from the very first day! Why did you sign me when no one else would? Why were you feeding me boneless spare ribs off your fork? Why did you throw me that apple?!”

Aegon is incredulous. “Why did I fuck you in this office, why did I fly to Minnesota to have dinner with your awful parents? Because I wanted to. Because I really like you, and I think I’ve been honest about that. But that doesn’t mean it’s serious.”

Never serious, you remember miserably. That’s how Aegon had described his affairs. “Does Becca know you could have Huntington’s?”

“No,” Aegon says. “But if she did, it wouldn’t change anything. She would still want to get married.”

“She would want to take care of you.”

“Yes, exactly. She would be upset for a while, yeah, but she…she needs someone to need her. Her parents were doctors, and they weren’t abusive or anything but they were gone all the time, and the house was like a museum, and now she’s…I don’t know, I guess she’s obsessed with creating warmth, and for Becca warmth means homemade bread and bento boxes and dogs and getting my suits tailored for me, and me being her full-time project…I think a part of her would enjoy that. Having me to herself, finally being the center of my universe. And when I get really bad, when I’m…” Aegon swallows noisily. “When I’m dead, she can move on. She can find someone else to marry and she can have kids, and she’ll always have that trophy on her shelf: I was a Targaryen, I was the perfect long-suffering wife. And Aegon loved me more than any of the others.”

More than me, you think. And then a ricochet of Aegon’s words: I would never pick you. “She’s not mad at you? Because of what we’ve done?”

Aegon chuckles uneasily. “I mean, I’m sure she’s not thrilled about you still being around. She’s been a little temperamental, she’s been suspicious. Right before we left for Minnesota, I woke up from a nap and she was swabbing my cheek for an STD test, can you believe that? But she knows this is temporary.”

What had Becca said the day she pushed you just outside this office? And if he was going to leave me, he has better options than you. You nod like any of this makes sense.

“Can we just be us again?” Aegon asks, and now he’s calm, gentle, exhausted. “We have a month left together. I don’t want to waste it.”

“Okay,” you say numbly.

“Don’t forget about the music video premiere tomorrow night. And I haven’t heard anything from the vampire movie people yet.” Then he adds: “That doesn’t mean you didn’t get it.”

“But it’s not a good sign.”

Aegon tries to soften the blow. “They might just be thinking it over. They might still be scheduling the callback for the other actress.”

You—unsteady, dazed, despondent—stare down at the scuffed wood floor and try in vain to smooth the wrinkles out of your sundress. “Sounds like we’ll both be leaving Los Angeles soon,” you tell Aegon; and then you walk until the walls disappear and only the city is left, sun glare, humming air conditioners, dogs barking, children laughing, engines revving, the immense metallic shadow of Downtown on the horizon.

At home in your apartment building, just as you are about to scan your keycard to unlock the front door, you hear Baela and Jace talking inside. The television is on and the microwave is purring—maybe Jace is making one of his favorite snacks, corn dogs or pizza rolls—and their voices are just barely distinguishable.

“What am I supposed to say to her?” Baela asks, sounding distressed. “That I’m officially too rich and famous to need a roommate? I can’t just kick her out. It would break her heart. She’s so sweet, and I know she’s trying really hard but it’s just…well…”

“No, I get it,” Jace replies. “She’s chill.”

“It sounds like her parents are going to make her move home soon anyway, unless she lands a big part, and…you know…I don’t really see that happening.”

“Yeah.” The microwave beeps and someone pops open the door to retrieve the contents.

“So just please don’t say anything, okay? And when she’s gone in a few months we’ll start looking at apartments in Venice or Santa Monica…”

You put your back to the hallway wall and wait long enough that they won’t think you’ve overheard anything, listening to the sounds of cars whooshing by outside, people coming and going from the places where they belong in the world, and you wonder what that feels like.

~~~~~~~~~~

You stay up too late watching YouTube videos of people with Huntington’s disease, and so the next morning at Cold Stone Creamery you are in a haze, dull throbbing headache, eyes bloodshot from crying, and the frat bro you’re making a Gotta Have It-sized Cookie Mintster for probably thinks you’re high but it’s the opposite: you’ve never felt lower, you’ve never been adrift like this, and you don’t know what to do next. You can’t unknot the threads fate has tied to Aegon. You can’t imagine a life for yourself back home. You can’t remember why you ever thought you’d be able to build something here in the City of Angels, glittering and golden and ever-rushing towards perfection, those who fall behind drug under the wheels.

“Can I get some gummy bears on that?” the frat boy is saying, but your gaze catches on someone behind him. The little metal bells on the glass door jingle and Aegon scrolls inside, khaki cargo shorts and a wrinkled short-sleeve white Oxford thrown over a pink tank top, and he’s traded in his Nikes for flip-flops, and his hair is gelled back from his face so you can see him clearly, vividly, and he leans against the window with daylight flooding in all around him and grins at you.

Why…?

“Can I please get some gummy bears?” the frat boy asks again.

Your manager Josh is blending up a strawberry banana smoothie and glowering at you. “Yo, what is wrong with you today?!”

But you don’t care what he’s saying, because Aegon pulls his black aviator sunglasses out of the pocket of his cargo shorts and slides them on and beams at you, and you hear the words as if he’s spoken them aloud: You are so bright, sunshine.

“I got the part?” you say from behind the counter.

Aegon nods. “You got the part.”

You scream and sprint to him, and when you throw your arms around Aegon he catches you, laughing and warm, and right now his hands are perfectly fine, steady and strong as they cradle the small of your back, the arc of your neck.

“Where the hell are you going?” Josh snaps from the blender. The frat boy, still waiting for his Cookie Mintster, is glaring at you impatiently. “I didn’t say you could take your break yet!”

“Hey,” Aegon says, taking a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet and waving it around so Josh can see before dunking it in the tip jar. “She’s quitting. Call someone else.” And then he pulls you, grinning and exhilarated, out of the Cold Stone Creamery and into the August air, moving swiftly beneath a cerulean sky full of cumulus clouds, 90-degrees and diesel fumes.

“Aegon, I can’t quit yet, I still have to pay my rent—”

“I’ll pay your rent,” Aegon says. He stops when you are under the shade of a palm tree and stands there with you in the oasis. His Sebring is parked illegally in a fire lane; it is adorned with a new malady, a massive dent in the bumper. “You’re going to have costume fittings and table-reads, and you have to learn the script, and you’ll have appointments with hair and makeup, and you’ll have a personal trainer, and promo obligations…you won’t have time to work.”

“You didn’t force them to hire me, did you?” you ask, the effervescent high dissolving away. “You didn’t threaten to blacklist them with your whole family or anything, right? Because I don’t want this if it’s not real.”

“What?” Aegon says, mystified. “No. No, I swear, I wouldn’t do that. And I don’t think it would have worked even if I’d tried. First billing is a huge deal. Not even Taylor Swift has managed to buy herself a starring role in a movie yet. They liked you. They wanted you.”

The hope quivers in your voice. “I’m going to be an actress?”

Aegon smiles. “You already are one.” He takes off your red apron and your grey hat and stuffs both in a nearby trashcan. “Are you parked around here?”

You point to your Honda Accord, 2003, Desert Mist Metallic paint that gleams under the sun. “I’m just across the street.”

“You aren’t bringing Jace to the Maroon 5 thing tonight, right? Because it’s in your best interests to appear unattached.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “Unattached?”

“Yeah. Being ostensibly single makes you confident and alluring and mysterious. Dragging along your mop-haired boyfriend makes you look like a high school kid at prom.”

“And how does dragging along my sulky, disillusioned Targaryen agent make me look?”

“Like a star,” Aegon replies simply.

“I’m not bringing Jace. Or anyone else besides you.”

“Great.”

“Can we drive to the premiere together?” You don’t want to be away from Aegon; you are a little petrified of the fanfare that awaits you in Downtown tonight. You have no idea what to expect.

“Yeah,” Aegon says, outwardly casual, unmistakably pleased. “I have a driver booked. We’ll swing by your apartment in the limousine around 7 p.m.”

“Why aren’t we taking the Sebring?”

“Because people don’t drive themselves to premieres, sunshine,” he says, like he’s explaining to a child an obvious and fundamental truth: the sky is blue, the Earth is round. Then he gestures to his white convertible and its sizeable new dent. “And also I keep running into things and I don’t want you in the car when I’m driving.”

Because his hands shake? Because his reflexes are slowing until they inevitably stop? “Maybe you’re just stressed because of the wedding,” you say softly.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Or it’s psychosomatic. You expect to see symptoms, so you do. But really you’re fine.”

Aegon sighs as wind blows eastward from the Pacific Ocean. He wants to change the subject. You can’t stop yourself from talking. “It’s possible.”

“Maybe whatever’s wrong with you isn’t Huntington’s. Maybe it’s something else, like a vitamin deficiency or a thyroid disorder or lupus or fibromyalgia, or diabetes from all the super unhealthy food you eat. Maybe it’s something a doctor can fix.”

“I’ll see you tonight, okay?” Aegon says; and he kisses your cheek and climbs into his Sebring and speeds off towards the interchange of the 110.

