#nipuni

[raspbel-art]

All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter!

Macbeth collab with the loveliest @nipuni, who is always a joy to share art with 🥰❤️ Join us in enjoying the bloody king!

[princeloww]

CAMPBELL BAIN!! wearing this out today

shirt from @nipuni :)

[satchihatchi]

Moonless lovers

[girlwithlandscape]

Nipuni

[jules902]

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A post shared by Natalia. (@nipunidraws)

Whoa @nipunii did it again and stummed us with amazing fanart!!

[brekkie-e]

DA: TV's pretty Solas is Nipuni's doing is all I'm saying. I hope they get a good commission fee or something.

[lateforjianghu]

Hi @nipuni I was browsing through Etsy and seems like one of users is selling Dorian tee's with your Fortitudo art on it.

I wanted to report it, but website encourages the owner to submit the complaint 😔

[achilleid]

I'm gonna make such a pretty solavellan photo collage

ive adored @nipuni 's art as like THE solavellan art forever, so im happy to finally get to own her prints!!!!

[abstractfanboy]

why am I screaming

PLEASE I LOVE NIPUNI 😭

[deeznutsthethrid]

[jmwdoesthings]

So I liked @nipuni 's Vincent and Lucille so much that I wrote a little story based on them! (Nipuni if you are reading this I hope you don't mind :)

"A late October wind began to sing, from the north. In duet the sea waves riled up and began to lash out at the cliffs and wail for all they were worth. Lucille put down her book, enthralled in a flash, for her heart was filled with the ocean's soul, but though she heard its calling, Vincent did not. Like she'd told him before, in his chest was a hole, a pit filled with sharp ice, where it should have been hot and aflame, like what the ocean wished to convey through its screaming and singing with the wind as its guide and she knew not, as she watched his face then, with dismay, that his indifference, displeasure, was a guise meant to hide his own book, his own story, deep down in his heart, filled with darkness and loathing of both others and self, which she didn't, could not know; their hearts must be apart and this dark and horrible book firmly shut, on his shelf.

"Mister Vincent," she said, turning to him from the window, at which she watched the waves soar, with unspeakable longing. "Let us go for a walk, let us with the wind mingle, In its passionate song find a sense of belonging."

Mister Vincent looked up, from his practical paper of news and of business and things meant for men of his status. An eyebrow was arched, the mask of reading reserved for a little bit later, dark thoughts and jaw-clenching put on hiatus.

Sharp words were brought to his tongue for this woman so strange, this woman so pitiably fanciful, innocent and romantic, she sent his damned, accursed heart far out of his range to control, sent his heartbeat and movements unpredictable, frantic, and his temper escaping from its papery cage, slipping through his steel fingers, fingers hardened by life, sending his insides twisting and turning with black, suppressed rage at himself and at her and at existence’s prison, casting between them the shadow of strife.

He donned his throwaway words with a chuckle and scoffed, "Go for a walk?" Then he thumbed at the cold, silver head of his cane as he thought. "I don't think so," said he. "Over this vile wind we won't hear ourselves think, save talk." He believed it was triumph with this statement he wrought, so he twitched his practical paper once more, preparing a theatre of silence and an occupation parade, when she moved with a face which deemed him a bore, away from the window, within her own masquerade; she summoned a servant, said, "My coat, if you please," and after donning it, turned, and spoke to him, prim: "What, Mister Vincent? I've a coat, I won't freeze. I know the way to the coast and it isn't too dim. You don't wish to come with me? That's all very well, it will give me something to speak of; a short story to tell."

Vincent felt his veins searing, his muscles go tight, he rose from his armchair; his paper was crushed - he had tightened his fist so he his temper could fight; a fight which he lost. His face became flushed, as he met with her stubbornness, will unmovable, cursed for he loved it and hated it and let his heart burn every time they argued and feuded, and he deemed it the worst, for these matters they fought over were as trivial as rhyme!

"Are you foolish?" he cried, though the answer he knew, "Are you mad, Miss Lucille? Do you wish to be dead? Have you lived so little years, have you lived them too few? Have you really so little gathered here, inside your head? You will go to the coast in this ridiculous storm?! Great heavens! What now!"

