#color: red 🎨

[azurexsnake]

missing you SO MUCH

NINE WHAT IN THE WORLD????!!!!!???? My bbgirl 😭 but actually so fr I miss you too pookiewookie ☹️ ilyilyilyilyily

[jttlpgroup]

Mia 🎋 10744   http://www.steveb29.com/2025/03/mia-10744.html

[thekids-onholiday]

Red stimboard!!!

With blades and blood for anon!

[Low gore no organs requested!]

🩸 🗡 🩸

🗡 🩸 🗡

🩸 🗡 🩸

[rika731]

[theonlyadawong]

alt outfits for claire, ada, and leon

[abnomi]

Ok... Who exploded 😐

BTW I LOVE UNICO. I LOVE KURUKU AND BEEZLE ESPECIALLY!!! kurukus character design is so mesmerizing to me and his personality speaks to me deeply. his whimsical nature contradicts his violent tendencies and i LOVE IT. i use him as a basketball. characters when they! Wow!

[thinkingsmart]

Visiones 💜🩷 21412 As long as we’re breathing it’s not too late to change your story. 💫💛   https://ift.tt/bCjfX6o

[pastelliek]

"I didn’t ask That is LOVELY, now, if you’d listen," Steven said through gritted teeth, his face burning from rage as he attempted to catch your attention.

[paper-star-ships]

They're watching Spongebob :]

[cenna-hrms]

My art 🎨(bic pen : black, turquoise, blue, green, red and orange + grey colored pencil)

[azurexsnake]

Thoughts on: Vash with kitten ears? 👀👀👀

C-can I talk about cheetah!Vash or??? 🥲

98 and trimax Vash are kitty-cat-coded to me. But idk, tristamp Vash is def more…. Idk how to describe it but I can’t picture him with lil meow meow ears. I think it’s probably how solidified cheetah!Vash is in my mind. Like it’s so fitting to him specifically I can’t see him any other way. But it’s cat-adjacent!!

And I have many thoughts on it. Like the sounds of his purrs. The lil chirps. Social anxiety. Imprinting. Zoomies. He’s so fast. What I wouldn’t give to rub his ears and pet his tail. Be practically knocked over when he plops himself down half on me in the way cats do when they’re comfy with you. Y’know??

Or if we wanna go down the route of like, fake, just for funsies kitty ears, we’re doing the whole thing. Cat lingerie, bell collar, tail plug etc, etc. He would be so cute =w= I can see it now. He’d be so bashful about being put in it all but he’s eager af to please too. A lil praise to butter him up and suddenly he’s content as anything to be kneeling at your feet with his cheek on your thigh so you can give him scritches

[jttlpgroup]

Ariana 💋 10570   http://www.steveb29.com/2024/08/5933-ariana.html

[waynes-multiverse]

I’m obsessed now with Soldier Boy with an artist!reader❤️ do you think you can write something where Ben sees one of readers pieces and is actually impressed? Like he gets all soft and compliments her (idc if it’s ooc😭) and reader gets all shy since he’s never that nice. Keep doing your awesome work I love reading everything you do!

A/N: I know you sent me this a long time ago, but it always stayed with me! I honestly loved that pairing so much, so here it finally is – another installment of Ben dating an artist! ☺️🎨

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Artist!Reader

Warnings: language, humor, weirdly not that OOC, established relationship, fluff

Word Count: 1.3k

Main Masterlist || Soldier Boy Masterlist || Tag List

Drawn to You

He’s not supposed to be in here.

You left him on the couch with snacks and an old action movie that usually keeps him entertained for at least two hours – three if there’s enough gratuitous violence. But now, somehow, Ben’s standing in the middle of your studio like he’s caught you doing something wrong.

You’re not even sure why you left the painting out. It’s half-finished, not even something you meant to show him – or anyone, really. But the corner of the canvas had been poking out from under the drop cloth, and of course he has no sense of boundaries.

Now he’s standing in front of it like he just discovered fire – or maybe a grenade he forgot he’d thrown. Arms crossed over that broad and proud chest of his, sparkling green eyes narrowed, plush mouth slightly open.

Confused admiration.

You hover awkwardly by the studio doorway, heart ticking a little too fast in your chest. “It’s not done.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just tilts his head a little, still staring. “You did this?”

“Uh-huh…”

There’s a beat of silence. You chew the inside of your cheek.

The background of the piece is still unfinished. You’ve been working on it for days – an abstract portrait, full of deep greens, reds, golds and harsh brush strokes. It’s raw. A little messy. Way too personal.

“You didn’t tell me you were hiding this in here.”

