#NED OC

[scentedtyrantwitch]

Stories

I've just talked about my OCs in stories for too long I'm actually going to write it now. I'm going to call it "Sealed Souls" because it's the best title I can think of, hope I can get the first page out soon

[xxnymeriatargaryenxx]

Ok but like… the way that Cregan Stark is such a wife-guy

Like he’d be the man who’d have his arm wrapped around his wife when shit would be going down during court. Both for his wife’s protection and for her comfort (his too)

He’d absolutely SWOON if he saw his wife and Rickon playing and enjoying their time together. He’d just admire her every time she spent time with their children, no one can convince me otherwise. He’s a tough northerner, but he’s a family man down to his CORE

He would SO encourage and support his wife in anything she wanted to do. Archery? You go hit a bullseye for me. Sword fighting? Any particular sword you want made for you, he’ll have it ready. A diplomat? Good, the north needs more of those, go get em tiger. Anything his wife does is automatically perfect in his eyes

Don’t even get me started on how he’d always want to have a hand on his wife. (A personal headcanon of mine, is that he’s touched starved). Now hear me out! The man was orphaned as a child, anyone who loved him died, and the ones that didn’t love him tried to usurp him. I would assume he didn’t get that many cuddles in that environment

So! As soon as he sees his wife, he wants her touch. He would so wrap his arm around her shoulder or waist (even more so if she was pregnant), he would kiss her forehead, he would hold her, I just feel that being touched means a lot to him. Which is why I also think he would want to be as close as possible, when they’re having sex. Like he would press his chest to hers, wrap his arms around her waist to hold her close, kiss her relentlessly, rest his forehead against her, pound her into the mattress like she wasn’t close enough, just all of it! (I can confirm, I was the bed)

Anyways, touched starved Cregan Stark supremacy! Cregan Stark wife-guy supremacy! Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk

YES YES YES

that man is touch-starved to the max so he literally craves domesticity and values family above all.

he is a stark man who takes his marital vows very seriously, meaning, no mistresses or brothels. this man is strictly monogamous!! nobody can come close to the way his wife makes him feel.

and nothing is sexier than a man that thrives in being a husband and a father 😫🦋 after seeing how good his wife is with rickon, it just intensifies these feelings more. his desire to breed and procreate becomes almost animalistic.

seeing his wife pregnant works him up in the best way🔥🤰 he can’t take his eyes off her full form, even when she is doing mundane things like talking with her maid, or petting the horses at the stable with rickon.

not to mention his wife’s sex drive has blasted through the roof since her pregnancy…. so pregnancy sex has happened 🌊 but he’s always so patient and respectful 😭😭💗💗 he waits for his wife to initiate it first because he secretly loves how feral she gets 🤭 when she starts kissing down his jaw and his neck and then whining in his ear and biting down gently on his earlobe…. it takes everything in him not to pound into her ‼️ the pregnancy hormones are radiating off her and he can’t get enough.

(however to his wife’s dismay, he does ban sex in the late 3rd trimester for safety reasons 🥲 with their size difference, he just won’t risk it).

[fauchart]

Bunch of out of context Housewives drawings...

ft. @salcreus' Sally Cruz, @birbwell's Barb Welles, @bluebeerg's Cherub Berg and my own Ann-Doreen :]

[bluebeerg]

alright it's time to meet her for real

Cherub Bim Berg is in line to be Ned Flanders' third wife, having gotten engaged, and she is smitten. Though, with an unclear wedding date and a constant promise that it'll come "soon", she's in deep denial on if that title will ever even come.

I made her with friends, who also have their OCs :] Though they form a sort of "housewife" group, she's the only real housewife out of the four of them

btw, though cherub is kind-of-not-really a self insert (simpsona?) and is a woman, op is not ^^ ty 🏳️‍⚧️

[moestavern]

Thing my wife and i did??? a looooong time ago. These cats got way more lore than expected so feel free to ask about them ig and maybe ill finish this ever.

[bigdummybunny]

new toy ^_^

[chez-cinnamon]

Beware the CandyMan

Revisited my Resident Evil OC bc I'vre been missing them grrr

[mitzukiyapping]

A Dragon Queen’s Council - Part I.

