#i did this on scrap paper with ballpoint pen

[181patheticpaperclips]

Andromache and Hector… Odysseus and Penelope… something something narrative parallels… they’re giving me Feelings again.

[evilartist37]

I saw you made a post about how disheartening it is when your art doesn't get many notes, and I know you struggle a lot with feeling good about your art and I just wanted to say that you're not alone.

But doing art and posting art right now is the best thing you can do, y'know? Even if it's 'not good' right now (which uhh, is not true because art is about how much love you put into it and also literally your art is good anyways)

And I just really wanted to say that putting your art out makes people like me feel like my art is actually ok because it's like yours and yours is ok.

I used to struggle so much with my self worth in regards to art.

And (unsolicited advice incoming) I think it's so important to keep doing art, y'know? Keep drawing shapes and copying images and tracing images and imitating inspirational art pieces by other people. Doodle with a ballpoint pen on scrap paper. Redo your own art again and again and don't be afraid of doing 'bad art' because art is about love and learning and practicing and evolving and improving.

I think the thing that helped me most with my art, was thinking to myself that every piece of art I did is just practice for the next. And that is just practice for the next. And so on.

And y'know, someday your art will get so many notes but that doesn't make it 'better' necessarily than what you're doing now, and certainly not more important because every little bit of art you do is like a brick of a wall. And someday that wall will be tall and beautiful but without those bricks it is nothing.

I suppose the point I'm trying to make is that every piece of art is important, even if no one else can see it yet.

<3

This was so profound and meaningful and deep! Like, anon, this means so much to me. I don’t know who you are but I am hugging you through the screen. Thank you so much.

I never thought of art being bricks in a wall. That analogy actually sounds like it would work for me. I really like it.

I’m recovering from drilled-in-as-a-kid perfectionism and it is so difficult. It makes me hate the things I create sometimes, or tells me I don’t have the proper skills to attempt something. But you know what? Who gives a damn! I can make whatever art I want, when I want, skill level be damned.

And honestly, I’ve improved so, so much from where I was years ago. I used to think my art was stagnant, but looking at then and now, and how fast I’m improving with digital art, it’s very clear that it’s not. My art isn’t stagnant, and that’s huge. That means I still have room to learn and grow.

Also, I’m so glad I can make other people feel good about their art by posting mine! I love seeing all sorts of art when I come on here. (It’s one reason I haven’t abandoned this hellsite yet.)

Neil Gaiman has a fabulous quote about making mistakes and bad art, and through that ultimately making the world a better place than it was before you started. I have it taped to my wall, actually.

So, yes, I struggle with perfectionism and not even really figuring out how to doodle, but I have room to grow and will keep posting as I do.

Thank you so much for this encouragement. It means so much to me. 💙

[nettlewildfairy]

ok so i have tried to start bullet journalling half a dozen times and i usually stick to it inconsistently for like 1-4 weeks and then imediatly give up. i never bothered with making aesthetic just short to the point to do lists that i was already making and lossing on scrap paper on the regular. so what makes this time different? i did a few things differently that worked for me

gave in to the desire to have it be pretty and washi tape/aesthetic when im feeling like it. making the journal pretty is fun and makes me care more about my to do lists. pages don't Have to be pretty but when it's your prep for the week time (read procrastinating on chores on a sunday morning) you can go all out.

gave up on color coding and rules that require me to have specific pens or impliments with me. i will not have specific pens with me an any given time, i will simply use the Closest pen. sometimes that pen is a bright pink gel pen, sometimes its your standard black/blue ballpoint. it's whatevs. use symbols when appropriate but dont stress.

got a journal with like a gazillion pages if it doesn't have enough pages i use 100 other journals i try to keep on topics, fail to keep on topic, and loose constantly. it really can all go in one notebook with 4 million tabs on it. one month is 60+ pages in an A5 journal for me, and that's a-ok 4. i absolutely need a prewritten index page because i will forget and not leave nearly enough pages for it.

[my-artblog-is-ssjumi]

Tagged by @northernscruffycat

1: Three Ships 

YamiBaku/Seto, Seto/my Aileen MarySue, Goku/Vegeta .

2: First Ever Ship

... maybe Annette/Lucien from Story of the Alps: My Annette anime? I think I that was a thing in the little ballpoint pen on scrap paper comic/picture book I drew when I was 8, long before I knew what a ship was. I don't think I was actively thinking much about it tho. .

3: Last Song

:,) .

4: Last Film

Glass Onion (didn't rly live up to the hype for me; personally I feel the original Christie murder mysteries are a bit better at balancing ~shenanigans~ and meeting colorful characters with getting to the core of a case; even the first movie did it better imo) .

5: Currently Reading

Goodbye Berlin by Christopher Isherwood + an old text rpg I'm editing for archiving on ao3 .

6: Currently Watching

some Let's Play but I'm very strongly considering sneaking a peek into the Norsk Melodi Grand Prix 2024 final :,D .

7: Currently Consuming

Kohlrabi *cronch* .

8: Currently Craving

more Kohlrabi

[gurestart]

[ID: four drawings of Jetstream Sam from Metal Gear Rising, done in ballpoint pen on white scrap paper. From top left in clockwise direction: 1) Sam from an oblique angle, looking at a distance, 2) Sam from the front, with his trademark grin, 3) Sam from the back, smirking at the audience, 4) Sam from a 3/4 angle, eyes soft and smiling. end ID]

sam doodles i did while waiting to be released from captivity

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

love letter, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: Jeon Jungkook gets love letters shoved in his mailbox and under his apartment door all the damn time. You, too, get love letters shoved in your mailbox and under your door. All the time. It could be a sweet gesture, but this is the twenty-first century. Love letters aren't all they're cracked up to be. 

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; short graphic descriptions of sex acts; smut (fem reader, a very intense make-out session including some wild tongue and too much saliva, nipple play, a bit of m-receiving oral, cowgirl, handjob); non-idol!BTS – technically university, blond, softsub!Jungkook x working, softdom!reader; slightly desperate and needy JK

yes, yes, it’s MTV Unplugged ‘Telepathy’JK

--

"I'm so tired of people thinking they have a chance with me."

Was the exasperated declaration as you backed up into your apartment, only to turn around and witness Jeon Jungkook dumping a waterfall of colorful envelopes from his giant black backpack onto your hardwood floor. 

"At least remove your shoes before you start flaunting how hot you are," you replied dryly.

Jungkook rolled his eyes as he kicked off his large white sneakers. "Look at this shit! It's relentless! It's annoying! I just want to live my life!"

You vaguely recalled Jungkook being excited about his first love letter upon reaching university, and then the second, the third... and now you were staring at pile number five hundred on your doormat. "I don't know, put a sign on your door? 'Please stop, the answer is no?'"

Jungkook winced. "I can't do that. How many hearts am I going to break?"

"Uh, I dunno, you already broke half the campus by existing in general."

He bonked you on the head lightly with his denim jacket sleeve. "I have not. I've only slept with a couple people and that was supposed to be no strings attached."

You shrugged. "People can't understand that. Especially women."

He puffed his cheeks and stepped over the pile. You noticed the small stickers and nice handwriting on the colorful pastel paper. You almost felt bad, seeing all the effort put into them.

"At least they're cute. I only get torn notebook pages with scribbles."

"Stop lying. You get girls' letters too," Jungkook grumbled. "Can I borrow your computer? One of my professors assigned an online quiz and the internet at my place is down, again."

"You gotta move," you commented, kneeling down to collect the mess Jungkook made. You noticed Jungkook flit his eyes about before throwing up his hands and bending down to help you. 

"I'm trying to get out of the lease, but I have a couple more months left," he complained childishly.

"What about your other friends? Can't you go bother them?"

Jungkook frowned, sticking out his lower lip. The tiny mole underneath winked at you. "You hate me now or something?"

You laughed, standing up with a stacked pile of confessions to Jeon Jungkook. "No, I'm just curious as to why you always come here."

He shoved the rest in your arms, his pile slightly messier than yours. "You live the closest and you're usually home. Plus, you have two computers."

"A laptop and a desktop," you corrected. "Don't you have a laptop?"

"It's easier to borrow yours."

"Lazy."