~~~~~~~~~~

You told your parents you needed a dress for Clara’s bachelorette party so they wouldn’t yell at you when they saw the charge on the credit card. You will have to devise a new strategy for future purchases; you are running out of wedding-related excuses. The gown is electric yellow and less formal than the one you wore to the charity gala, sufficiently frivolous for a music video premiere, a V-neck and a high-low hemline. Your hair is down and your eyeshadow warm and smokey: Gilded Ganache and Semi-Sweet by Too Faced, Night Star by NARS. You drench yourself with sugary Shimmer Mist from Bath and Body Works, then realize that was probably a stupid idea. But there’s no time to try to scrub it off; Aegon has texted you that he’s five minutes away.

You click out into the kitchen in the yellow heels you found at T.J. Maxx. Jace is sprawled on the couch and bobbing his head as he sings along to a Charli XCX song pulsing out of his iPhone:

“You wanna guess the color of my underwear,

You wanna know what I got goin’ on down there…”

Baela, who had been getting a can of La Croix from the refrigerator, turns and is startled when she sees you. “You’re glittering. And that looks like a prom dress.”

You scrutinize yourself, suddenly self-conscious. “Is it bad?”

“No!” Baela cries, overcorrecting, not wanting to hurt your feelings. “No, it’s so cute. Jace, isn’t it so cute?”

“Totally,” he says from the couch, not looking at you.

“No contrast, huh?” Baela muses, glancing at your shoes and clutch purse.

“Doesn’t yellow go with yellow…?”

“Of course it does.” She beams, too broadly. “Have fun tonight! Walk really slowly on the red carpet. It will feel ridiculous, but that’s how they get good photos. And cycle through four or five different poses. Count to ten in your head and then switch to the next one. And don’t smile too much! You’ll look creepy and your cheeks will get tired and go numb and you’ll start twitching. Do a small smile and then laugh a lot when the interviewers make their dumbass jokes. It’s good television and they’ll like you and give you more airtime.”

You try to commit this to memory. “Okay.”

“Here.” She gifts you an ice-cold can of La Croix, coconut flavored. “Drink this on the ride over, then make sure you have a lot of water at the premiere. Stay hydrated. Keeps you peppy and glowing.”

“Okay,” you say again, a good little foot soldier.

Baela gives you a quick hug goodbye; but you catch the way she frowns at your carefree hair, the deep but not-so-revealing V of your neckline. Maybe she’ll reconsider the implants thing, Baela’s face reads. You can feel cold beads of sweat bleeding from your ribs, your spine. Then you are out the door, descending in the elevator, trotting onto the sidewalk to find the limo already waiting there, black and sleek under a sky that is slowly sickening from midday blue to dusk embers. The windows are tinted so dark you can’t see anything from outside.

“Hey, sunshine,” Aegon says as you slide into the back where he is waiting in the suit he wears to auditions and film shoots and, apparently, premieres: skinny black tie, slightly rumpled and untucked white shirt. He sees the La Croix. “Don’t you not like that?”

“My roommate gave it to me.” You set the can, wet with condensation, in a cupholder. Aegon hands you an iced vanilla latte to replace it. And as you buckle your seatbelt and the limo driver coasts east to hook into the 110 and then heads dead north towards Downtown, Aegon pulls a tiny spiral notebook out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket and reads off names to you: people who were involved in the production of the music video you filmed over a month ago, people to praise, people to thank. You’re trying to listen to him, but your thoughts are fuzzy and your heart is racing.

“What’s wrong?” Aegon asks, and you return to him and smirk guiltily.

“I’m sorry. I’m just nervous.”

“Why? You’re not nervous when you’re acting.”

“Because I’ve acted a million times, but I’ve never done a red carpet before. Not even a mini one like this. What if they ask me something I’m not expecting and I freeze up? What if I accidentally offend someone? I’m always saying things that make people think I’m stupid.”

Aegon laughs lazily, peering through the window as the freeway takes you through Vermont Vista, Broadway-Manchester, Florence, blurs of houses and palm trees and graffitied concrete barriers. “Yeah, you are always saying ridiculous things. But that’s who you are, and it’s charming.”

“You think it’s charming.”

Aegon smiles at you. “I do.”

You stir your latte so the ice cubes clink together and you make a jittery little sound, half-sigh, half-whimper. Aegon puts a palm on your bare thigh, pushing the hem of your dress just above your knee; his hand is warm, and gentle, and heavy enough to ground you.

“You’re shaking,” he says, alarmed.

“Yeah,” you admit. “I’m fine. I think it’ll stop once we get there.”

Aegon lifts his hand away—no! you think, pathetically—and then unbuckles his seatbelt and crawls over to the window just behind the driver’s seat, which is all the way down. The limo driver is in his fifties, salt-and-pepper hair and a full beard, classic rock radio station. The opening notes of Dani California pump out of the speakers, the bass reverberating through the leather seats. “Hey,” Aegon says to the driver, thumping his fist on the window slot. “Roll that up.”

“Yes sir,” the driver assents immediately.

“Don’t park or unlock the doors until I tell you to.”

“Yes sir.”

The dark opaque window closes, the driver disappears, and Aegon comes back to you. He takes your half-finished latte out of your hand and places it safely in a cupholder.

You’re smiling as you ask: “What are you going to—?”

He reaches beneath your dress—tulle ruffles the color of unclouded daylight, or lemons, or butter, or sunflowers—and his fingertips know where to go, their corporeal memory is perfect, and they apply divine spiraling pressure over your panties, silk to leave no lines beneath your dress; that’s a trick Baela taught you. You gasp and clutch for the back of the seat, sweated skin on black leather, your spine arching, your blood cascading south as the freeway runs northbound.