Summary: After being imprisoned in her ‘room’ for three weeks, she was finally given her old room back. Not out of kindness, that’s what she knows. During the wedding of the new king, Robert Baratheon, and his new wife, Cersei Lannister, she got company by funny visitors. Together the three went on a mission to gossip about the lords that were in the castle tonight.

Pairing: platonic! Tyrion Lannister x fem!targaryen!oc, platonic! Jaime Lannister x fem!targaryen!oc

Word count: 2.8k

Warning: underage drinking

Authors note: this is my first time writing for got, so I hope you like it. Later on, if I write it, it won’t follow the series. It’s mostly just going to be an AU. And English isn’t my first language!

prologue || Part II. || part III. || masterlist

The halls of the Red Keep no longer echoed with screams, but silence could be just as loud. The princess's name was whispered like a curse among the maids. Afraid of angering the new king, Robert Baratheon, if he heard her name.

Gone were the banners with the dragon symbol of house Targaryen. They had been stripped and burned, along with the body of the former king. Black and gold now hung in their place, the symbol of house Baratheon, antlers raised in triumph.

She passed them with her eyes downcast, one hand brushing the cold stone walls she had once run past with her younger brother, not even a week ago. Nothing smelled the same. No cinnamon from the kitchens, no burning lavender from her mother's quarters. Only steel, sweat, and the sharp sting of lemon oil used to clean away the blood.

She had not been given her old rooms. Robert had made sure of that. Instead, she was placed high in the Maiden vault, a tower meant to house ladies of courtly virtue, and more importantly, to keep them inside. Her windows were tall, but narrow. Her door thick. And outside it stood Ser Gregor Clegane.

The Mountain.

Twice the size of any man she had ever seen. Shadow-faced and stone-voiced, he spoke rarely and glared often. The first time she'd opened her door to ask for more ink and parchment, he had only stared at her. "You may write," he'd said, flatly. When she asked if she could visit the godswood, he answered with silence.

It wasn't until three days into her strange captivity that Robert came to see her again. Not alone, he would never come alone when it comes to her, but accompanied by Lord Eddard Stark and Lord Varys, the Spider. Aera sat on the cushioned window ledge, legs tucked beneath her, hair brushed back, wearing a pale blue gown that once belonged to Queen Rhaella. It had been found in the ruins of her mother's old wardrobe, and it was the only thing that still smelled like home.

"Still alive, are you?" Robert grunted. She didn't rise. "Should I not be?" Robert narrowed his eyes, but there was no fire in them today. Only something heavier. Tired. "You've been quiet," he said. "Too quiet."

"I was told that's how prisoners should behave." Eddard shifted beside him, arms crossed, his face unreadable but not unkind. Varys, ever smiling, made a small noise of amusement. "She's sharp," Varys said softly. "Like her mother." Aera tensed up upon hearing her mother being talked about. The three man noticed.

Robert ignored the bald man. His gaze fixed on her like he was trying to decide what, exactly, she was. "I don't trust you," he said at last. "Not yet. Maybe never. But you haven't tried to run away yet. Haven't made demands. Haven't screamed or cried or begged for a crown."

"I don't want a crown," Aera said quietly her voice softly but broken. "I just want to live."

A strange expression flickered across Robert's face. Regret, maybe even something that he remembered. For a moment, she thought he might say something. But then he grunted again, as if that was answer enough. "You'll stay here. For now. Under watch."

"Under the Mountain?" she asked, with a glance at the door. She didn't hide the bitterness in her voice. "If he keeps you alive, I don't care if you hate him," Robert snapped. "You're still a Targaryen. And Targaryens burn people."

"I've never lit a candle," she said coldly. Robert actually laughed. It was short, but real. "She's got fire, Ned," he muttered. "More than I thought."

"I told you she was different," Eddard said, finally stepping forward. He looked down at Aera with the solemn eyes of winter. "You are not your father. But you are your blood. It's a hard thing to live with. Even harder to outlive."

Aera didn't look away. "Then what am I to be?" Robert raised his brows. "That's the question, girl." He turned to go. "For now, you'll be raised here. Fed. Watched. If you behave, maybe I'll let you live in your old room."

"And if I don't behave?" she asked. Robert's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Then the Mountain does more than watch." The door slammed behind them.

⸻

That night, Aera didn't sleep. She sat by the window, watching the stars rise behind the towers of the city that once worshipped her house, her family. Somewhere beyond the horizon, her mother and Viserys were in hiding. Somewhere further still, maybe her dragon egg would one day crack open, and something greater would return. But for now, she was alone. A ghost in her own home. And the Mountain stood at her door.