He scowled down at her slight, very beautiful form, and found a frown on her face from his part in this row. "And if you found me dead, Mister Vincent, what difference would it make?" His heart stilled at her words, but she wasn't quite done. "By far you've only treasured silence, deemed my presence a mistake with your snide words and cold comments which over warm ones have won. Not everybody's a poet. Not everyone's blessed with a heart. But you're aground, I'm adrift. I can and will move, as you stay still as stone-" Vincent couldn't take it. She was tearing him apart with her words without truth. Heavens! She said she felt alone!

But she didn't know! She knew not that the reason he could breathe when before he was drowning in his own passionate sea and had to bury his heart, let it sleep buried beneath the rocks he built his existence upon to be free, was her! Her alone, with her strange, silly fancies, her words which woke up the parts of him he forgot he possessed, her books which she hid the titles of sheepishly, her romances, she alone put his howling, black demons to rest!

Lucille's eyes widened. She didn't know this sight, when his heart twisted into knots like a rope, when his pain clawed itself out of his chest in a bloodthirsty fight with the rest of his tolerance and remnants of hope.

Vincent leaned on his cane. His breathing was short - his left breast was finally soaked with the red of his veins - No words would help him, it was no use to retort for Lucille was right to think of her own hidden pains, which he knew not how and thus did not reach her to soothe, too used to his stupid, practical papers and silence. The former now lay crumpled and wretched and he could not move, save whimper and clutch at his chest in an attempt at vigilance.

"Mister Vincent," she whispered, as he fell into his chair. "You are bleeding… Your chest!" His cane fell with a clatter as his eyes disobeyed him, shedding a tear. "It's nothing," he managed, voice hoarse. "I just need to rest." He looked at her and whimpered; in her eyes… Was it fear? What was it of? Of his pain, or of him? Could it be that she held him even a little bit dear?

"Vincent," she spoke, her voice quiet and firm, "you're in terrible pain." He didn't speak; he could not. He clutched at his chest, repressing tears and helpless snarls in vain, this damned stoic facade finally put to the test, and failing spectacularly. Lucille moved to his side. She was a step away, so close yet so impossibly far. "I hurt you," she spoke. She didn't seem surprised, nor unwilling to take a leap, far over this bar of propriety and tension still hanging thick in the air, as she abandoned all harnesses and sat in his chair- On his knees. Vincent froze, then relaxed at her touch, into her touch, as she placed a hand to his cheek. It was so gentle, so warm, so perfectly much, so strange, so alive, so needed, unique to this setting of dark and cold that he lived in, with his intestines, organs in shreds, from years of eating ice, from being the grounded cliffs which pierced the sea upon which memories were adrift in. And now he found himself on the doorstep of paradise.

"Lucille…" he breathed, his hands reaching out. Like a reckless child he embraced her, pressed her to his ravaged chest. "Don't go out in this storm…” he managed, “I know I need not shout… But so much bad can happen. You'll catch a chill at best. And what if something worse passes? What if… the sea takes you?" She warmed him with her embrace, so he could breathe again. "I know you hold the sea dear." He tried to smile, but failed. "I used to love it, too." Memories of waves and taken love made him wince in pain. Lucille watched him with her mismatched eyes, his blood soaking her white dress. She took a breath and sighed. "I understand," she said. "It was in the papers years ago, and so I will not press." Vincent finally said it. "It was I, who my brother to the stormy shores had led. It was my fault he went so early.” He hadn't spoken it for years, his brother's untimely death, his last words still ringing in his ears. His voice cracked like splitting rocks, as he remembered him, and pain. "I don't want you gone, Lucille. Please don't think that way." He clutched her tighter, as tight as he dared, and she did not complain. "In fact… The reason I can smile a little is because you stay."

She looked at him with her eyes wide, her lips parted in surprise, but not for long. She looked firm and clutched his hand, her chin tilted towards him. "Say it, then, Sir," she whispered, "don't wait for hearts' demise." Vincent didn't dare believe it, but he took chance upon a whim: He enveloped her face in his hands, and though his heart paused beating, he bent down and said, "I love you", their lips and worn souls meeting."

~ JM Wonsowski

[princeloww]

"repping the brand" except the brand is campbell bain

/ @nipuni

[satchihatchi]

He is an Angel of Music...

[fishpuppyofficial]

seems fine!

[do2faj]

Don’t mind the overall messiness, I’m trying to relearn Procreate

[jamiepage19]

Yayyyyyy you did it!! I’m so excited for this @tasteofthebitchpudding! And @nipuni’s cover art is simply amazing!

Pre-order now

Cover art: Nipuni