“Are you nervous now?” Aegon whispers; and his words are taunting but his voice is hushed, and he’s in front of you, leaning in so close your lungs are filled with him, Juicy Fruit and sunlight and the heat and the city, and his other hand turns your face away from him so he won’t ruin your makeup. Instead of your lips, his mouth finds your throat and collarbones, and he kisses you there as his fingertips press down more forcefully beneath your dress, so insistent, so hungry, and you are blinded by the realization of how much you have craved him, how desperately you miss him each time you’re apart, and only being with him feels like this, you don’t belong anywhere else, and your chances to touch him are vanishing like sandcastles turned to ruins by the surf.

He’s getting married in a month.

But he’s here now, and you want him.

He’s choosing Becca.

But his hands are choosing you, and his lips, and the outline of his hardness that you can feel when he leans against your thigh, nudging your legs further apart, and surely even through the silk he can feel how wet you are.

“You shouldn’t have taken your seatbelt off,” you say breathlessly. “That’s not safe.”

Aegon laughs as if this is a ludicrous concern, and maybe he doesn’t think that dying in a car accident of a fractured skull or an aortic dissection would be the worst thing in the world. “Don’t worry about me.” He breezes the fingers of his left hand through your hair, nuzzling you, inhaling you, saccharine sweetness and young frenetic nerves, endorphins pouring from your bloodstream.

He’s good, he’s very good; but for you it can take a while, and how far is the limo from the premiere venue? “I’m not going to be able to finish—”

“Yeah you are,” Aegon says, drawing back to look at you, his eyes locked with yours; and you moan as his fingers move the strip of silk aside and sink into you, and you are filled with him as his palm keeps up the euphoric friction, and then it collides with you—knuckles, gravity, riptides, fate—and it takes everything left in you, worn wrung-out scraps, not to cry out, because you’re not alone now, and you’ve never truly been alone with him when this happens, and you know you never will be. The sweetness and the bitterness are coiled up together like threads of fabric, like the lines of a family tree.

You are still panting as Aegon sweeps his left thumbprint just beneath your eyes, clearing away the eyeliner and mascara that has begun to run as your eyes water.

“Don’t cry, sunshine,” he murmurs, concerned.

You chuckle shakily. “I’m sorry. You know I get like this.” When it’s good. When it’s with you.

“Are you still nervous?”

“No,” you answer truthfully.

“You’re going to do great.”

“What should I say?”

“Whatever you want,” Aegon tells you. “Be yourself. Be real.” Then he kisses you on your lips only once: feather-light, immaterial enough to not mar you. “Oh, we have to clean up,” he realizes, panicked, and he hasn’t thought this through.

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

You open the can of coconut La Croix that Baela gifted you and soak a handful of napkins that Aegon gets from the driver. You erase the evidence between your legs as best you can; Aegon cleans his hands and gives himself a generous squeeze of hand sanitizer from a tiny travel bottle in your clutch. Then he uses the corner of a napkin to dab away stray flecks of mascara on your cheeks. You check your face in the mirror of your makeup compact: dewy, but acceptable. Natural. Lived-in. Aegon rearranges a few wayward strands of your hair. You slurp down the rest of your vanilla latte. The limo is rolling to halt. You reach for the door handle.

“No,” Aegon says, stopping you. And he gets out first and then waits for you, hand open, until you emerge from the limousine and into a new world: flashbulbs, video cameras, microphones, assistants dressed in black, screaming Maroon 5 fans. Aegon fluffs the train of your electric yellow gown and then leads you into the chaos.

The music video premiere is being held at the historic Broadway Theater. The red carpet rolled out for the occasion, in a nod to the name of the band, is not a bright bloody red but a deep maroon. People are shouting and waving at you, and you have no idea what’s going on; and yet in your ribcage your heartbeat is slow and measured and strong. Aegon has a hand on the small of your back, and you think: I want it to be like this all the time. I want it to be like this forever.

Now a young man in a teal suit is rushing up to you and Aegon has disappeared to the sidelines, and the man is telling you that he is from E! News, and although he says his name you immediately forget it. You don’t panic; you smile softly and try to listen through the noise of the crowd. Now Maroon 5 has arrived and is posing for photographs as the fans screech and beg for autographs.

“So how’s your day going?” the man from E! News asks, a microphone held to your lips.

“It’s been so exciting, this morning I got to quit my job!”

The man laughs hysterically. “What? Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’ve been working at an ice cream place for months, but not anymore!”

“And do you have a passion for ice cream?”

“Not really, I just had to pay rent, you know?”

“Girl, do I ever!” the man says, still laughing. “What’s your favorite kind of ice cream?”

You smile sheepishly. “Vanilla.”

“Oh, so you’re a vanilla girl, huh?”

“I am, I really am, and I know the joke. But vanilla can be great! It’s a classic, and it’s sweet and uncomplicated, and it’s not trying to be anything it’s not. It’s pure. It’s innocent.”

“Oh my God, that was poetry! I might have to give vanilla another shot. You’ve convinced me.”

“Cool,” you say. Aegon is watching you from behind the video camera that you’ve just noticed; he is nodding, he gives you a little thumbs-up.

The man from E! News asks next: “So, ice cream expert, if I was an ice cream flavor, which one would I be?”

You ponder this. “Well someone once told me that interesting adults like strawberry, and you seem really interesting, so I’d say you’re strawberry ice cream.”

“Adorable,” the man sighs, marveling at you. “What are you going to be up to now that you aren’t working at the ice cream shop anymore?”

“Well according to my agent—and I have the best agent in the world, he’s absolute magic—I just got my first starring role in a movie.” The E! News man shrieks in excitement. “And I can’t really tell you anything more about it just yet, because I don’t know what I’m allowed to say publicly, but I’m so so so excited and so grateful, and Los Angeles is an incredible place. I’m in heaven and I’m thrilled to be here with you tonight.”

Another E! News correspondent, a woman in a salmon-colored dress, dashes in to join the conversation. She has blindingly white veneers and so much Botox she can’t move her forehead. “Could you tell us what it was like working on this music video?”

“It was an amazing experience,” you say; and in this moment you believe that, and Dan doesn’t exist, and neither does the bathtub scene that almost happened, and neither does the terror that threatened to consume you before Aegon smothered the flames. Now, Aegon is watching closely as Dan navigates the red carpet. They make split-second eye contact, Aegon glares fiercely, Dan keeps a wide swath of space between you and him as if you are radioactive, a silent poison that cooks malignancies into blood and bones. “We filmed in this gorgeous mansion in Beverly Hills, and everyone involved in the production was so imaginative and professional. I got to wear outfits designed by Schiaparelli and Rodarte, oh, and Phoebe Philo, and the actor playing my awful ex-boyfriend was fantastic, and there were these weird exotic cats that kept trying to bite me…”

You keep talking and interviewers keep descending, appearing out of nowhere, and then you are posing on the red carpet—you even take a few awkward photos with Maroon 5, none of whom remember who you are—and to your surprise, several fans even ask you for an autograph. Without thinking, you add a tiny sun after you sign your name each time.

“There, a little bit of sunshine,” you say to a preteen girl who beams up at you. “Not that you need it, look how brightly you’re shining!”

As you are about to enter the theater, you glance back to see where Aegon has gone. An interviewer has entrapped him, although Aegon clearly resents being caught on camera. He’s a good sport though; he forces a smile and answers the questions. He’s being asked about you.

Aegon says: “She has a great attitude about work, and about life in general. She’s very talented. And obviously she’s beautiful, so…yeah. I feel really lucky to have found her. She’s usually the best part of my day.”

“And are we going to see you in any upcoming films?” the woman from Entertainment Tonight asks flirtatiously. “We all know you have the chops!”