Jungkook ignored your remark and ticked his silvery-blond head further into the apartment. "Can I borrow it or not?"

You laughed. "Of course. Laptop's on the bed."

He turned and followed the hallway to your bedroom. "Same password?" he yelled, not looking back.

"Obviously."

"Why is it my birth date?" he shouted.

"Because, one, no one will guess it, and, two, you're a dumbass and always forget it."

"I do not!"

"How many times did you ask when the password was Klingon?"

"I don't know your nerdy shit!"

"Do your fucking assignment," you belted down the hall. 

Jungkook stuck his head out of your bedroom door and scrunched his nose to make a hideous face at you, holding your gunmetal-colored laptop. You rolled your eyes as he disappeared again. This crackhead. You let out a sigh, walking past the acrylic painting of a blue sky with pink-purple clouds hanging in your living room, flicking through at all the letters addressed to Jungkook.

Surprisingly, you knew what he felt like. With you, it started with inviting one guy over to your place, sucking his dick, and then suddenly a letter appeared. Well, letter was putting it nicely. Dirty napkin with words scrawled with smeared ballpoint pen shoved under your door, explicitly asking for more. Then another, wanting it. Then another, begging for it. You ignored them. At some point, you invited a girl over, ate her out, and then the colorful envelopes started appearing, with cute stickers and neat handwriting.

Mmmhmm.

Why did Jungkook bring them here anyway? To brag? For you to peruse? You spread them out them on your coffee table and tore one open. Read it. Simple confession of love, no name. You were kind of jealous. Jungkook always got nicer ones than you did. Something about being a sexually uninhibited woman seemed to translate to others that you were down to fuck anyone, anytime, anything. You tossed the letter aside, ripped open a folded card closed with lilac tape. Another, 'I love you, please go out with me', no name. Toss. And you opened another one, reading out loud. 

"I want to cram all one hundred and seventy-nine centimeters of you into me?”

Uh.

Huh.

Still no name.

Cute peach stationery though. 

Was it a euphemism? Symbolic? Thinly veiled code? Hm. In any case, this was more along the lines of shamelessness you encountered yourself. 

By all conventions, Jeon Jungkook was attractive as fuck. Pretty pink lips, big brown eyes, manly sharp jawline. He kept his hair on the longer side, around ear length, now silvery-blond compared to the usual black. You heard he dyed it a couple times, but now it had since faded to the original blond.

Oh, yeah, also he had nice hands and a body to die for. 

You could see why Jungkook got all these love letters. You? Well, similar reasons, except less muscles. Also, yours weren't really love letters. More like vulgar remarks on the backs of grubby receipts. 

Probably just as heartfelt.

The only reason you knew of Jungkook was because you were friends with one of his close friends. Alright, maybe you sucked his friend's dick. More than once. But anyway, not the point. The point was that the topic of love letters came up one night when everyone was hanging out and you voiced your predicament. It was the summer before Jungkook entered university. He had burst out laughing, thinking it was a hilarious situation.

"Haha, that would never happen to me!"

Jokes on you, Jungkook, karma's a bitch. 

You thought about moving, but the location was close to your work and the internet service was great here. At least you always recycled the paper. What were you supposed to do? Keep an album of Starbucks napkins of people asking if your tongue was good or not?

You opened another envelope addressed to 'sweet, adorable Jungkookie'.

Their words, not yours. 

"Shove your dick down my throat and make me gag? Smiley face?"

Well, that's a contrast. 

Jungkook didn't start contacting you on his own until the letters started coming and then they didn’t stop coming, flooding his mailbox and underneath his door, overwhelming and confusing him. He didn't think he would get much attention, although perhaps it might be your fault, since you seemed to have set the precedence for this type of thing at this particular university. There was at least one person in every year that got this treatment, and it all started with one dirty napkin with smeared ink. Rumor caught on and then bam! It became a thing. 

So, yeah. 

Maybe kind of your fault.

You shouldn't have told so many people about that napkin. 

You fished out a pizza receipt from the pile, inspecting it. You couldn't find anything out of the ordinary. Then you noticed it had Jungkook's phone number and an order of three pizzas. Not a confession, just trash from Jungkook's backpack. Did he really eat three pizzas? Hopefully not by himself and in one sitting. You noticed the timestamp. Mmm, three in the morning. Okay. Maybe he did eat three pizzas by himself in one sitting. 

You filed through the rest, removing trash from the recyclable paper. Paused when you found a scrap of paper that said, "Put your dick in my ass." You recognized this curvy, narrow handwriting, slightly heavy-handed. Same person wrote you the same note this week. 

This was why you didn't take the messages too seriously.

You saw a particularly thick purple envelope and picked it up, tearing it open. It was several pages, with tiny, crammed handwriting on paper with cute bunnies on it. Several pages detailing straight up porn with Jungkook as the leading role. 

You almost burst out laughing. 

Who the fuck would write this?

And send it to him?

Not you, that's for fucking sure. 

Still, it wasn't the worst thing you've ever read. Had some spelling mistakes and poor grammar. Instant turn-off. Needed a good proofread. You settled onto your brown leather couch, highly entertained as you read it. Then you actually burst out laughing, because said person wanted Jungkook to lift them and fuck them at the same time and that kinda shit just wasn't possible. You would know, because you’ve tried. It sounded good, but in practice, the dick ended up falling out pretty quickly if the pussy was any sort of wet.

If you weren’t wet, then, eh, not sure why you're fucking. 

"What is so fucking funny?" Jungkook grumbled, poking his head around the corner, still holding your laptop. 

You held up the sheets of bunny-printed paper, still laughing. "Someone sent you their written erotica and you're the star!"

Jungkook grimaced. "Oh yeah, that person. They write something new every week. It's weird." He frowned. "I try to take it out so you don't have to read that shit. I must have missed it."

"It's hilarious," you chuckled. "You should publish them into a book."

"You know I can't do that," Jungkook sighed, putting your laptop on the coffee table and snatching the pages from you. "I throw them away like everything else."

"Did you finish your assignment?" you chortled, leaning over to look at the laptop screen. Submission successful. "80%?! When you could easily cheat?"

"I read a question wrong," Jungkook whined, balling up the paper and throwing it down. "Ack."

You looked up at him and he was looking upset at the pile on the table. 

"What's wrong?"

"What if one of them is real?" 

"Huh?"

"I mean... I just throw them away now. But what if one of them is real?" Jungkook wondered out loud. 

You shrugged. "Does it matter? They'll tell you in person if it's that important."

Jungkook tilted his head at you doubtfully. "Will they?"

You sat back into your couch, with your legs wide open. You were wearing sleek black leggings and a cropped pink sweatshirt. Not the most ladylike pose, but you didn't really care. You gestured to the stack of letters on your wooden coffee table. 

"They should. If they actually like you and it's not a joke, then they should tell you in person and accept that they might be rejected."

Jungkook frowned and slumped down next to you. His light-wash denim jacket made a loud floof as his ass hit the brown leather cushions. The wash of his jeans matched his jacket. He wore a white graphic t-shirt under. It looked vintage, but it probably wasn’t. 

"What if they're nervous?" he questioned, twisting his pink lips around.

"So what? Everyone's nervous. We all live in a perpetual state of terror."

Jungkook rolled his eyes. 

You leaned forward and plucked a sky-blue memo note from the table, reading it out loud. "I love you. Marry me." You held it out to him. "See? You get nice ones. I get, ‘choke me like you hate me’ and 'shove your tongue into my asshole, please'. Rarely do I get is that please at the end," you finished with a dry laugh. You looked up to see Jungkook staring back at you. Your laugh died a little seeing his serious expression. 

"Yes."

You blinked at him. "What?"

Jungkook ticked his chin to the note, then shifted his eyes to you.

You pointed to the memo sheet and raised an eyebrow. "I didn't write this."

"I did."

He was so serious that you couldn't laugh. You just blinked at him rapidly and turned your head to look at the sky-blue memo sheet, finally recognizing the clean, block-like handwriting and spotting the bottom right corner. English letters. A J and a K fused together, the way Jungkook usually signed his paintings.

You dropped the note like it was on fire.

Jerked your head up, not to him, but to the painting across from you in the living room, the one with the blue sky and pink-purple clouds, with a tiny JK signature in black at the bottom right corner. The painting you asked Jungkook to make you a while back. 