Your head whirls around, already flustered. “I’m not hiding anything, you just–… This is my space!”

“Yeah, and I just breached it like fuckin' Normandy.” He purses his lips, not paying much attention to you, head still jerking left and right, eyes fixed on the canvas. “Huh. You’re actually fuckin’ good.”

You blink. “Wait, what?!”

His eyes flick toward you, still that familiar sharp green, but softer than usual. “I said you’re good. Don’t make me repeat it.” He gestures toward the canvas, vaguely. “All this color, the-… what’s the word – texture. It’s got–…” He squints, licks his lips, searching for something. “Depth. That’s what they call it, right?”

“Uhm…” You tuck a paint-smeared hand behind your back. “Yeah, that’s, uh, usually the goal.”

He nods like he knows exactly what he’s talking about, like he didn’t just learn that word from an article someone else read to him. “It’s got, like… emotion. Makes you feel things. Which is weird, ‘cause I don’t usually–” He breaks off, shrugging. “You know.”

You can’t help it – you snort a laugh. “Feel things?”

“Shut up,” he says, but there’s no bite in it. His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “I’m fuckin’ serious. This is the kinda shit people should be talking about. Not those goddamn… squiggly dot paintings you showed me last week.”

“Those were pointillism. It’s a style.”

“It’s a migraine. Looked like someone sneezed on a fuckin’ napkin.”

You roll your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “Well, thanks, I guess.”

“Not ‘thanks, I guess.’” He steps closer, and something about the way he’s looking at you – uncharacteristically gentle, borderline sincere – makes you feel suddenly very small. “You’re talented. Like, actually talented. This is good. Museum good. Better than half the shit I’ve had to pretend to like at galas.”

You make a noise – somewhere between a laugh and a scoff – and look away, suddenly way too interested in the floor. “You’re being nice to me. What’s going on? Are you finally dying? Is it actually happening?”

He never says anything is good. The best you’ve gotten before was “not bad, considering you listen to sad girl music while doing it.”

“Careful,” he warns, but there is that hint of playfulness that swings with the word. “But seriously, I’ve seen a lot of shit in my day. Back in the ‘60s, I ended up at one of those warehouse things. You know, big parties, free booze, fuckin' weirdos in sunglasses? Some guy with a mop of white hair kept trying to talk to me about soup cans.”

Your brows draw tightly together. “Are you talking about Andy Warhol?”

“Yeah! That’s the one.” He shrugs casually, rolling his eyes at the memory. “Kept calling everything ‘genius’ and offering me a banana. Thought he was a fruitcake. Turned out he was famous. Who knew?”

You stare at him. “You met Andy Warhol?!”

“Briefly. Didn’t like him. Too smug. Liked to talk about himself a lot.”

Your lips curl in amusement, muttering, “Pot. Kettle.”

“You always paint like this?” he asks then, and it’s the softness in his voice that stays with you. He’s still looking at the painting like it surprised him.

“Only when I’m trying to work stuff out in my head,” you admit.

He nods slowly, eyes narrowing just a little. He looks at the canvas like it just whispered state secrets to him. You watch his expression shift from surprise to something dangerously close to pride. Like he found a shiny rock in a field and decided it must be a diamond.

“So what are you working out here?”

You hesitate. You don’t want to say it out loud, but a lot of it is him. The chaos, the unpredictability. The way he storms into your life and makes it impossible to think straight.

“I don’t know,” you lie. “Stuff.”

“Mmm.” He gives you a knowing look but doesn’t push. Instead, he reaches out – almost touches the canvas, then thinks better of it. “I like it. It’s loud. Kinda like you.”

Your mouth drops slightly. “I am not loud!”

He grins like the devil then – more like the man you know so well. “Yeah? Tell that to your neighbors when I fuck you, angel.”

You shove him lightly, and he doesn’t even flinch. Of course he doesn’t. Doesn’t even move an inch. Just catches your hand in his like he always does – easy, delicate – like it belongs there.

“I mean it, though,” he says, and his voice is lower now, less teasing. “You’re good. Like… makes-me-shut-up kind of good.”

He finally looks at you, and there’s something different in his expression. Less cocky, more real. Like maybe, maybe, he’s seeing you for the first time and not just his chaotic, caffeine-fueled girlfriend who lives off granola bars and impulse.

You look away, cheeks burning. “Stop it.”

Your heart does something deeply inconvenient – skips, flutters, maybe backflips. He’s got it doing gymnastics. God, you hate when he gets like this. All curious and quiet and goddamn nice like he didn’t punch a man into the sun two days ago.

“What, I’m being supportive.”