Aegon throws his head back and cackles. “No. You wish. Okay, thank you very much for your time, I’ll talk to you afterwards.”

“Thank you, Aegon!” the interviewer calls out, waving, and you think: He really could have been a star if he never left acting.

You and Aegon sit together at the screening, and he keeps feeding you pieces of popcorn—your lips brushing his fingertips, salt stinging on your tongue—and you have to resist the urge, no, the gravity, the effortless instinct to rest your head on his shoulder. Maroon 5 do a panel after the music video and take questions from the audience. They manage a few comprehensible responses.

Afterwards, Aegon doesn’t take you straight home to Harbor Gateway. He doesn’t take you to his office in Elysian Park either. Instead, he tells the limo driver to follow the 101 northwest to Hollywood, and he drags you out into the cool indigo night—veined with florescence and neon—and onto the intersection of Vine Street and Sunset Boulevard at the genesis of the Walk of Fame, a trail of 2,800 stars carved into the sidewalk, into eternity.

Aegon stands on a star of this earthbound constellation and says: “You’re going to have one of these someday.”

And here under the aisle of a streetlight with Aegon smiling like that, kind and radiant, you could almost believe him.

[attyrocious]

What brushes do you use?? I love the one you use to sketch

the pastel/charcoal brush yes? it's #1 on here but here's all the other i tend to use lately

Blockaded Chalk Brush - (10 clippy points) im a one brush to rule them all kinda person so i use this for everything from sketch to rendering. you need good pressure and layer control to use it for blending and to carve out different values just using one color

YN Stripes - (20 clippy points) i like comb brush blending, its a remnant of dragon age artstyle days. basically for soft transitions and to give texture

Intoxicate Pencil Set - (free) very natural looking pencil brush, just as messy as the real thing

Smooth Liner - (free) usual lineart brush. i can use this to mimic traditionally inked lines for digital corrections and additions

Bear watercolor brush - (10 clippy) realistic watercolor brush and new bestfriend

Line drawing pen - (thank you for finding the asset moonpaw my light and savior) basically its a feathery but sharp edged hard pen. i combine this with the watercolor brush to make it look like a messy gouache

[gordonramsei]

⟡⋆｡⊹₊˚ ♡ em's faves : handwritten fonts !

we love a helpful font bundle moment ! this pack focuses on handwritten fonts , ranging from cute cursive scripts to fun , bouncy lettering , all the way to the gritty realness of a grungy marker or charcoal pen ! this pack contains fifteen handwritten fonts that are all licensed for commercial and private use ! i personally didn't create any of these fonts , all i've done is consolidate them all into a singular folder . u can find the creator info in the bundle in case ur interested !

pretty please give this   post a like or  reblog  if u intend on using this code or if u just want to be a supportive hottie  ! love u all bigly ; be sure to pet a cute animal today  ! mwuah ! ♡♡♡

⟡⋆｡⊹₊˚ this font pack is 100% free ! u can download it by becoming a free member on my patreon or via this mediafire link . enjoy !

[thewritetofreespeech]

Could I request Dali and Henrique with a artist lover teaching their children to make art of their dads?

Dali sighed the moment he walked through the door of his estate. As if the weight of the world had just come of his shoulders.

Though Lord Johannes was respectful of his desire and plan to raise his children directly, there were certain matters of his VLAD work that required him to be away from home. Typically it would not take this long but since he had been putting the old man off it had been almost all day.

Ferdinand greeted him and Dali asked where the children were.

“[Y/N]-sama came by not long after you left, Master Dali.” Johannes informed him. “They and the children have been in the nursery for most of the afternoon.”

Dali was surprised. He didn’t expect [Y/N] to be here in his absence, but he was glad to hear that the children had not been left on their own with staff all day. He was glad he had such an understanding partner who was open to his goals in child rearing.

When he came into the nursery, he found [Y/N] and his sons on the floor with paper & pens. “What’s all this?”

“Papa…” Raphael’s soft voice called out before he got up to hug his father hello. Ul just babbled joyfully in [Y/N]’s arms. “We’re coloring.”

“Coloring, eh?”

“Yes.” [Y/N] confirmed from their seat on the floor. “I did the outline work and Raphael did the color fill.”

Dali walked over to where they had been seated with Raphael and looked over the pictures on the ground. The linework was beautiful. Places he recognized around the estate and inner city. “These are masterful.” He praised while holding one of them. “The colorwork is spectacular too. I like your boldness to use purple for the buildings, Raphael. Well done!” His son beamed at the praise and went back to coloring. “So, you’ve been here all day?”

“I thought they might be lonely.” [Y/N] explained as they played with Ul’s arms. “It’s been so much livelier here recently. With you all meeting with Lord Johannes, I thought I might act as a distraction. Though, I may be a poor substitute for everyone in that regard.”

“You aren’t a poor substitute for anything.”

Dali lifted another piece of paper from the floor, using it as a privacy shield as he gave [Y/N] a quick kiss. “Now, which one should I color? I would be a poor manner of a parent if I didn’t show Raphael some of my own artist techniques.” [Y/N] chuckled, but handed him one of the front of the estate to fill in.

Henrique sighed as he came home from a very long, very boring meeting with Lord Johannes. He loved the old man, but by God could he be long winded.

They got it already! They had to find the mass murderer plaguing the city. Vampire kind at stake. Mass suicide and the rivers run red or something. Alright! Did the old man think they were just sitting on their hands all day, or taking naps with the kids? Henrique wished he had time to take a nap in the afternoon these days.

Heading upstairs to see what the girls were doing, he was surprised to see [Y/N] there. The girls with matching easels he was pretty sure had not been there the last time he was in their room. “What are you guys doing?”

“We’re painting daddy!”

“Yes! [Y/N] is showing us how to use oil paints!”

“In hindsight we maybe should have started with charcoals.” Henrique chuckled at [Y/N]'s predicament. Seeing the girls in paint covered smocks but also with paint all over their hands and faces.

“Well, I’m sure they’ve been having fun. Can you show daddy?”

The girls eagerly hop off their chair and take their canvases, nearly as big as them, off their easels. “Wow!” He praised, even though he had no idea what the brightly colored smudges were. “These are so good girls! Lucia, I like all the pink you used. Elena, that’s a very nice tree in the middle there.”

“It’s a fountain daddy.” Elena corrected with a huff. To which Henrique smacked his palm to his forehead, told her of course it was, daddy was clearly an idiot, and told her it was a beautiful fountain.

“Why don’t you girls go get washed up and when your paintings are dry, we’ll find somewhere to hang them?” The girls then run off to get cleaned up and Henrique asked. “Those easels weren’t here before, where they?”

“No.” [Y/N] replied with a chuckle. “I got them for them today. I didn’t want them fighting over mine anymore.”

“Hmmm….that’s fair.” He then sat on the little stool set up for the children. Spinning around once in his chair. “Did they have a nice time?”

“They seemed to.” [Y/N] replied as they started picking up the paint brushes. “Although, Lucia & Elena like anything that they get attention for. Like someone else I know.” Henrique snickered with a grin. “Are you really going to put their artwork up for them?”

“Of course!” Henrique replied. “It’s better than all that old, stuffy artwork we got around here.” He wasn’t really sure where it came from. It had probably been put in when the house was built in ot-not-fourteen-whenever it was and had never been changed since. “Brings a little color to the house.”

[Y/N] smiled a little and Henrique hopped off his stool to his full height again. “Let’s put some of your work up too.”