"You paint, right? I want something calm for my living room. I bought a canvas, so about this size. It's that cool?"

Jungkook had squinted his eyes, nodding. "Yeah, I could draw a pretty big dick on it."

"This is for my living room, dumbass. And I said I wanted something calm."

"A flaccid dick then."

You turned your head back to Jungkook of now, who was wringing his hands on his thighs, wiping off his palms. He noticed you watching him and puffed one cheek before letting out a big sigh. 

"I was... gonna leave it on your laptop," Jungkook mumbled, flapping a hand to the sky-blue note. "But I couldn't find it in my backpack, and then I realized one of the pockets was open, the one where I keep receipts... anyway I had put the note there, so I came out to see if it was in the pile... yup, there it is."

He sucked in his cheek and fell back against the leather sofa.

"Was a joke."

Jungkook's voice sounded hollow. Empty. 

"... Ah." You tucked the tip of your tongue in your cheek.

"Not the greatest joke," he added flatly.

“No, it’s not,” you agreed. "Jokes that are insincere are bad jokes."

The black words glared back up at you, contrasting the pale azure paper. You picked up the memo sheet again. Turned to face him, holding it up next to Jungkook's head of silvery-blond hair. He pursed his lips and looked away from you, jaw clenched in nervousness. 

"Just say it."

He puffed one cheek again. "It was a joke."

"Then why are you saying it in past tense?"

His brown orbs shifted from side to side before Jungkook tried to bolt out of his seat, only for you to slam a hand down on his shoulder and throw a leg over him, straddling his lap before pinning the note to his chest. He yelped sharply and looked up at you with huge, shaking irises. 

In all your time knowing him, you never tried to sleep with Jungkook.

Never. 

You jabbed the note into his white shirt and he gave you a terrified squeak in response. 

You scrutinized his face, jaw slack, eyes wide, blond curls framing his chiseled cheekbones. One of your eyebrows raised, your voice calm and unfazed.

"Say it."

"You say it," Jungkook finally shot back, furrowing his brows, biting on his lip and mustering up the most indignant look he could produce at this very second. You didn’t react. He seemed to have forgotten you did, in fact, say it, although perhaps that wasn’t exactly what he meant.

You never tried to fuck Jungkook because he didn’t treat you as anything more than his primary source of internet when his own was down. Ah, and also his outlet for complaining about his love letter problem. And then there was that other little wrinkle, the unwritten societal rule one of sucking a guy's dick you're still friends with - don't suck his friends' dicks. Surefire way to fuck up a friendship, especially if the dude’s ego was fragile.

Jungkook’s friend was dating someone else now though. His ego couldn’t be that fragile.

You leaned forward and Jungkook's annoyed gaze faltered. He gulped and tried to shrink into your brown leather couch, as if he could somehow disappear under you.

"I love you," you stated clearly and firmly. You glanced at the slightly crumpled piece of blue paper before your eyes flickered back to his face. "Marry me."

Hah, the thing about rules with you was...

Fuck 'em.

Not actually. 

Eh, not the point.

"Really?" Jungkook squeaked, voice cracking slightly.

Ah, right, the other reason you never tried to sex up Jungkook because he was a little bit of an idiot around you. But maybe this sky-blue note detailed the reason for it. 

"Say it," you repeated crossly, poking him in the pecs. "Stop avoiding it."

You observed Jungkook swallow hard again, Adam’s apple bobbing. You furrowed your brows, tipping your head down so that your forehead was hovering over his, eyebrow cocked, gazing into trembling brown orbs. Why was he taking so long? He wrote the damn words. Were they really just a joke? Hmph, why were you even trying then?

That’s how everyone was.

Not putting any stock or thought into their fucking words.

You lifted your finger but Jungkook’s right hand, the one with tiny tattoos, suddenly darted in your view, grabbing your hand back and jamming your finger onto his chest again. His heartbeat raced under your fingertip, thud-thud-thud, rapid bass accenting the moment. Electrifying it.

“Don’t.”

Whisper so faint you frowned and closed even more distance between you two, picking up the scent of vanilla fabric softener and lush cotton. A little different than you, who used a blackberry and spiced vanilla perfume.

“I like this,” Jungkook breathed under you, chewing his lip anxiously. You could feel his warm breath tickling your lips and chin with how close you were. You could count his individual eyebrow hairs, even though the eyebrow product he used.

“I… really like this.”

He let go of your hand.

Now you raised both eyebrows.

You slowly uncurled your middle finger, landing it on his chest next to the index. You felt him shiver a little, lips parting. Straightened your ring finger, planting it down. His lashes lowered a little, brown orbs on your face, watching your reaction to him. You could count the moles on his face. The one on his nose. The one on his cheek. The one under his lower lip. The one on his neck. Your pinky slid onto his chest. A wispy moan left his lips, eyelids fluttering, blond strands floating around his head with the little rise and fall of his heavy, tense exhale.

Why is it your birth date?

Take a wild guess, dumbass.

Your fingers abruptly dug into his white t-shirt, crumpling the note and scrunching the graphic up in your fist. He inhaled sharply, head tipping back and lips nearing yours, a whine escaping his throat. You quirked an eyebrow, drawing back slightly, taking in the rich depth of his tan skin, the sensual line of his neck, up to his angular chin and his dangling silver earrings. All of it. His hands immediately came up to grab your wrist and forearm, ensuring you and himself that you wouldn’t let go, the tendons in your flexed wrist right against his large palm.

“Say it, Jungkook,” you demanded. “Say those words with your pretty pink tongue hanging out your mouth for me.”

You watched him obey immediately, tongue sliding out and touching his lower lip, brown eyes framed by his long lashes and hazy with lust.

“I love you,” Jungkook breathed, a little gargled with his tongue out. “Fucking marry me, please.”

Ah, you couldn't help it. 

You smirked.

"What about all your admirers?" you murmured, twisting your fingers in his shirt, digging your nails into his chest. "You'll break all those poor hearts you’re worried about."

Those dark brown eyes told you they didn't give a single fuck. 

"What about you?" he countered, closing his mouth a little to speak more clearly.

"Me?"

The definition of trouble?

Well, if you looked that up in a dictionary, there would definitely be a picture of you. 

Jungkook’s lips parted once more, keen to submit to your wickedness, pink tongue slipping out again, shiny and glistening with saliva. Breathing shallowly, rubbing your wrist with his thumb, encouraging you to keep going. 

Your lips curved into a treacherous smile.

"I'll break all the hearts to get to yours, Jungkook."

And then you licked his tongue. 

A low moan bubbled from Jungkook's chest, his eyes rolling back and his hips bucking up, desperate for friction as the tip of your wet muscle glided over his warm softness, your spit dripping down his throat, listening to his moans turn into messy garbles of your name, begging you, pleading you, more, more, kiss me, please, and you hooked your tongue around his, gently nudging his jaw with your other hand. Knuckle to chin, tilting your head as your lips closed onto Jungkook's. 

It was not a neat kiss.

There was spit running down his chin, dripping onto his neck and your skin, your lips roughly working his, tongues intertwined and making even more of a mess, you sucking forcefully to earn pained, delicious whines. Jungkook was far too turned on to attempt to glamorize it, cries a jumbled mess under your greedy mouth, but none of that mattered. The moment was sensual and dark, bodies speaking to each other through dopamine and adrenaline. Your hand released his shirt, breaking his grip, switching to burrowing your fingers into his soft blond hair and running your nails over his scalp, leaving lines of prickling pain to enhance your kiss. 

"F-Fuck, oh fuck, yes..."

Your teeth caught his tongue, pulling back and forcing his head to follow. Jungkook made a pained noise, trapped in your embrace, whining as you took him to the brink. You released him swiftly and he snapped backward, blinking hard, trying to reorient himself, but it was impossible, your lips crashing down again, thrusting your tongue into his mouth aggressively, one eye open to witness his fucked-out state, pupils unfocused, long lashes quivering, moaning into your mouth and you inhaling it all, literally taking his breath away. 

It started out with a kiss. 

How did it end up like this?

It was only a kiss. 

It was only a kiss. 