____

It had been three weeks since the bells rang through King's Landing.

Three weeks since the wine flowed and whores danced and gold cloaks filled the streets with laughter and blood in equal measure. The city had not seen such joy since before the war — since before the dragons screamed their last.

It was a wedding, they said. A time for celebration. Robert Baratheon, the Usurper King, had taken a lioness to wife.

Cersei Lannister had arrived at the Red Keep draped in silk and suspicion, her eyes colder than the winds that rolled down from the Vale. Her father had sent her with wagons of gold, and servants trained to smile. Her brothers came too — the golden twins, and the dwarf who watched more than he spoke.

And in the quiet, between the cheers and feasts and shifting banners, Aera was moved. Without ceremony. Without warning. She'd been sitting in the Maidenvault, combing out her hair with a silver-handled brush, a silent gift from Lord Stark, when Ser Gregor arrived.

"You're to come," he said. No more, no less. Nervously she followed him through the narrow halls and secret turns, her unhatched egg protected between her arms. Steps echoing until they reached a door she hadn't seen in what felt like another life. Her room. Her real room.

Not some tower meant for ghosts or virgins, but the chamber where she'd slept beneath stars painted on the ceiling. Where her mother once kissed her forehead goodnight. Where the windows faced the land behind the houses of folks, and the curtains had once been embroidered with dragons dancing in fire. Now the dragons were gone. The curtains were plain. But it was still hers.

She stepped inside slowly, as if expecting the stone to crumble. Everything was different than she remembered. The walls still bore the faint smoke stains from the fire — not her fire, but the soldiers' torches when they'd searched for gold and secrets. The bed had been changed. The carpets too. But the fireplace remained, and the old crack in the ceiling where a sword had once swung wild.

"Why?" she asked, turning back to Gregor. He stood like a wall. "Orders."

"From Robert?" He said nothing. But she saw it, in the slight twitch of his jaw. Not Robert. Cersei. Of course. It was no kindness. No gift of mercy. Cersei Lannister did not want the girl with silver hair beneath her roof. Not under the same tower. Not within breath's reach of her future sons.

Better to give her the ghost chamber. Let her haunt her own blood-soaked memories. Let her choke on what was taken from her. Aera stood in the center of the room and turned slowly. Everything felt wrong, but... there was something else. Beneath the dust and silence. A hum. A whisper of power, tucked in the stones.

Her fingers trailed along the mantle, where once her father had set her dragon egg. She laid it inside, careful not to break it. It hadn’t even stirred. But sometimes, at night, it had glowed, just faintly, like something sleeping deep within.

She sat on the edge of the bed and stared out of the closed window. And for the first time since the rebellion, she breathed.

⸻

Later that evening, as the castle began to quiet, Aera received a visitor. He knocked once. She did not speak. He entered anyway. Tyrion Lannister, the shortest man she ever saw and wearing a half-smile that gave away nothing.

"Well, well," he said. "A dragon princess in exile. Back in her perch. How poetic." Aera didn't rise nor did she react emotionally to his choice of words. "This is no perch. It's a cage with nicer curtains. "He laughed. "And yet, you're still here."

"What do you want, Lannister?"

"To see if the ghost girl was real," he said. "There's talk, you know. That Robert keeps you alive only so the realm remembers what could have been. A living lesson. A silent dragon."

Aera's mouth twitched. "He must enjoy irony."

"Oh, he doesn't enjoy much of anything anymore," Tyrion said, strolling to the wine pitcher she hadn’t noticed till now. "Except drinking. And maybe Cersei—though I doubt that it will last." She didn't reply. Tyrion poured two cups he magically pulled out of his cloak, set one by her side.

"No poison," he added. "Though if I wanted to kill you, I'd simply let you marry a nobleman and die slowly of boredom." Her voice was cold when she responded "I'd rather marry poison."

"You're not the only one." He countered back as he purred wine into each of the cups. Aera, seated cross-legged on the rug before the cold hearth of her reclaimed room, was beginning to suspect that the walls themselves whispered after what seemed like hours of drinking the wine.

She was half-listening to one of them, either the wall or Tyrion Lannister, sprawled on her bed, mid-way through a story about a Dornish woman and a bowl of grapes he got out of the nowhere, when the door handle jiggled.