They looked surprised. “Henrique…are you sure?”

“Of course!” He told them. “I’ve seen your stuff and its way better than anything up now. Let’s show it off.” What he meant was that he wanted to show them off.

[Y/N] looked a little nervous but nodded. Henrique smiled again. “Good! Lets see what the girls are up to and we’ll go pick out places for everybody!” He then took [Y/N]’s hand and led them out of the girls’ room. His day already a little brighter thinking about how bright these halls would be with new art.

[wombywoo]

Hello! I'm sorry if this is a rude thing to ask, but I think I remember you saying that you've been drawing ever since you were very young. I'm curious, did you draw on paper back then? Or have you always been drawing digitally? Do you still draw with pen and paper? Or do you have a better grasp with digital art these days? Because your pieces are absolutely gorgeous (like genuinely incredible, the details in then have me absolutely swooning), I was wondering if you can draw the same on pen and paper. As you can probably tell by now, I'm not an artist, so I don't really know if people drawing digitally can draw the same way traditionally, haha.

I'm really sorry if any of these things are rude, it's really not my intention! I'm genuinely just curious about the way you draw! I've always had a certain admiration for artists of any kind, and your pieces have me dropping my jaw (in a good way, I promise!)

Even if you don't respond to this ask, I just wanted to tell you that you're incredibly good at drawing and that I am genuinely looking forward to your novel! As a writer, I am cheering for you! And once the novel comes out I think I might just write a fanfic or two based on your characters to give something back for all those incredible pieces you have created and shared with us! I really admire you and your ability to deal with all those rude anons (for a lack of better word, I'm not a native English speaker). Please do draw your lads and lasses as much as you wish, it brings me joy to see them!

Sorry for rambling fgsddfhs Have a nice day and thank you for everything!!

No worries at all--thank you so much for this lovely comment! 🥰💖 It always means a lot to hear that my art is appreciated <333

I *have* been drawing since I was a kid, and yes! I used to draw exclusively on paper for a looooong time. Back then, I mostly did pencil pieces (either regular or colored pencil and sometimes charcoal (gahh!)) And I used to draw on my bedroom floor in the worst position imaginable, lol

Since turning to digital art, I rarely do traditional pieces anymore :// I can't say I'd be able to achieve the same level of realism that I can get with digital, and I've come to rely on the ease and practicality of just having my tablet to draw with. That being said...I wouldn't mind trying to go back and do some pencil or watercolor stuff in the future..🤔

For reference, here are some pieces I did as a wee teen (some of these are from ~15 years ago..welp 🙃):

(some fanart and a fernando torres portrait I drew for my friend lol)

As you can see, these are still pretty detailed. But there's still more I can achieve in terms of color and adjustment using a digital platform 👍

And thank you for the encouragement with my novel as well! That's so sweet that you're already considering writing fic for it! 🥺🫶

[catnerd-13]

I said I’d post alec fanart and i did not lie (the only reason it’s finished is bc it’s literally for homework (achromatic peice)) !! I have no clue what the bg is i just felt like it X3

I love this twink more than anything in the world he is my son i miss him lots

I used pencil, coloured pencils, ink pens, alcohol markers, and charcoal for this little rat i’m very proud of myself

don’t ask what happened to the image quality i really don’t know

[beanstroni]

Okay so the "Damian volunteers at a hospital" thing is going around and I saw a post about how happy it would make Alfred and I just.

No.

It would not make Alfred happy.

It would crush him.

He would tell Damian he was proud.

And that night he would sit down on his bed. (In his outside clothes!)

Pull the flask from under his pillow.

Tap it up against the photo on his nightstand of the first black-haired blue-eyed boy who had kept him up until the wee hours of the night asking for a plate of sandwiches.

The first boy who had come home with blood on his clothes and a broken heart and cried on Alfred's shoulder when he lost a patient.

The first boy who looked at the man equal to him in age but greater in composure (an act , an act, it was all a role to play) and fell apart in the safety he found in gloved hands holding onto his shoulders.

The boy he had to convince to turn back around and go ASK HER PROPERLY when he came in distraught but delighted over Martha's proposal to him.

The boy who had been his friend and more, his brother.

The boy who had brought HIS son in, and placed him in his arms, saying quietly, "I don't know what to do, Martha needs sleep and you always calm me down when it's this late..."

Alfred would tap his flask to Thomas' picture, down the contents, and sigh.

"When will I learn how to keep my boys away from sorrow? It's all you and your big heart's fault, you know, Thom. You started this path."

The next day, the manor will wake to find a note - "Do try to leave my kitchen in one piece," and "don't touch the crock pot," "yes, that includes lifting the lid for 'just a peek.'" Alfred is back by dinner. He mans the comms, patches them up, and sends them to bed.

When Damian makes it upstairs, he finds two things:

- a skeleton in a bowler hat, plaque denoting "Anonymous Donor, given to Thomas Wayne" (when he flips the plaque over, "Falcone" is found in the cipher on the back, written in his grandmother's pen)

- a labcoat, freshly pressed, with no identifying marks until he slips it on to find patches of the Wayne crest in the cuffs. One hand makes its way to the pocket, where a strong hand has written in the script that Damian has come to learn means safety and love and harbor, "This was your grandfather's favorite lab coat. He found the reminder of who he was and who he had to return home to helpful. May it serve the same for you, dear boy."

The next day, there is no comment from either party.

But that night, when Alfred returns to his own quarters, there is a new frame on his nightstand. An embellished "P" in charcoal. "Who we come home to." Lettered precisely underneath.

[rxakii]

Sketching trouble

Hyunjin x f!reader

Enemies to lovers

Words: 1,171

Hyunjin had always been the quiet one in class, the kind of guy who lived in his own world, filled with paintbrushes, charcoal pencils, and endless sketches. He wasn’t the type to get involved in drama or conflict—except when it came to one person.

Y/N.

She was everything he wasn’t. Wild. Reckless. The girl who showed up late to class, leather jacket draped over her shoulders, gum snapping between her teeth. She rolled her eyes at authority and walked through life like it was hers to control. And for some reason, she had made it her personal mission to annoy the hell out of him.

Hyunjin didn’t get it. He wasn’t loud. He didn’t provoke her. Yet somehow, she always found a way to mess with him—blocking his way on purpose, taking his seat in class, stealing his pencils just to smirk as he scowled at her.

And yet…

He was obsessed with her.

Not in a romantic way. At least, that’s what he told himself. But Y/N had this raw energy that fascinated him, something untamed that made his fingers itch to capture it on paper. Her sharp jawline, the way her dark eyes sparkled with mischief, the way her lips curled when she was about to say something sarcastic—it was all too perfect.

So, when their art teacher announced a free drawing period, Hyunjin did what he swore he wouldn’t.

He drew her.

---

The classroom was quiet except for the scratch of pencils against paper. Hyunjin’s fingers moved instinctively, capturing every detail of Y/N’s features. Her defiant stare. The slight tilt of her head. The way she slouched in her seat like she didn’t care about anything.

It was the best thing he had ever drawn. And the worst decision he had ever made.

Because when the bell rang and class ended, he was too distracted to notice Y/N walking straight toward him.

She didn’t just pass by.

She shoved him.

Hard.

His sketchbook slipped from his fingers, landing open on the floor.

Hyunjin’s heart stopped.

Y/N, pausing in mid-stride, looked down. Then, with infuriating slowness, she bent and picked up the sketchbook, her eyes scanning the page.

A slow smirk stretched across her lips.