You dropped your lower half onto his crotch and Jungkook gasped, breaking the kiss, strings of spit breaking between you two. You smirked wickedly as you felt his hardness trying to escape its clothing jail, his large hands already on your thighs and hips, sinking his fingers into the soft fabric of your leggings, rocking you into him, desperately trying to get some stimulation.

"Please," he croaked, panting for breath, pulling himself up to sitting position, so easy and smooth, fuck, so sexy, and now Jungkook was in your face, pleas on the tip of his tongue pouring out, tempting you, wanting it. 

"Please, wanna be yours so fucking bad, seeing all those fucking letters and notes you get, and it pisses me off, it's me, I want it to be me, I want to be yours and I'm telling you to your face." 

Whisper achingly hot, deep voice soaked with longing, staring into your eyes with those shaking brown orbs, spinning with emotion like an unstable top, barely enough torque holding it in place and all it took was another spin to encourage it or a gust of rejection to topple it over. 

"And you don't even care about mine, you think they're fucking funny, fuck, I can't stand it, let it be me, please..."

His hands running up your sides, grazing against your breasts, and now his hands were in your hair and yours were in his, bringing your face close, the crumpled sky-blue note right between your joined crotches, forgotten, witnessing the agonizing lust wound tightly in this embrace. 

"Let it be me," Jungkook begged.

You licked your lips slowly, scarcely swiping against his. He shuddered, leaning into it, taking whatever crumbs you gave. His long fingers tensed in your hair, yours buried in the dark roots of his. 

"You'll have to skip the marriage bit for now," you teased lightly. "I don't think my parents will appreciate you slapping down papers before you finish school."

Jungkook snickered, tucking his tongue in his cheek roguishly. "Can't they understand I have to snatch this ass as soon as possible to make people back off?"

Your hands slipped down to his jaw, fitting it in your palms, his silvery-blond stands wrapped around your fingertips. "They'll back off my door once they hear you screaming my name." 

You leaned in, but Jungkook stopped you, brown orbs glittering with mischief to get in one more quip. 

"I doubt it," he purred. 

Yeah. 

Jungkook was right. 

Ah, well. 

You seized his face and kissed him again, fuck, such malleable lips just pleading to be bitten by you, gazing up his nose and to his beautiful eyes, his soft skin in your hands, clenching his jaw under your power, letting you have it, letting you control it and him. You felt him scramble and throw his denim jacket off, dumping it onto your couch to cup your cheeks with his hands, sighing in satisfaction as you inhaled him. Your tongue lazily traced the outskirts of his lips, hearing the rattle of his beaded bracelets by your ears, amused, knowing they were his good luck charms. 

"They bring good luck," he had answered when you saw them for the first time.

You remembered tilting your head at the wooden beads on his slim wrists. "You trying to get your dick sucked or something?"

He had broken out in a loud guffaw. Nudged you with his elbow, cheeky smile on his lips. 

"Never gonna say no to getting my dick sucked."

"Mhm, cool, where's my painting of the flaccid dick?"

From then on, you noticed he wore the same wooden, beaded bracelets every time he came to your apartment.

Hmm. 

Now, your hands falling from his face, yanking his shirt from his pants, annoyed it was getting caught, and then Jungkook fitted his hands around your ass and lifted you easily, breaking the kiss, a moment for you to bear witness to his arms flexing – holy fuck, that’s sexy – right one covered in tattoos. Images and script, with one catching your eye, a string of words running up the inside of his upper arm. One you recognized because you had those words written on your bedroom wall, on a canvas hanging above your bed. A canvas you made, background a chaotic mess of varying dark red brushstrokes, the black script in the center, written by your hand. 

The exact black script with your flourishes and ticks, now tattooed on the inside of his right arm. 

Your eyes drifted to Jungkook's face and his naughty smirk, pleased to be found out. Your lips formed the sentence slowly, in awe of his audacity.

"The devil knows my name."

the devil knows my name. 

Hung above your bed, where all manner of marvelous sinful acts were performed. 

Jungkook grinned deviously. "I saw it. I wanted it on me."

Wanted it on him. 

Oh, fuck. 

Did he know? Could he guess?

"Who's the devil?" you whispered, smile widening, matching his. 

Jungkook reached down, yanking his t-shirt out of his jeans and pulling it up and over his head, revealing the body he sculpted himself, tan skin taut over hard muscle, toned and...

"You're the devil, of course," he snickered. 

Yours. 

"Ding dong daeng," you sing-songed.

How many people have been on your bed, head pulled back by your hand, blinking hard, trying to read the words on your wall through waves of forced ecstasy? Gasping them out, ending with a question, inquiring for an answer.

The devil knows my name?

And you, leaning forward, haunting whisper in their ears, yes, she does, before pushing their face down into the sheets.

"All those love letters not good enough for you, Jungkook?" you breathed, running your hands over his bare chest, spreading your fingers, letting your exhale out through your teeth. His eyes on you, torso trembling, hairs raising, feeling your nails dance up, up, raking over his collarbones and neck, leaving little pink lines of intensity.

"They're not you," he whispered. His hands brushing over yours, outlining your fingers, eyes darkening as you pushed him back into your sofa, lowering your head. "You, the one they talk about..." Your lips on his hot skin, kissing softly, tongue so slight that it made him whimper. "You, the one they look for..." His voice, deep and rumbling, vibrating your lips, pitching as you bit and sucked, leaving small hickeys. "You, the one whose bed I sit on, wondering who else has been there, wondering why it's not me, when I make myself available to you, so easy to prey on, but you let me be..." Your lips closing around his dark brown nipple, scraping your teeth against it, making him squirm and look down at you, you and your self-satisfied, ravenous smirk. 

"I let you read them," Jungkook whimpered, blond strands curled around his cheeks, chest shuddering at your nail flicking his other nipple while your mouth worked the other. "Let you see everything they want to do to me and you still didn't know."

You chuckled darkly. "What's there to know?" you mused, sticking your tongue out and pressing it against the now hard pink-tinged nub, receiving small whines of pleasure as your reward. "It's obvious what you wanted. I was right in front of you. All you had to do was say something."

Jungkook frowned as you sat up, tongue in cheek, half-grinning.

"Look at you."

You crossed your arms and pulled your pink cropped sweatshirt up and over your head, dropping it to the floor. Casually running a hand through the top of your hair to pull it away from your face, gazing down at shirtless Jungkook covered in your red bites, cocking your head with a smirk. He raised an eyebrow, eyes roaming over your figure and the curve of your breasts molded to smooth black satin. 

"You look like you eat hearts for breakfast," he murmured, admiration in his tone.

The side of your lips quirked further upwards.

"And yet you wanna love me."

Jungkook grinned. "I don't want to. I already do."

And then he was the one to pull you to him, kissing you hungrily, you immediately turning it into your favor, your pace, his tongue commanded by yours as he unhooked your bra, moaning into your mouth, rubbing your exposed nipples with his palms, unable to do much as you pushed him into the couch again, guiding his tongue down with your teeth and running the tip of yours over his wet muscle once more, trickling saliva into his throat and onto his chin and neck, messy and lewd. 

"The devil knows your name," you sighed into his mouth, feeling him knead your breasts, thumbs brushing over your hard nipples, tendrils of pleasure making your skin tingle. "And now the devil takes what she wants."

You saw the sides of his lips curve upwards as you backed up to strip the rest of your clothes, amused at Jungkook eagerly following suit and unbuttoning his jeans.

"Can't wait to flaunt how hot you are?" you laughed, reaching down to the shelf under the side table where a ceramic R2-D2 cookie jar sat.

"Do you think I'm hot?" Jungkook haughtily accused before gawking at your waist to ass ratio, his hands slowing, pants stopped to his knees in his distraction.

You gently took off the head of R2-D2 and plucked a condom from it. Some guy told you once that you couldn't like Star Trek and Star Wars at the same time and you told him to shut the fuck up as you slapped his nuts. He begged you to do it again. You fondly patted R2-D2's head after you fitted it back.

You straightened to see Jungkook on your couch with his hard dick on display.

You looked him dead in the eye. "You think I'd let you borrow my laptop if I thought you were ugly?"

Jungkook broke out of his trance and shrugged, finally yanking his calves – holy shit, his calves and thighs were muscular as fuck – out of his jeans, underwear and socks gone with them.