Tyrion stopped. Then came a thud. A muttered curse. Then, “Seven bloody hells - he’s asleep?” Aera stood slowly as the door creaked open, revealing a golden flash of armor and a glare that could cut steel. Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer. Lord Tywin’s heir. The golden twin. And he was glaring at the unconscious, and unknown, guard slumped against the wall beside her door.

“Of course he’s asleep,” Aera said, tone cool. “What else is a sworn protector for, if not naps?” Jaime’s eyes flicked to her, surprised. “You’re awake.” At that she on,y raised her eyebrow. “She doesn’t sleep,” Tyrion called lazily from the bed. “She haunts. Didn’t you hear?”

“You’re in her room?” Jaime asked. “I was bored. She was bored. The wine’s better here with her. And her walls are gossiping.” Jaime stepped in, looked between his brother and the silver-haired girl with narrowed eyes. “Have you both lost your minds?”

Aera grinned, her cheeks as red as roses from the alcohol. “Probably.” There was a beat of silence before Tyrion sat up. “You’re late, brother. I thought you would have left feast even sooner. You know, the one where half the nobles pretend to love Cersei and the other half pretend to love Robert.”

“I was looking for you,” Jaime muttered. “Didn’t think I’d find you curled up in a dragon’s den.” Aera tilted her head. “I’m the safest one in the Keep. Who would dare kill the king’s prize ghost?” Her voice full of pride. “True,” Tyrion muttered, sipping on his cup. “He likes his trophies.”

They should’ve stayed. Should’ve let the silence settle again. But Tyrion had already risen. Jaime was already pacing. And Aera? She walked to her window, glanced out at the flickering lights of the feast still raging below. The music had started again. Laughter echoed faintly.

“I know a way down,” she said without turning. Tyrion raised a brow. “Of course you do.”

“You’ve snuck out before?” Jaime asked, folding his arms.

She turned, a soft smirk tugging at her lips. “You think I don’t know this castle better than my own skin?” The boys looked at one another. Jaime gave the faintest shake of his head. Tyrion grinned. Moments later, the trio slipped out, the two still having their cup in their hands. Past the sleeping guard, through a half-hidden servant door, down narrow stairs slick with condensation and cobwebs. Aera led them like she had been born in the stone. Like she belonged in the darkness of old secrets.

And when they emerged, just outside the great hall, the feast still roaring behind iron doors, Tyrion looked around and whispered, “We should hire you.” Aera snorted. “You couldn’t afford me.”

Inside, the court was loud — nobles red-faced from drink, ladies fanning themselves with gold-trimmed silks, and Cersei seated like a bored statue beside her already drunk husband. Aera kept to the shadows, the two beside her like her guards. That didn’t stop her from whispering.

“See that lord with the red sash?” she said, just beside Tyrion’s ear. “He’s been hiding coin in the Sept’s catacombs. Thought I wouldn’t hear his squire talking about it in the laundry chamber.” Tyrion raised a brow. “Blackmail?” - “Insurance,” she said sweetly.

“And the maid with the braid? By the wine?” she added, eyes flicking. “Poisoned the last three cups she served. All her targets? Coincidentally owed debts to House Lannister.” Tyrion looked delighted. “You are the most dangerous thing in this castle.”

“Not yet,” she said, “but I’m practicing.”

“What about him?” Jaime muttered, nodding to a thick-chinned lord slumped near the hearth. “Oh,” Aera murmured, “he talks in his sleep. Said some rather unfortunate things about Robert’s mother last night. And I might have told the kitchen boys to repeat it to the wrong ears.”

“You’re a menace,” Jaime said, trying not to grin. “And you’re late to realize it.”

Her silver-blonde hair shimmered faintly in the dim torchlight, and her expression, mischief incarnate, was aimed squarely at Lord Halmer of the Reach, who stood across the room, drunk and laughing too loudly at something he didn’t understand.

“Tell me again,” Tyrion whispered, eyes gleaming, “is it true he once tried to bribe a septa to say he was a Targaryen bastard?” Aera leaned back against the pillar, sipping from her goblet. “That, and he claims he was kissed by a dragon egg. Claims he still has the scar. I’ve seen it. It’s a freckle.”