“You’re scaring me,” you quip, laughing a little – probably due to uncomfortableness and jittering nerves. “Seriously, who are you and what have you done with the arrogant man-child I’m dating?”

He doesn’t answer instantly – which is weird. Because usually, silence with him means he’s about to say something wildly inappropriate or launch into a story about the time he suplexed a Nazi into a tank.

Instead, he pulls you closer by the hand he’s still holding – slow, calm, like you’re a feral cat he doesn’t want to spook – and gently brushes a strand of hair behind your ear with his knuckle. He smiles like he can read your thoughts. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You totally are.” His smirk is infuriating.

“I have paint on my face.”

“It’s under the paint.”

You swat his chest, because it’s easier than admitting he’s right. Ben, on the other hand, grins like a smug golden retriever with biceps.

“Gonna paint me next?” he asks. “Something tasteful. Maybe a toga – or no toga.”

You deadpan, “I could paint your mouth shut.”

He laughs, big and real and unfiltered. “God, you’re hot when you sass me.”

You roll your eyes so hard you see your past lives, but your heart still stutters in your chest like a traitor. You look up at him, but you’re smiling now, warm and glowing, even if you’re trying not to show it.

“You really like it?” you ask, quieter this time, almost afraid of the answer.

He doesn’t even hesitate, just smiles. “I really do.”

Hope you guys liked this! It's been stuck in my head forever. Glad I finally got to it 🥰

Let me know what you think! My inbox is always open for more of these shenanigans 😉💚

Looking for more Soldier Boy x Artist!Reader? Check out these stories:

🎨 French Boys

🎨 He Comes In Colors

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444

@syrma-sensei @perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming

@hunter-or-the-hunted @k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways

@muhahaha303 @ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith

@nesnejwritings @samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02

@impala67rollingthroughtown @star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v

[thekids-onholiday]

Red Stimboard!!!

No themes requested, just red! For anon!

🔺️ 🟥 🔺️

🟥 🔺️ 🟥

🔺️ 🟥 🔺️

Remember to send an ask if you want anything changed, and as always, thank you for sending a request! We hope you enjoy!

[kenney-mencher]

Why Kenney Mencher’s Champion is Great Gay Art 🌈🎨

Looking for a bold, statement-making piece that screams confidence and celebrates the power of queer masculinity? Look no further than Kenney Mencher’s Champion. At 30 x 40 inches and priced at $2,200, this oil-on-stretched-canvas masterpiece is a knockout—literally. Check it out here.

The medium, oil on canvas, gives Champion a luscious, tactile texture that captures every detail in the subject’s pose and expression. The thick, rich brushstrokes create a powerful sense of movement, as though this figure is about to leap off the canvas. The color palette is saturated and intense, with bold reds, earthy browns, and deep blues that convey strength and vitality. The chiaroscuro shading creates dramatic contrasts, emphasizing the athletic build and conveying a sense of depth and emotion. This isn’t just a painting—it’s a celebration of confidence and individuality, perfectly encapsulated in an unapologetically queer lens.

Style, Symbolism, and Why It’s Perfect for Your Space

Mencher’s style is naturalistic yet slightly stylized, capturing both the physical power and emotional depth of the subject. The lines are strong and deliberate, emphasizing the muscular form, while the asymmetrical composition keeps the eye engaged. The subject exudes confidence, with a hint of vulnerability, making it a perfect representation of modern queer masculinity.

This painting fits seamlessly into any gay man’s home, whether you’re rocking a sleek modern aesthetic or a cozy, bear-inspired den. Champion is more than art—it’s a reflection of queer strength, pride, and community. It celebrates body positivity, individuality, and the beauty of being unapologetically yourself.

Kenney Mencher: Master of Queer Storytelling

Kenney Mencher’s work stands out for its ability to tell deeply personal, queer-centered stories through classical techniques and bold, contemporary themes. Champion is no exception, showcasing his skill at blending realism with modern sensibilities to create art that resonates with LGBTQ+ audiences. Whether you’re a collector or just someone who loves bold, meaningful art, Champion is a must-have for your walls.

So, what are you waiting for? Add Champion to your collection and let it bring strength, pride, and a little bit of Mencher magic to your space. 🏋️‍♂️✨

[multi-fandom-imagine]

🎨Little Masterpiece || Rafayel ||

A/n: He would be an amazing father

The first thing you notice when you walk into the sunlit living room is the mess. You had to bite your tongue from screaming out in frustration as your gaze looked everything over.