"Maybe you pitied my grades."

"I'd just pay for you to go to the library and fuck off, dumbass," you muttered, pushing his hands aside and ripping the condom open, drinking in the delicious sight of his throbbing red cock dripping pre-cum, his balls just waiting for – fuck it, you got down on your knees and wrapped your tongue around his length, Jungkook sputtering and gasping at your suddenness. Fuck, he smelled and tasted fucking good, clean and velvety to your lips enclosing around the head and sliding down, using one hand to scoop up his balls. Made eye contact with him again.

Jungkook breathed your name hesitantly.

Your tongue slid out of your lips and you jammed his cock all the way down your throat, slathering his balls wetly with your whisking tongue, circling around one and then the other, long expansive strokes that went past the girth of his cock, your pink tongue visible to him. Jungkook's pupils blew wide with shock, moans catching in his throat, whole body shivering, trying desperately not to look away even through you could tell he wanted to throw himself into your sofa and fucking lose it.

"Oooooooh, fuck, that's amazing.... Holy shit, your tongue is everything...."

You chuckled and pulled your head back, satisfied with his reaction. He seemed slightly disappointed until you rolled down the condom, cracking your neck.

"I think I've given enough." You stood up, getting back on top of him and his glorious thighs. "Time for you to be taken."

Jungkook smirked.

You smirked wider and more wickedly.

The sky-blue memo was crumpled into a ball, fallen to your hardwood floor.

Held him with two fingers, ugh, the weight of his cock, fuck yes, and those beautiful dark chocolate eyes, Jungkook, you dumbass, cursing that he didn't tell you sooner so that you could watch him groan and throw his head back like he was right now, gasping at your tightness, your name torn from his throat as you took in every centimeter of him, every pulsing vein and contour of his wonderful cock, stupid Jungkook and his attractive self not using his damn words so you could ride him like you were right now, setting up a fast, bruising pace. Your fingers dug into the back of the couch as you bucked your hips into his violently, keeping yourself tight because you were so fucking wet, fuck, so wet for Jeon Jungkook and his idiotic self, asking for internet to do his school assignments and not asking for his dick to be used as your fucking joystick. 

Dumbass.

"Oh fuck," Jungkook gasped. "Oh, fuck, you're so wet and tight, shit, shit, shit..."

"Tell me something I haven't heard before," you chuckled, only half-meaning it, waving your entire body to deliver a particularly hard smack to his crotch, Jungkook whimpering under you, his hands flying to your upper arms and clutching them, trying to hold on to your wildness.

"Holy fuck, you have some hard biceps," he blurted out, startled at the prominent muscle.

Well, you haven't heard that one before.

"Guess that's what happens when you jack off a lot of dick," you mused nonchalantly.

You ticked your head to Jungkook's arms – delicious – and he frowned at you, opening his mouth to protest and you cut him off by shoving two fingers into his lips, pressing them down into the wet warmth, grinning maniacally as you watched him struggle with your fingers rubbing his tongue and his cock getting assaulted by you aggressively slamming your hips down and clamping around his stiffness, tighter, faster, whines of your name in his throat, head falling back onto the couch with a flump. You were careful not to push your fingers too far. 

Getting vomited on wasn't really on your sexual activities bingo card.

Jungkook was, however, drooling down his chin and neck, and you pulled back to grab his shoulder with your wet hand – oh, fuck, his shoulder, what a lovely shape – and Jungkook wheezed for breath, you ignoring it as you focused all your energy on fucking the life out of him, dirty squelches and smacks of hips on hips, staring down at his abs and v-line, all his hard work at the gym on display, his hands still on your upper arms as he raised his hips to meet yours, needily moaning for you to destroy him with your pace.

Damn, maybe you would have sent him a love letter if you had seen him naked at least once.

"A-Ask me to cum for you," Jungkook finally got out, voice hoarse from breathing so hard for so long.

"You're going to anyway," you taunted.

"Want you to ask," he whined, almost pouting. "Tell me to do it."

You gazed into his eyes, into those brown irises overtaken by black pupils, him a top spinning by your hand, your plaything commanded by your body, pussy clenching around his twitching cock, spurred on from his pleading tone, giving him a devious and wicked grin, speaking to his swollen lips, the devil knows your name, Jungkook, and him moaning back, fuck yes she does, so close, so fucking close, unashamedly barreling towards your release, power in your veins and under you, his muscles rippling as he fucked you back, amplifying every thrust.

"Jungkook."

"Y-Yes?"

"Say it."

Brown eyes locked with yours.

"I love you. Marry me."

You smirked.

"Cum for me."

A half-second and then you let go, letting the feeling rush in and envelop you, the moment held back to torture him, and now you felt it all, already at the tipping point, strained moan as your orgasm crashed into you, shudders all over and falling, sitting all the way down in his lap to experience the throbbing ache of your core giving out and spilling onto his cock and balls in rapid bursts, viscous and sweet. The scent of sex mixing with blackberry and spiced vanilla, his length jerking inside you, and only then did you hear Jungkook crying out your name over and over, the roar in your ears fading out to his shivering moans, hands sliding up and down your arms, eyes closing and lost in the pleasure of your pussy squeezing out his cum. His touch travelling down to your waist, pulling you to him.

Messy, soft kisses, your name and curses mixed together.

"It's me, right?"

You smiled into his mouth that was still asking questions.

"Please let it be me. You'll let me love you for real, right?"

Pushing your hair back, his sweaty blond locks sticking to your face.

"Because I already do, can't stop, won't stop–"

"Yeah, Jungkook, funnily enough I figured that from the first kiss already," you chuckled, running your fingers through his ash blond hair and pulling his head back lightly, seeing him pout, the mole underneath his lower lip peeking out.

"But..."

"Hm?"

His voice suddenly small, vulnerable, his semi-hard dick still inside you.

"Do you love me?"

You lifted a brow. "What kind of dumbass question is that?" You grabbed his arm and pressed your nail into his tattoo of your words, drawing a pink scratch under them, making him gasp. "How can I not love you? Fuck, that's the sexiest thing I've ever seen, my handwriting tattooed onto you. Yes, I love you, Jungkook."

Jungkook's jaw dropped.

This fool is still shocked after all this?

You reached down and held the condom down as you lifted yourself off, yanking him to his feet, pushing Jungkook to your coffee table, right in front of the pile of letters with his name all over them. You picked up your laptop and pushed it onto his chest, forcing him to hold it, him still confused, mildly stunned, not knowing what the fuck was happening.

Then you made him half-straddle your coffee table and yanked off the condom.

"Um–"

Grabbed his cock and started furiously jacking him off.

"Oh, f-fuck!"'

And then he realized what you were doing, the sheer wrongness of it, getting harder and harder with every second, throbbing in your hand.

"You're just like them," you chuckled through exerted breath.

Faster, rougher, tighter, Jungkook clutching your laptop, his larger frame leaning against yours, head thrown back so far that his blond hair was brushing your shoulder, moaning lustfully as he thrusted his hips into your grip. White pooled onto the purple-red tip of his abused cock, far too sensitive to be jacked off this hard right after orgasm, but Jungkook begged you not to stop, streams of residual cum running down your slicked fingers.

"Always looking for your fix from the addiction that's me," you whispered into his ear, laced with an authoritative growl. 

You saw Jungkook's head lower out of your periphery, eyes opening, staring at the colorful envelopes with his name printed on them, the cute stickers and neat handwriting, panting your name, tendons and veins standing out on his neck, sweat beading on his tan skin. 

A low, dangerous chuckle rising in his throat. 

"There's a difference between them and me."

You felt his cock twitch in your hand, ridiculously hard at what you two were about to do. 

"They're not going to get their fix."

Jungkook shuddered against you, jerking his hips forward, thick white strings splattering all over the pastel paper as you watched, fascinated, the scent of his cum saturating the air and the envelopes, drops soaking and smearing the carefully written ink, time wasted and defiled. 

"I am," he moaned, twisting his body on your arms, leaning down to kiss you hungrily as you squeezed his cock, draining it all out, all over your coffee table and coating your hand, stained with Jeon Jungkook's love letter to you. 