“Well, well, well,” she mused, tilting the sketch so the light hit it just right. “Didn’t know you were so obsessed with me, art boy.”

Hyunjin felt his face heat up. “Give it back.”

She ignored him. “I gotta say, you really captured my good side. Damn, should I be flattered? You got a little crush on me or something?”

His jaw clenched. “I said, give it back.”

But Y/N, as always, did the opposite of what he wanted.

She flipped through the pages, humming under her breath. “Let’s see… any other secret love letters to me in here?”

Hyunjin grabbed for the sketchbook, but she dodged effortlessly, laughing.

He should’ve known better than to expect her to play fair.

“Admit it,” Y/N said, twirling the sketchbook between her fingers. “You like drawing me.”

Hyunjin exhaled sharply. “You’re just—interesting to draw. That’s all.”

She cocked her head, pretending to think. “Interesting? That’s one way to say you’re obsessed.”

He crossed his arms, glaring. “Are you done?”

Y/N grinned. “Not even close.”

Then, before he could react, she plucked a pen from his desk and scribbled something in the corner of the sketch.

Hyunjin snatched it back, eyes narrowing as he read her scrawled message:

"Next time, draw me smiling. Might be a challenge for you, art boy."

His grip tightened on the page, but when he glanced up, she was already walking away, that damn smirk still on her lips.

Hyunjin groaned. He was in so much trouble.

And he wasn’t sure he hated it.

---

Hyunjin tried to ignore her.

Tried to pretend that she hadn’t gotten under his skin, that he hadn’t spent the next few days sketching her over and over again, trying to get her expression just right.

But Y/N didn’t let him ignore her.

She leaned too close when she walked past. She stole his pencils when he wasn’t looking. And worst of all—she started smiling at him.

Real smiles.

The kind that made his chest feel too tight.

The kind that made him realize he was in deeper than he thought.

So, one afternoon, when he caught her eye across the room, he made a decision.

He flipped open his sketchbook, tore out the drawing of her, and marched right over.

“Here,” he said, thrusting the paper toward her.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“You said you wanted a drawing of you smiling.” He crossed his arms. “There. Now you can stop bothering me.”

For the first time since he had known her, she looked surprised.

Then, slowly, her fingers curled around the paper, and she studied the drawing.

“…Damn,” she muttered. “You really are good.”

Hyunjin felt his pulse quicken.

Then Y/N looked up at him, and something in her gaze shifted.

“So,” she said, tucking the sketch into her pocket. “When are you drawing me again?”

Hyunjin swallowed hard. “What makes you think I will?”

She grinned. “Because I know you, art boy. You can’t help it.”

And when she walked away, this time, she didn’t shove him.

This time, she brushed her fingers over his, just for a second.

Just long enough to make him wonder if maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the only one obsessed.

---

It started small.

A stolen glance. A lingering touch. Y/N sitting next to him in class, watching as he sketched, her voice softer than usual when she asked questions.

“You ever gonna draw me again?”

Hyunjin hesitated. Then, without a word, he flipped to a new page.

Y/N smirked. “Told you.”

And this time, when he looked up at her, he didn’t mind the teasing.

Because somewhere along the way, her smirk had stopped being annoying.

And started becoming his favorite thing to draw.

[biinaberry]

Proud immortal demon way never went into the lives of Binghe's children, and not all of them see him in the same light the viewers do. Luo Xùqiáng, LBH's 27th son has a very personal hatred for his father. His mother died in childbirth, a death that LBH could have very easily prevented if he wasn't traveling at the time. He grapples with the fact he knows nothing about his mother and yet people expect him to respect his father.

"You look like your father." That's all you heard growing up. You think it's supposed to be a compliment. Your father is the eminent Luo Binghe unifier of the realms, as stupid of an idea it is to you. But that is what you learned growing up.

They mention how smart he was for unifying the two realms. For ending the corruption between the races but life doesn't work like that. It never worked like that. As if slapping a rabbit and a wolf in the same pen will make them forget their nature. The wolf will forget it has teeth and the rabbit with pretend it has claws. There is a reason they were separated and your father was too prideful to admit he did it because he has no concept of balance because he never had any. Always taking taking and taking. Never once questioning why others fought and spat his name like acid when he was gone. He took and took until the scales tipped until it collapsed unable to survive off of its base of hay and straw. All stones ravaged for his palace and wives. The world is now destroyed by his own two hands. Ecosystems devastated and lands burned and overrun by monsters that we were never meant to witness.

But you look like your father. Isn't that lovely? The man who ruined the world.

You look like your father. The man who destroyed the only salvation humanity could have had.

You look like your father, it should have been an honor.

But what about your mother? Did she not deserve to have a name? To be remembered? Why must she be the one to waste away in the shadows as your father shines in the limelight. Why is there no portraits, no charcoal paintings. No loving letters between her and your father. Only hollow halls and false promises of love and affection. Why must she be the one to suffer under the cruelty of a liar.

You look like your father.

They say I should honor my father. He brought me into the world, but he didn't. My mother bore me she was the one holding me for months, singing songs I will never remember. Embroidering gifts I will never see and talking about dreams that will never be achieved. But my father is the one I should honor.

What use is my father is he never played the role he meant to play. What use is knowing the man who never gave a damn about me in the first place. Who never gave a damn about the women and children he brought into his palace of lies and abandonment. He is the one history will remember.

But my mother is the one who will never get a name, who will be erased from history. Her passion for flowers, her love for the night sky. The poetry she wrote in the moonlight will stay within the ashes of her memories. I cannot even be given the comfort of visiting our little corner of the palace. She has no room it is now the home for another wife. Another woman given false promises of a future that will never be achieved. She will take up the role your mother once held and become another face in the crowd to compensate for your father's vile nature. Too busy bedding everyone and everything in sight to compensate for a sword he should have abandoned decades before you were born. Stuck in the cycle of pleasure with no gain and warmth that dissipates as soon as he leaves the bedsheets. You look like your father. Isn't that a wonderful thing?

[sorvqlz]

Fan of Bloody Painter here, not sure if you like this request or not.

The phantom of the opera: Erik losing Christine and let her go to Raoul. Legends says he’s real back in past until 2025… Y/N who was a fan of art and illustrations like they like video game characters and anime designs. They met a mysterious man named Helen Otis. He starts to give them an eerily similar vibes. Could it be? Perhaps, Helen is a reincarnation of the phantom Erik himself? Why his black hair and his style seem have same charms as the phantom too? He could be modern Erik himself. Y/N laughs and don’t believe in the past, it’s just some dark romance, who knows, but then Helen always grew obsessed with them during collage years. Bloody Painter not just likes art but also like music as well.

This is basically yandere Bloody Painter x reader, I always see him as a modern version of phantom of opera since they are both wearing mask and black hair love for talents. Sorry for spamming my typing. 😭

Paint Me a Phantom

-dw about spamming I don't mind at all!! 😭♡

Yandere Bloody Painter (Helen Otis) x GN!Reader | Phantom of the Opera Inspired

They always said Erik died with the old Paris Opera House. A ghost who disappeared into the smoke of history, never to return.

But legends never die. They just change masks.

You had always been drawn to the romantic—not the pink-flushed, movie-type romance, but the kind that weeps in candlelight and aches through art. Your world was sketchbooks, digital illustrations, brush pens, and open tabs of music scores while you worked. You loved beauty where it hurt the most. That was what made your art sing.

So when Helen Otis entered your life during second-year art school, he felt like a painting come to life.