Jaime chuckled. “Poor man. I almost feel sorry for him.” Aera smiled. “He once asked if he could ‘help me repopulate the line.’ I told him he couldn’t even repopulate his own hairline. They all laughed. Until—

“I see the dragons still breathe fire.”

The words weren’t loud. But they echoed in their bones. Aera froze mid-sip. Tyrion nearly dropped his cup. Jaime blinked, shoulders tensing as if instinctively expecting a blade at his back. Because Eddard Stark was standing directly behind them. How long he’d been there was anyone’s guess. He looked at the three of them with the kind of calm that was infinitely worse than rage.

Aera turned slowly, not even a flicker of guilt on her face. Instead, she took a step forward with all the grace of someone who owned the room now. And then, to everyone’s surprise, she turned toward Lord Halmer, raised her voice loud enough for half the hall to hear, and said sweetly:

“My lord, forgive me. Ser Jaime and Lord Tyrion dragged me away, demanded I tell them every secret I know about the noble houses. I resisted, of course, but… they insisted.”

Tyrion gaped. “Traitor.” Jaime just blinked, fighting a smile. “I told you she’d feed us to the wolves if it meant saving face.” Eddard raised a brow, arms crossed as he watched this little theater unfold.

Lord Halmer, who had barely noticed the group before, now looked absolutely thrilled to be the center of attention. “Ah! No offense taken, Your Grace! If I’m the subject of court curiosity, well - I suppose I must be important enough to be mocked!”

“Oh no,” Aera said gently, “we weren’t mocking you. I was only explaining your theory about your noble birth and the dragon egg scar. A very noble scar.” Tyrion turned and walked straight to the wine table. Jaime looked up at the ceiling like he was praying for it to collapse. Lord Halmer turned a bright shade of red.

And Eddard? He gave a soft, weary sigh. “Seven save me from court politics and dragon tricksters.” Aera turned to him, beaming. “You’re welcome to join us next time, Lord Stark. I’m sure you know far more secrets than I do.” He looked at her. Really looked at her.

Then said, dry as winter wind, “And I’ve kept them all. That’s the difference between us.” She gave him a wink and raised her goblet. “For now.”

⸻

That night, the torches outside her window flickered like stars fallen too close. The bells of the city had gone quiet again. The new queen was crowned. The old princess was remembered only in whispers.

[ducktr0ducin]

Lord help me I CANNOT get into dr who solely cause of this fuckass bug thing…… right?

[lacrymosaan]

“A widow for a widower”

𝑳𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝑳𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓

"Then in the name of the flowers and the fields, the stars in the sky, and the streams that flow down to the sea, and the mystery that breathes wonder into all these things, I pronounce you Lion and wife."

Aeryon clutched his younger brother’s hand tightly—it was the only thing he could do in that time and place, the only anchor he had in a night that felt as if it belonged to someone else’s life. He had promised his mother he would show his best manners tonight, that he would not embarrass her, not add weight to the burden already heaped upon her shoulders.

Still, he could not help but wonder: Couldn’t this lavish, grotesque wedding have been postponed… perhaps forever?

Lord Lannister, a man whose very presence seemed carved from iron and disdain, had not even troubled himself to feign interest in his soon-to-be wife’s sons. Not the way she had bent her dignity to show care to his children—two blond, brittle souls who wore their grief and suspicion openly.

Speaking of them: the reactions had been nothing short of unsettling.

Cersei, the golden daughter, had burst into loud, ungraceful tears in the middle of the welcoming feast, stealing all the attention as surely as a thief steals a purse. Was she truly so distraught, or merely acting to remind the hall that she was the real jewel of House Lannister?

Jaime, meanwhile, had wrapped Aeryon in an embrace fierce and sudden, as if they had already become brothers, as if by clutching him tight enough he could anchor himself against the tides of change neither of them had chosen.

And then there was the infant—hidden away in the cradle, tucked behind veils and frowning wet-nurses. Lord Lannister had made it plain he wished the babe unseen, untouched, unmentioned. Perhaps it was shame, or simple irritation, or a colder truth lurking still.

Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.

This family and its endless, knotted webs made Aeryon’s head throb with a pain that felt carved into his very skull. At this pace, he thought grimly, he would soon be paying visits to the maester for headache tonics.

And so, despite the silent protests of Aeryon, Alric, and even of Lady Aurelia herself, the wedding proceeded.