--

masterpost

[pinkhairedlily]

Sakura wanted her last Christmas Party in high school to be memorable and best, but nothing seems to go her way today. The Christmas cookies she took a week to perfect the recipe got left on the train; it was her pride, her small token of courage the moment she works up the guts to finally confess to the love of her life – well, yes, the love of her up-to-high-school-life, school heartthrob and salutatorian, Uchiha Sasuke.

But she left it, it was gone, and now her courage was too.

She stood in front of Neji, holding out the store-bought cookies she got in a hurry just a kilometer outside their school. He scrunched his nose ever so slightly, but he knew that she caught it, and that she was well too aware that he didn’t appreciate it.

Mustering up a smile, she moved away to the sides, waiting for her turn to be given a gift. If it ends up being Naruto, she’d be lucky enough if he gave her an unopened ramen pack. If not, it might just be the seasoning left.

She was jolted out of her musings when Ino pushed her off the chair. “Go up there forehead! How many times does Sasuke have to call your name for you to go in front?”

Apart from the usual jeering that came with being in Sasuke alone at the front were the apologetic looks. Sasuke, after all, was notorious in giving the cheapest gifts; he was even heartless enough to give a piece of blank paper.

She waited for her eventual humiliation.

A large box and a quip of Merry Christmas.

When it was time to open it, she gasped out loud.

It was a gift set to prepare her for medical school, something that she did not tell anyone. Her wishlist posted in their class bulletin was only a stationery set so it can be easily found and purchased. It was only Ino who she confided her dreams to in the intimate confines of their sleepovers; and it was only during one sleepy afternoon in Biology class that she told their professor in passing that she wanted to go to medical school.

White shoes, stethoscope, cherry blossom head scrub, robe embroidered with her name, a set of ballpoint pens, a box of vitamins, and a pack of premium coffee. He also included a note hidden within the folds of the box – May these help you upstart your dreams. Good luck.

She caught him in the busy hallways at the end of the day, trailing slowly behind Naruto and his usual group of friends. She almost called out to him when she saw the familiar pink box in his hand.

“What are you doing with that?” Her question made him halt.

He heaved a sigh while turning back, instinctively straying his gaze anywhere but on her. “I promise I had a good excuse somewhere.”

“See that vomit-inducing pink plaid ribbon? That’s from leftover fabric scraps of my skirt. That box is mine, but I left it on the train.”

“I was on the train.”

Sakura stared at him dumbstruck. When she failed to continue with a response, Sasuke pinned his gaze on her – the same gaze anyone would duck out of due to sheer intimidation or pure fluster. Sakura was the latter as she felt the early signs of creeping flushness on her skin.

“It had my name so I just got it.”

“Why are you on the train?” She managed to get out. Sasuke never used public transport, he is always chauffeured to school, and more than that, his home is nowhere near the stations.

“I wanted to be the first…” he starts and then looks away, “to greet you Merry Christmas.”

It took minutes of deafening silence and maybe stretches of onlookers too had not Ino and Naruto shooed them away from an albeit awkward public moment in the middle of a busy hallway.

“Well, don’t you have anything to say?”

Sakura gasped, as if she finally remembered how to breathe, too caught up in the realization that she, a clumsy pink-haired nobody with nothing to brag but her grades, was in the center of his line of sight. And what did he exactly mean with the first to greet her a Merry Christmas? Wasn’t that something else?

Nevertheless, the courage she thought she lost came back in a sudden crash, like adrenaline seeping through every vein.

“I like you, Sasuke.”

He smirked, and she steeled herself for the nonchalant rejection. “That took you long enough.”

She couldn’t quite understand yet, but it was her friends’ cheering that led her out of her reverie. It must be a good thing – a Christmas wishlist she didn’t dream of coming true.

i'm late but here's my christmas gift to all my sasusaku moots! happy holidays - hope you enjoy it with your family, partner, furbabies, or alone. remember to take a break too and always be gentle with yourself. 🥰❤

[hueningkoi]

I haven't had the time or energy to draw much since going back to work. BUT! Here's some messy doodles I did at work when waiting for the cakes to defrost! I used the only supplies I could find which was scrap paper and 4 ballpoint pens

[abrooklynboy]

cold

[Memory Meme: Send a word and I will write a memory, thought or short scene for my/our muses with something related to that word.

Cory: cold and water, IT'S JUST GONNA BE RG/CAPTAIN AND MAYBE SOME STEVE FEELS

Tabby: HIT ME WITH THAT ANGST, BABEY

also lol 'short']

Warnings: Canon-Typical brainwashing/mind control, maniupulation, implied gore.

A Cycle Without You | Captain & Soldier

Coming out of cryo was like being born. Muscles and lungs trembling, protesting the cold, the bright lights. Why do they always wind them up? Guards supporting his dead weight, he looks under an arm to his right. Blinking, lashes lined with ice crystals, vision blurred. Another tube softly glowing. Waiting.

She's safe. I'll be home soon, B-.

The chair takes that thought, all thoughts, away.

Part of him, muscles spasming, jaw locked, waits for "<Good morning, Captain.>" but it never comes anymore.

Presented with a file, his shield, a team.

Always hurry hurry, he's on a clock. Clear medical (all systems green), Eat (disgusting), uniform (for the war), head out. The Asset(s) are too volatile to keep out of wipes and cryo for long. An endless cycle. It's a relief to be out from the dark concrete and metal, recycled air, in the field where (they) he belong.

Someone should be here. On the tip of his tongue.

A shape, corner of his vision, watching his six. Next to him in the van. Not as tall as him (nobody's as tall as him). Long hair, compared to his short crop. Metal arm (that was his fault). Uniform is all black, rather than the red cutting up the black on his. Firearms of all shapes and sizes and knives. He wears a helmet, she (is a she) wears goggles. Both wear the same mask (muzzle). No logos, except the red star on his chest and her shoulder. It wouldn't be a covert operation if the logo was plastered everywhere.

Outside, it's August. Trees in full bloom, night sky. When's the last time they've (he's) seen the sun? Humid. He's sweating as he gives orders. Takes point, takes cover alone.

It goes off without a hitch, minus the Captain once again punching holes in people, like a scrapper from hell. Blood to his forearms, blood in his mouth, blood on his face.

It's the face, STRIKE agrees over a round, later, once the nightmare is stashed away with the other nightmare. There should be someone home during all that.

Acceptable collatoral damage.

Still, they ask him what the hell was that. No answer. A shrug. Are we heading back or not?

Scrubbed clean, fresh uniform. A few days. Still has his brain. Put it to use. A weapon in the arsenal, just like firearms and knives, metal arms, shields. He makes battle plans, suggests strategies. Trains alone. Always under armed guard.

Sketches, in his cell, on a scrap of paper and ballpoint pen (they don't let him draw anything but mission plans, blueprints, the best tactical mind of the modern era shouldn't be an artist, a cartoonist). Remembers what direction the security camera points. Dark hair, dark eyes, a tired smile. The coat must be blue.

A word, stuck in loop, in his head. Longing.

He burns it (always does) with a match. Any sketches get interrogated (when when has he done that?).

The cooldown. Back to the life support suit. Another wipe. Sensors attached to him. Led back to his cryo (he just wants to sleep). There's a tube, next to his own. Inside is a woman. He stops, off-balance, coltish, brow furrowed, lips parted in confusion.

"Aw, big guy misses his girlfriend," Rumlow jeers.

"Who's she?"

Behind him, a cacophany of voices. When the Captain asks questions, people die.

why, how did he, who set the voltage, has anything happened like this before, check the file.

"Another Asset." Pierce's voice is smooth like honey and twice as poisonous. Captain watches the Secretary in the reflection of the glass. A brighter version of himself. In another life, they could've been brothers. Everyone else is silent, just the Secretary's dress shoes on the concrete floor as he comes up behind the super soldier. Hand on his shoulder, sympathy, "She's unstable. The serum that runs through her veins is inferior compared to yours." Implication of 'women, am I right?' "She needs a firm hand to guide her. Impartial. An officer." The hand pats his shoulder a couple of times. "I know you have it in you."

The Captian carries this order into the next cycle. Next time the Soldier and him meet, he's reserved. Remembers her capabilites. Their bodies operate seamlessly next to each other. Whatever comradeship they had cycles, years, decades ago is razed.