He was quiet, aloof. Black curls fell into his eyes as he sketched in class, and his clothes—sharp, old-fashioned, with little dark details—felt like someone who had never really left the 19th century. He always had gloves on. You thought maybe it was an art thing—maybe he didn’t like the feel of graphite on skin.

But there was something else. Something behind his eyes.

You noticed it in the way he watched you during critiques. He never looked directly at your pieces—he looked at you watching them, like he was studying how you breathed when you were proud, how your fingers twitched when you doubted yourself.

You joked once during a late studio night, with a soft chuckle, “You’re like a modern Phantom of the Opera, you know?”

Helen’s pencil stilled. He didn’t smile. Not really.

“Maybe I am,” he murmured, almost too quiet to catch.

You blinked. “Okay, Erik,” you teased, “What, are you gonna start hiding behind curtains and composing sonatas for me?”

His lips curved—just barely.

“Would you listen, if I did?”

You laughed it off. You didn’t believe in ghosts or reincarnation. That kind of stuff belonged in novels, in tragic operas and visual novels, not in the real world.

But after that, he started leaving things for you.

A sketch slipped under your door—your face rendered in charcoal, looking softer than you ever saw yourself. A page torn from his notebook with handwritten lyrics in French—lyrics from the opera. A rose, deep red and fresh, laid across your desk with no note, but a smear of crimson across the stem.

You told yourself it was admiration. Artists were dramatic. Maybe he just appreciated your work.

But then you began to notice the way your favorite spaces—your hidden corners of campus, your safe little studio nooks—started feeling less private. He would already be there when you arrived. Not every time, but enough. And when you asked how he knew, he said with an unnerving calm, “I listen to what you don’t say.”

You told your friends, laughing it off. “He’s intense. Gothic weirdo type. You know the ones.” But there was always a strange tightness in your chest when you spoke about him.

Then came the night of the exhibition.

You had several pieces on display, digital illustrations exploring dreams and duality. You stayed late after the crowd thinned, picking up your leftover sketches.

That’s when you found it—his piece. It wasn’t listed on the wall, not in the program. But it was there, on a spare easel in the back. A painting.

Of you.

But not as you were.

It was you in a flowing coat of midnight blue, your face half-covered by a white mask. One hand reaching out, the other clutching a crimson rose. Behind you stood a crumbling opera house, candles flickering, music notes bleeding into the darkness.

You stared. The brushwork was masterful. Intimate. Obsessive.

And behind the canvas, you felt him.

“I always knew,” he whispered behind you. “From the moment I saw you… I knew it was you again.”

You turned slowly, your throat dry. “Again?”

Helen stepped closer, eyes glinting beneath the dim gallery lights. “You don’t remember, do you?”

You took a step back.

“It’s alright,” he continued, voice low, velvety. “You don’t have to remember. I remember enough for the both of us. The way you sang. The way you looked at me before you left.”

“That wasn’t me,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I’m not… whoever you think I am.”

Helen smiled. But it wasn’t a kind smile. It was possessive.

“You always said that,” he whispered. “Back then, too. You told me it was just fantasy. Just shadows and stage lights.”

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat. “Helen—”

“But this time,” he murmured, “I won’t let you leave. This time… no Raoul. No curtain call.”

He reached out, gloved fingers brushing yours.

“This time, you stay with me.”

Author's note: Their dynamic feels like walking a tightrope between passion and danger. Helen sees Y/N as something sacred, something he’s known before—an echo from a life he refuses to let go of. Meanwhile, Y/N just wants to live in the present, but can’t help feeling drawn in by his strange charm. It’s all soft glances, quiet tension, and the creeping realization that maybe… they’ve already gone too far to escape him.

[magic-shop-stories]

OMG BESTIE YOU DID IT!!! 😭💜 I’ve been lurking since you first texted about this blog in our late-night DM spirals, and I’m SO PROUD OF YOU!!! 🥺 You’re finally sharing your magic with the world

Okay, okay, requests—let’s christen this blog with some SOFT JOON FLUFF.

Imagine: Reader is a shy artist who accidentally spills coffee on Namjoon’s notebook at a bookstore. Instead of mad, he’s delighted because her doodles inspire his next album. Cute awkward giggles, philosophical chats, and him buying her a new sketchbook “to keep colliding with the universe together.”

And I jusr realised this is so your aesthetic You’ve got this, love. I’ll be first in line to reblog every word. 💜💜 T

💌Reply

HI, MY SOULMATE ARMY 😭💜 Thank you for being my first request—and for believing in me even when I was stress-typing at 3AM. This one’s for you to T💜

REQUEST NAME:

Coffee Stains & Cosmic Drafts

↳ Namjoon x Artist!Reader; Fluff Imagine

Rating: G (Fluffiest of Fluff)

Warnings: None! Just honey-sweet vibes and a sprinkle of existential wonder.

The bookstore smells like old paper and ambition.

You’re tucked into your usual corner, charcoal smudged on your wrist and a half-finished sketch of the willow tree outside bleeding across your notebook. Rain taps the window, Seoul’s grey afternoon softened by golden lamplight and the click-clack of the shop owner’s typewriter. You reach for your coffee...

Clatter...

The cup tips. Liquid arcs in slow motion, splashing across the table… and onto the open notebook of the man sitting across from you.

Oh...

Oh no...

He doesn’t look up at first, too absorbed in scribbling lyrics. You freeze, watching the stain seep into the page like a Rorschach blot. His handwriting—a chaotic mix of Korean and English—swirls around your accidental abstract art.

“I… I’m so sorry,” you stammer, scrambling for napkins.

That’s when he lifts his head.

Kim Namjoon.

You recognize him instantly—the dimples, the brow furrowed in thought, the way his presence seems to bend the room toward curiosity. He blinks, adjusting his round wireframes, and… smiles.

“Wait,” he says, voice low and bright all at once. He tilts the notebook, coffee droplets glittering under the light. “This… this is incredible.”

Your cheeks burn. “It’s a disaster. Let me replace your notebook, I—”

“No, look.” He traces the stain’s edges, where your half-drawn willow branches from your sketchbook seem to reach toward his lyrics. “Your tree… it’s growing into my words. Like the universe is… collaborating.” His eyes crinkle, wonder softening his tone. “Do you always draw in the margins?”

You nod, clutching your charcoal. “It… helps me think.”

Namjoon leans forward, elbows on the table, and suddenly the world shrinks to just this: his mint-green sweater, the faint scent of cedar and coffee, and the way he studies your sketches like they’re maps to a galaxy. “Can I ask… why a willow?”

You hesitate. “They bend. But they don’t break. Even in storms.”

He hums, deep and resonant. “Like people,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. Then he grins, boyish and sudden. “Can I buy you a new coffee? And… maybe borrow your chaos for a while?”

Two hours later, you’re still there. He buys you a sketchbook—thick pages, bound in leather—and writes on the first page: “To my favourite cosmic collaborator. Keep bending the universe. – Joon.”

When you leave, rain still falling, he slips a napkin into your hand. Scribbled on it:

“P.S. Next time, spill the coffee on purpose. I’ll bring better pens.”...

[callofdudes]

I made more because... Because! @aidenlydia again, this is their au but I'm eating it like fish sticks on a plate of mac 'n cheese. Getting this scene out of my head because I love them and I have nothing else to do waiting for dinner.

More Viking SoapGhost.

Ghost watched, his eyes unmoving as John wrote with his charcoal wood pen on some old pages. Geez it must have been four pages with three drawings and eight life updates.

Finally John signed the bottom of the pages and rolled them up with a string.