Splotches of blue, red, and yellow paint streak across the floor, tiny handprints marking the walls, and the unmistakable giggles of your three-year-old echoing through the air. In the middle of the chaos stands Rafayel, tall and effortlessly poised despite the absolute disaster surrounding him.

And in his arms? Your little artist, clutching a paintbrush like a scepter, her hands covered in an explosion of color.

“Ah, my love,” Rafayel greets you, voice lilting with amusement, his usual teasing edge barely concealed. He shifts his grip on your daughter, adjusting them easily on his hip as if they weigh nothing. “You’re just in time to witness true genius at work.”

You blink. Then, slowly, take in the scene before you a weak whimper leaving your lips.

The walls—oh god, the walls. What was once pristine now looks like an abstract battlefield, vibrant streaks of color smeared across its once-perfect surface. The coffee table, once a respectable piece of furniture, is now a canvas, bearing the evidence of tiny, eager hands experimenting with brush strokes. Even the floor isn’t spared, a tragic victim of tiny feet that have stomped through spilled paint like it was a festival of colors.

And yet, despite the sheer chaos, Rafayel is grinning. Beaming with utter pride.

Your child wriggles in his arms, holding up her latest masterpiece—a scrap of paper barely visible under the thick layers of paint. “Look, Mama!”she chirps, their wide, bright eyes—so much like yours—shining with excitement. “I made a big picture!”

Your gaze flicks back to Rafayel, expecting even a hint of guilt, maybe a nervous chuckle. Instead, he looks absolutely, ridiculously proud.

Your daughter waves her paint-covered hands, flinging a few more drops onto the already stained floor. Rafayel barely flinches. If anything, he holds her closer, his own shirt now streaked with color. The sight of him, all white and pristine, now a mess of tiny fingerprints and stray streaks of blue, is almost too much. His hair even caked with paint, your husband not caring at all.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Rafayel.”

He hums, blinking down at you with those infuriatingly beautiful pink and blue eyes.

“Why,” you say slowly, voice teetering on the edge of exasperation, “is our daughter painting the walls?”

A beat of silence. Then, with an utterly shameless grin, he replies, “Because she is an artist, of course.”

You stare at him....just a blank look because by now you should be used to his antics.

Rafayel, with the full audacity of a man who has never been told “no” in his life, gestures toward the wall like it’s a grand masterpiece hanging in a gallery. “Just look at this expression! The boldness! The confidence in their strokes! My little one has an eye for color, don’t you think?” He turns his gaze back to your child, expression utterly besotted. “Truly,” he coos, “you take after your father.”

Your daughter giggles, throwing her tiny paint-covered arms around his neck. “Papa says I make good art!”

“The best art,” Rafayel affirms solemnly, pressing a kiss to her messy hair, uncaring of the blue smudge it leaves on his cheek.

You groan, running a hand through your hair. “I leave you alone for one hour—”

“And what a magnificent hour it has been,” Rafayel interrupts smoothly. “Our daughter has embraced her creative spirit. We should encourage this kind of talent, don’t you think?” His voice is all teasing, but there’s genuine warmth beneath it, a quiet joy at witnessing his child’s happiness.

You want to argue. You really do. But then you look at them—your little girl, beaming with absolute pride, her cheeks flushed with excitement. And Rafayel, looking at her like she hung the stars in the sky. His usually teasing, impish expression is softer now, affectionate in a way only you ever get to see.

He’s never cared much for the world’s judgment. He plays at being charming and carefree when it suits him, cold and ruthless when it doesn’t. But with your daughter in his arms, his child, Rafayel is completely and utterly himself—no masks, no arrogance, just pure, undiluted love.

And despite the absolute mess surrounding you, despite knowing that you’ll be scrubbing paint off the floors for days, you feel your heart soften.

Still, you let out a long-suffering sigh. “Rafayel,” you say, crossing your arms, “you’re cleaning this up.”

He grins, unbothered. “Of course, my love. But first—” He shifts his daughter in his arms, holding her up slightly. “Shall we add a final touch to your masterpiece?”

The little girl gasps dramatically. “More paint!”

“More paint!” Rafayel echoes, positively delighted.

You groan again, but you’re already smiling. “Absolutely not!”

Rafayel pouts, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Come now, where’s your artistic spirit?”

“It died when I saw the walls.”

Your daughter gasps again, scandalized. “Mama!”

"Fine....fine..more paint" you mutter.

Rafayel chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before grinning down at his daughter. "Told you mama would cave."

You shake your head, utterly exasperated. But as your daughter cheers and Rafayel laughs, his warm gaze never straying from yours, you know deep down—you wouldn’t trade this for anything.

Even if it means living in a house that now resembles an art exhibit gone very wrong.