It always comes back. Winter doesn't last forever.

[steve-rogers-new-york]

This topic is brought to you thanks to my amazing Patreon Supporters!

Dip Pens

So I wanted to know what sort of writing tools Steve and Bucky would have been familiar with, and was really surprised to discover that they would have almost certainly learnt penmanship primarily with dip pens!

Dip pens are a writing technology that came after quills and before fountain pens. They are a reasonably straight-forward tool, but they changed access to literacy in America.

Elements and Accessories of Dip Pens

At the basic level, a dip pen consists of three main elements:

The Pen — While most of us will know of the writing point as a “nib,” it is actually called the “pen.” These metal point, commonly made from steel, are easily slid into the shaft, making them easy to change and replace at will. 

The Shaft — The shaft is the handle the user holds when writing, and can be made of a vast array of materials (ebony, mother of pearl, silver, gold, etc), but usually wood (or later plastic). 

The Ink — Alongside these is ink, usually in an open-top bottle or another temporary container.

Other accessories that would often accompany dip pens:

Blotter Paper — This is paper used to absorb excess ink to prevent smudges. Commonly it would be attached to a holder so it could be rolled over the paper smoothly.

Inkwell and Inkstand — Inkwells are containers that hold ink for use when writing. They can vary in quality and expense as needed. A step up from this is the inkstand, a luxurious desk accessory that would consist of inkwells, containers for spare pen tips, spaces for shafts to rest, and a place for ink blotters.

Writing Pad — This is a leather writing pad that would allow for the smoother glide of the pen tip over the paper and protect the desktop. Again, this was a luxury item. 

Cleaning Cloth — A cloth or scrap of rag used to clean pens after use.

Very Fine Sandpaper — Used to smooth the tip of new pens.

Using Dip Pens

To use a dip pen, the pen (”nib”) of choice is inserted into the shaft. The pen point is then dipped directly into the ink to a point above the “vent hole” (cut-out section). A certain amount of the ink will be retained by the pen to feed the strokes. Depending on the pen shape and ink type, a single dip can last anywhere from a couple of words to several lines of text.

Some maintenance and cleaning is required to get the pens into a useable state and to keep them in working order. New pens are often coated in a fine film of oil that will prevent it from collecting ink for use. To remove this, the pen can easily be cleaned with alcohol or the oil burnt off by passing it through a flame several times. Once cleaned, the tip will sometimes need to be smoothed with very fine sandpaper, as they can be razor-sharp and tear paper while writing otherwise. After use, pens will also need to be cleaned of residue ink, as letting it dry will affect its function. For this, some water and a cloth/rag will do the job to wipe it down before putting pens away. If not cleaned correctly, they can become corroded.

Pen Styles and Functions

As these pens were used in all areas of society, the diversity of shapes and designs is vast. Here are some of the key elements to a pen and what it brings to its user:

Tip shape — The width of the tip determines the thickness and shape of the line. The most common being “pointed” and “broad-edge” (also “stub” or “italic”).  “Pointed” tips have two tines that come to a single sharp point, and with the application of pressure, can spread and give variation in the line thickness. A “broad-edge” tip has a wide, flat point and will produce a stroke that varies in width from thin to thick, depending on the direction it is moved. 

Tip angle — Aside from the shape of the tip mentioned above, they can also come “pointed” or “ball-pointed” (or “turned-up”). As the name suggests, a “pointed” tipped pen comes to a point completely in line with the rest of the pen. Alternatively, a “ball-pointed” pen has an up-turned tip. The difference between the two is the ease at which they moved over the paper. A “pointed” pen moves best when pulled in the direction of the user but can snag on the paper stock when pushed away from them. The rounded tip of the  “ball-pointed” pen moves more smoothly across the paper, has more flexibility of movement in any direction, and is less prone to snagging on the paper. It was the predecessor to the modern ballpoint pen. As for the uses, a “pointed” pen will produce a finer line than a “ball-pointed” shaped one. For reference, Image-1 shows them side-by-side, Image-3 shows a “ball-pointed” tip and Images-4 and -5 show “pointed” tips.

Flexibility — The flexibility of the two tines of the pen will affect how wide apart they spread. The further apart they spread, the broader the variation in line thickness when pressure is applied. A stiffer pen will offer less variation in line thickness; while more flexible tines will allow the user a greater variation between fine and broad lines with the application of pressure while writing. Additional slots and notches can also improve elasticity in the tines. Think along the lines of touch sensitivity when using a digital drawing tablet.

Pen Shape — This is the most visually obvious element of a pen. The overall shape of the pen can vary greatly, and this element is both practical (impacts the way the pen works) and decorative. This element includes the “shoulder” (the base of the tines that flares out to varying degrees) and the “vent hole” (the cut-out at the base of the slit between the tines). The full list of types is too much to post here, but Wikipedia has a great visual list of them, and The Steel Pen has great, detailed information about dip pens. For now, I will just focus on the types I think our boys would have been most acquainted with:

Straight — Very simple, straight body that angles smoothly into the point. Similar to the Straight are the Beaked and the Bank which have longer tines. (See Image-4 and the 1st, 4th, and 6th pens in Image-9)

Stub — A straight body that then angles sharply inward with short tines.

Leaf / Flat Leaf / Spoon / Crown — These all have similar rounded shapes. The “shank” is straight until about halfway, then the shoulders flair out in a rounded shape. The result is a pen that looks similar to a spade from a suit of cards. (See Image-3 and the 3rd and 5th pens in Image-9)

Tip Size — The size of the tip will, as you might expect, impact the base thickness of the line.

To get an idea is the sheer variety these pens can come in, have a gander through Wikipedia’s gallery of dip pens!

Identifying Pens

Manufacturers will identify their pens by including their brand name along with the style name and/or number on the pen's “shank” (the section that slides into the shaft). As such, it is very easy to identify pen styles and their makers. In addition, manufacturers would put different design flair into the shape of the pen, resulting in some pretty interesting looking pens from higher-end manufacturers.

Purchasing Pens

Pens could be purchased easily in boxes containing anywhere from 12-100 pens. These boxes could either contain multiples of just one type by that manufactures, or a selection of their styles for different uses (a Straight, a Falcon, a Leaf, etc). While some brands were sold in tins, most I have seen have been cardboard boxes, often with a draw design (similar to modern matchboxes) sealed before sale with adhesive labels over the ends.

Cost Dip pens were relatively cost-effective, which is why they were used in schools over fountain pens and continued to be in use for decades after the invention for the ballpoint pen. Based on newspaper ads from the 1920s and 1930s, a fountain pen could put you back $1.00 - $10.00 (though I did see one ad with sale ones listed at 75c), while a box of 12 “steel pens point” would only cost you 5c. A dozen basic lead pencils look to have been around 10c, and a 2oz. bottle of ink around 10c as well. Similarly, a simple soft-cover 48 leaves book would be around 5c. Do note that these prices do come from ads for large department stores, so cheaper items could likely be found at smaller local stockists.

I personally have a decent collection of pen “nibs”. The ones photographed here are some I recently picked up for Patreon perks and a shaft I kept with my modern pens and markers (it’s too long to fit in the box with the rest of my nibs etc). But after spending an afternoon searching, I can’t seem to find the box I keep the rest of my collection in. When I do I’ll be sure to post some photos on more shapes they can come in!

If you want more in the topic, my full research notes on all topics are available for all $3+ Patreon patrons!

Image Sources

Close-Up of Pen Tips | D.’s Personal Collection Close-Up of Shaft End | D.’s Personal Collection Government of Canada No. 50 Close-Up (Flat Leaf) | D.’s Personal Collection Government of Canada No. 40 Close-Up (Beaked) | D.’s Personal Collection Eagle Pencil Co. E11 Close-Up (Falcon) | D.’s Personal Collection Wooden School Case w/ pens | Source Box of No. 2 School Pens, c. 1920s | Source Coca-Cola School Set, c1930s | Source Shaft w/ Pens | D.’s Personal Collection

This post comes to you thanks to Patreon supporters at the  ‘Ephemera Club’ level. Those subscribed in July 2020 received their very own vintage dip pen nib, along with a sweet postcard showing an element of Brooklyn in the 1920-1940s! If you would also like to receive neat, period-appropriate items in the mail each month, you can join the ‘Ephemera Club’ for just $15! 