It was as golden, as glittering, as blindingly sumptuous as everyone had expected—and worse, for it outstripped even the most extravagant imaginings of courtly gossip.

Lady Aurelia Arryn and Lord Tywin Lannister exchanged cloaks in the ancient rite; she was given a ring, a magnificent piece of artistry—pure gold crowned with a roaring lion, the details so fine it might as well have drawn breath. He, in turn, received a sword, sharp as whispered insults, its hilt adorned with a gemstone black as the depths between stars.

There was polite, dutiful applause from the lords and ladies gathered—Genna Lannister among them, her grin wide enough to slice the air like a blade.

Lord Eddard Stark had been present too, his expression unreadable, carved from the same solemn stone as the mountains of his homeland.

As for Robert Baratheon, he had not even witnessed half the spectacle, having collapsed into a drunken stupor hours before the rites had even reached their peak.

The night bloomed into chaotic revelry: drunken songs, whispered scandals, fleeting touches behind the great pillars. And then—a bellow from one of the fools, loud and leering—that the bedding ceremony would soon commence.

Tywin Lannister’s golden gaze shifted, sharp and unyielding, and he caught it—the way Aurelia's spine snapped into a rigid line, the way her hands stilled against her lap.

Only moments before, she had been listless, detached from the glittering horror unfolding around her.

Now, the shift was undeniable.

He said nothing at first, merely lifted his goblet to his lips and sipped slowly, considering the tableau laid out before him: the drunken guests, the murmuring lords, the scurrying servants. His lady who would not meet his gaze.

And an idea, cold and deliberate, unfurled in his mind like a banner in a winter wind.

When he spoke, it was with the same unyielding finality that he used in council and in battle.

The bedding ceremony, he declared, would not be held tonight.

A few gasps sputtered through the hall—shocked little birds fluttering their dismay—but for the most part, none cared.

Most of the guests had already stumbled out into the night, their bellies full of wine and gossip; the rest were too far gone in their cups to notice, or simply did not dare question Tywin Lannister’s decree.

His eyes, ever the tactician’s, swept the room—and there she was.

Lady Aurelia, twisting the lion ring about her finger, then rising to her feet with hesitant grace. A ghost of a smile played about her lips, but her sapphire gaze never once rose from the flagstones as she walked toward him, step after step.

Tywin Lannister did not need the gods to tell him what he already knew.

The Seven were laughing.

They were laughing at him, making him the fool at his own wedding feast.

𝑺𝒆𝒓 𝑨𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒐𝒏 𝑳𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓 née Corbray

"If you become a bird and fly away from me,"

said his mother, "I will be a tree that you come home to."

𝑺𝒆𝒓 𝑨𝒍𝒓𝒊𝒄 𝑳𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓 née Corbray

"If you become a sailboat and sail away from me,"

said his mother, "I will become the wind

and blow you where I want you to go."

[lordcringe]

Some more AU stuff, as a treat

JJ's friends all grown up! Decided to update my PostC0vid designs I made sometime ago🏃‍♀️

LIKE ALWAYS, IF U WANNA SEE MORE FOLLOW MY INSTA🙈

[xxnymeriatargaryenxx]

your husband cregan stark after having a few celebratory drinks 🍻🍻🍻

• pulls you to sit in his lap to be close to him

• has one hand resting on the small of your back

• he tells off the other men when they get too drunk or rowdy!!! (and he doesn’t have to tell them twice) 😌

• asks you about your day while staring intently at your lips

• his cheeks flush pink and his hair clings softly to his face from the sweat and humidity in the room

• starts giving you bedroom eyes 🦋

• apologizes to you for the smell of ale on his breath using your petname <33

you know it is time to grab his hand and head off to bed when he starts whispering in your ear about how badly he wants to fuck you since he got back from his trip 🤭

[rasin-c00ldude]

sory 4 my absence of art. state testing this week killed me💔 anyways my new simp. evey1 is free 2 throw rocks at him

uhh please ask questions about him or any of my ocs.:b

also my other drawings ive acumulated over the week

[cinnabon0]

Hehehe congratulations!!!

a small simple drawing in honor of pride! ( I wanted to try chibi drawing.. I don't know if I succeeded)

[bigdummybunny]

please accept my heart !! (≧m≦)

[electrozeistyking]

What if idea:

What if Beanie was capable of seeing ghosts either like her father or instead of her father.

I went with “like her father.”