"You done??" Ghost asked flatly when He finished.

"Yes, now I need these delivered back to Roach."

"You say that like I'm going to do it."

John looks at him, nodding. "You are."

Ghost sighs and groans. "I'm not your dumb messenger bird." He grumbles, shifting closer and standing. John pulls his cloak tighter and chuckles softly. "Actually, you are."

He holds out the folded papers to a pouty Simon. "Go on, shouldn't be long now if you get to it." John encouraged.

"Fine, but I'm bringing back a tab worth my while for it." He grumbled, looking up at the big man.

"Mhm, and I'll happily pay."

Ghost shifted, black wings flapping in the air, snatching the papers between his talons. He squawked at John, who could only smile softly, barely noticable.

And watched him head off. Simon didn't actually mind doing errands for John. If anything the combined stretching of his wings and the inevitable praise he was going to get for completing the assignment would be worth it.

Oh yes indeed.

John kept the fire lit, watching the open snowy land as Ghost's small form had left his sight. He poked the fire, watching the embers flock to the wind of the cave mouth, then over at Ghosts bedroll.

He sighed softly, placing his hand on it, noticing a stray feather stuck to the inside. He chuckled softly, picking it up and twirling it around.

"Be safe, Ghost."

Ghost did as he promised, he made the incredible eight hour journey in the shitty weather back to their small village. Fucking between houses to the main hall.

Stopping at the doors, his feet hit the ground, heading up the stairs and pushing the knocker open.

The large door swing, creaking when he entered. A head poked up, followed by a little smile. "Well well well, hunting season is barely started and you're already back."

Simon rolled his eyes softly, coming over and dropping the roll of papers. "From MacTavish."

"What is it??" Roach asked, undoing the twine.

"Hell if I know, I may be a crow but I do not snoop."

Roach gave him a look, and Simon sighed. "Ok not this time. But I was damn curious."

Roach chuckled softly. "Alright, I'll look these over, you go get some rest. Probably had a long trip."

"Well I got permission to run up a tab so I'm gonna go get my arse drunker than a bat in honey." He flipped the end of his cloth mask back over his shoulder to keep it secure. Heading back to the door and out to go get absolutely hammered.

And you don't want to see a shifter drunk, it's not always pretty. But Ghost has been starting to learn that eighteen drinks is when John has to cradle the poor crow with his talons straight out and wings a mess as he takes him home.

And of course, by the time Ghost had slept off the drunken night Roach had something new written up for him. Returning to the hall and taking the papers.

"Will you be alright to fly?? You look a little..."

"Mmm I'll be fine!" Ghost mumbled, heading from the hall and taking off again. Damn messenger bird. John better congratulate him at least or he's never running him these stupid errands ever again.

It was late when he returned, but he saw the familiar smoke and a crackling fire. Flapping his wings and stretching out his talons when he saw a dark figure among the casting, wobbling shadows.

He latched onto John's arm guard, crooning his neck and fluffing his feathers before tucking them in.

John noticed the letters and gently took them, noticing the scratchy pen writing of Roach.

"Thank you Ghost, you've done very well."

Simon melted, making a little noise and hopping up his arm, craning his head to peck at John's beard.

"Yes, good work." John put the papers down to run his large, calloused thumb over Simon's small head, gently smoothing the feathers down.

Oooh yeah, this is so worth it.

He fluffs his feathers, nipping at his hand when he attempted to pull away. "Alright then, if you insist... Get comfy."

Simon cawed at him. He wouldn't be getting comfortable. Hopping onto the ground and shifting, noticing his bedroll slightly closer.

"You miss me or something?"

"Only warming the place where my cold heart will go after I see that tab." He mumbles as he turns his attention mostly onto the letters.

Simon smiles a tad, laying down and getting comfy. He looks around, then at the fire, watching the flames dance. His head slowly coming down, resting against John's thigh.

It was hesitant, but then again peaceful. The silence only filled by the crackling fire. Simon's head feeling a mess from the last of the alcohol and the flight until Johns hand gently touched his head.

He didn't react, keeping himself stiff as Johns thumb absentmindedly stroked his hair. Eyes still glued on the letters, reading them through.

Simon relented to relaxing, curling up and pulling John's cloak over him slightly. His eyelids felt heavy, and the soothing warmth of John's hand slowly had him coming undone.

Letting himself fall asleep there, letting out soft breaths.

John's gaze finally flickered over to his partner, humming softly. "Good work, Simon. Can always count on you."

He put the papers aside and leaned back, watching the entrance of their camp as Simon slept. He would keep watch, he'd gotten enough of his own rest for now.

It's shorter but hell that first photo had me in a coma. Yes, I am insane, yes, I will make more, respectfully if I'm allowed to keep gobbling up these meals...

[thefaiao]

seeing your clowns made me go feral since my fixation is cringe and clown flavored

Who let you cook like that who let you cook AUTHHFFH UR ART IS SO COOL IM BEING DRAGGED AWAY

You’re hatching is so fucking inspiring since it’s soMETHING I try to do in my own work I LOVE UR ART

would it be fine to ask what brushes you use? I love ur values also, you’re so so good at shapes and form WAAAA I LOVE UR STUFF. I did dig up an old ask you made iirc, but I’m not sure if it’s changed

Hey! Thank you very much. I'll go through the brushes I use for each program: Drawpile

From what I understand most of these are MyPaint brushes... but I only know them as drawpile brushes because that's what I use. Main ones I've used lately is Irregular Ink and a default brush for coloring

I don't really change the size of irregular ink much and the pressure doesn't matter that much. It has high stabilization which I haven't changed, but I'm sure you could get away with lowering it. For the other brush I'm pretty sure it's a default one that I slightly tweaked (drawpile is a bit bad about communicating what brush exactly you are using to you.) I quite like it because it feels like playing with clay, makes it easy to map out the volume. I use it for those lineless pieces I do from time to time too. I change its size a lot while drawing. I've also used these two, one of the pencil brushes and a second one I stole from Jokioro that I have no idea what is called

I used the first one for the D'arce I did a while ago and the recent VTMB piece. It's great at emulating sketchy graphite pencils, I like layering it to do multi-colored hatching rendering. The second one I don't know how to use super well yet but it's probably my fourth most used as of late. It works very weirdly so if you wanna figure out how to make it work I recommend looking at how Jokioro draws. Clip Studio I bounce around a lot with all the brushes, but I use a loooot of stuff from the Frenden pack. Mainly Meeko Leako for lining and even coloring, it has a great texture to it, very fun

This has been my most used brush for years. It's great for super straight lines and produces a great difference in value between quick lines and thick lines. I haven't used it as much since I picked up drawpile more recently, but it's amazing! Other than that I use the default G-pen when I just want simple lines without much texture

It's a bit ugly at a glance but I think if you lock in it's great for super clean lines, just trying to get the point across without much noise. I also like coloring with it at times, when I'm going lineless. SAI Binary pen. Use the binary pen. It's the best brush ever made

It just feels super right to draw with it, it's so simple but it makes your lines look super slick, and it's just a binary pen. I guess they just got the behavior down perfect for it. But yeah, love this brush. IRL I've always used these archival ink pens in different sizes for basically everything I've done traditionally, and of course just a simple number 2 pencil for sketching and such. I've used a bit of charcoal recently, and been wanting to deep into darker pencils for detail, but this is still the default. I also will probably try out dip pens sometime

That's all I can think of immediately, but I always like to mess around to try and find another great brush, and you should do the same even if you end up using these a lot.