If you join before the end of July 2020, you too will receive these items!

[ Support SRNY through Patreon and Ko-Fi ] And join us on Discord for fun conversation! I also have an Etsy with upcycled nerdy crafts

[ahtohallan-calling]

Okay, AU: Month You Were Born - Coffeeshop Kid fic

As far as occupational hazards went, she supposed this one wasn’t too bad.

“Miss Anna?” the little girl lisped, brown eyes wide. “Did you bring Poppy with you?”

She was really supposed to be memorizing the story she and the little pink polka-dotted mouse puppet would tell on the next episode of Poppy’s Garden Tales, but it was the kids she loved, anyway, the reason she had started doing the show in the first place, and so she smiled and slid out of her chair, kneeling to be at eye level with the child. “Not today, I’m afraid,” she said kindly. “She’s having a nap in her garden. But I’ll tell her you said hello.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Of course. It’s no trouble. And here,” she said, grabbing a napkin from her table and pulling a pen from behind her ear, “let me give you our address so you can send us a letter, and she can say hello back, okay?”

“I can’t write, Miss Anna. I’m only four,” the girl said, holding up three chubby little fingers and, for some reason, using both hands to do so. 

“Well, give this to your mommy and daddy and they can write it for you, okay?” Anna replied cheerfully, writing down her fanmail address and signing her name beneath. She glanced up then, a small frown appearing between her eyebrows. “Where are your mommy and daddy, sweetie?”

“Mommy is in a better place now,” the child explained matter-of-factly. “Nana said it’s called Las Vegas. And Papa’s in the kitchen.”

Anna felt her face pale. “In the kitchen? Are you here by your–”

“Alice!” a deep voice called, sounding panicked. “I thought I told you to stay close!”

Anna looked up– way up, and then back down as the broad-shouldered man in a flour-covered apron crouched down next to the little girl. 

“But Papa,” Alice said pitifully, “It’s Miss Anna.”

“What are you–” 

For the first time, the man glanced at her, recognition dawning over his features. His handsome features, Anna realized, a blush creeping over her cheeks. “Hi,” she blurted out. “Your daughter is lovely. She, uh, she looks just like you. Same eyes, I mean. Not the– the height. Or hair. Or anything else.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “You really are her.”

“Of course I’m her. Well, I’m me, I mean.”

“I watch with her. Every Saturday at seven,” he said, rising to his feet and lifting his daughter with him. Anna stood, too, trying not to blush harder when she realized she was back to tilting her head up to look at him. 

“Well. I’m glad you like it. Or that she does, in any case.”

He shrugged. “I don’t mind it much.”

“You flatter me,” Anna said, and to her surprise he began to flush too.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Not trying to be rude, just– Alice gave me a scare here, and I’ve, uh, I’ve never really met a celebrity.”

“Well, lucky for you I’m not one,” Anna said. “Poppy’s the real star of the show.”

The bare beginnings of a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Did you bring her with you, by any chance?”

“I already asked, Papa,” Alice said with a pitiful little sigh. “But I’m gonna write her a letter.”

“Are you now?”

Anna nodded quickly and held out the napkin she’d scribbled the studio’s address on. “Send it here, and I’ll have Poppy write back soon as she can.”

And two days later, when a letter arrived written in pink crayon, Poppy did write back, and when a folded scrap of paper with ten digits written in ballpoint pen fell out of the envelope, too, Anna sent a message of her own.

I’m free tonight. And don’t worry, I’ll leave the puppet at home.

[dearduende]

DID

this all really happen? the way it’s written, no— scratched into the spiral bound, composition, college-ruled everything. each waking moment and fights and fears. and the dreams. including those crushes from afar with code names that I must piece together from hints over months and years, and then tracing back cryptic love notes tucked into lockers now pinned as if evidence pointing to the mens rea— the furtive phone calls in hushed tones from my bathroom as if my parents didn’t notice me flush and steal myself away from the dinner table and the nightly status reports. the secrecy (and the hormones) (and the embarrassment of my existence) (but mostly the hormones) blooming acne across my chin, my forehead, my nose within the grooves of its parentheses willing its contents—each pore—to shrink into an afterthought. I remember now how I had prayed to God to absolve my skin problems and to solve my boy ones. even bargained with Him in bed that I’d stop touching myself— or at least a bit less—as if these whiteheads were His chosen form of punishment. a dozen constellations across my shoulders from which my mother would weave the story of her same hidden shame, shared scars and bumps across our backs like labels in Braille of all the parts I want to hide, she promised: it’ll lessen and pass with time.

yet it still manages to haunt the next generation.

pull out the red string and the pins to map the evidence, the eye witness accounts, the threats and the retaliation and the heartache onto the faded bamboo floors of my parents’ house. the times I willed myself not to cry, stone woman as my mother avalanched again over the granite before me her voice booming and crumbling daring to swallow us. the way I stoically thrilled in the lust of our mutual destruction, first: the sticky salt of our wounds lashed by sharp tongues and second: the umami of it seared and grilled to perfection. still bleeding. medium rare. or when my father stampeded the room. seeing red. throwing a metal water bottle, denting it permanently against the wall then landing on the cold tile. how their swear words were only ever in English (that’s when I knew shit was serious) a rare violence uncondoned by both their mothers’ tongues.

I’m just realizing now: no wonder my brother and I, or I’ll just speak for myself, why I still burst into tears in the middle of their war zone, or whatever else might feel remotely like it. I now know instead of acting as an unsolicited diplomat caught in the crossfire it’s safer to seek asylum in the Switzerland of the next room, one ear still wired to their rising voices (I can’t help it) and their talking points, only to draft peace treaties for a civil war where they’ve long forgotten what it is they’re really fighting about anymore. but back then, this was the only way to snap them out of self-destruct mode by overriding their programming with the parental unit fail-safe. their child crying.

I could walk backwards through it with my eyes closed and show you exactly how the sun slants through the windows. how in late spring afternoon the crystals hanging in the dining room explode a universe of rainbows, little galaxies of light scattered among our dark matter, across the white walls and the floors and the crumbs on the pale table cloth. I could point out all the favorite sun spots of Tiger and Lily (may he rest in peace) and somehow always end up back at the grand piano. there is a tenderness only fingertips know.

dig out the mental blueprints from the archives. the different schools. the cliques and the quacks. the start of another year. short shorts and sweaters. (refer to your diaryjournals for the details).

and then another new journal. how they all somehow begin with the just-after-waking subtle scent of short stories germinating in my mind. they seem to disappear just before I can finish transcribing them and then I’m left empty handed, dumfounded, foolish and doubting and then writing the only kinds of stories I do know, the ones I’m still learning to place in the light sprouting tender roots between sheets of paper, pressed tightly like all those flower petals— if only I could preserve their bright pigment tones. but even imagination fades. and seemingly so do memories. these spines loosely bound and knees and elbows now cracked, scuffed, and crinkled. just a bit creased and water damaged. over the years. but mostly tears—watermarks from another era. once, an errant sprinkler jet from the lawn tap tap tapped against my bedroom window just barely cracked open, as fate would have it. waterlogged stacks of books my pillars now pink and black and blue with mold and flooded the bamboo floors. trying to put out the wrong fires a decade too late, or maybe the right fires as in the written ones, to destroy the evidence. I now keep them sealed in a plastic box.

I plead the fifth. there must be some limit after all these years, when it’s way too late to apologize anyway— I’ve considered, and then talked myself down, from texting or DMing all the people I have wronged. and memory serves no one now. if my handwriting has changed at least a dozen times does that mean I’ve lived a dozen different lives? the Hubba Bubba gum tape chewing preteen blowing bubbles over every i and j and under each ! and then there’s the jagged purple glitter pen cursive as if going slower helps it turn out better— one of those things you realize later in life isn’t always true. there’s the one seemingly always in a rush, skinny and slanted and caffeinated (there are coffee spill stains to prove) always as if she’s just about to topple over. breathe, I want to tell her, no need to move so fast. you will concuss yourself doing so. and two weeks later also topple down the stairs. (both true stories.) life will force you to slow down. I almost forget the one more rounded and grounded printed in ballpoint extra fine so as not to bleed but what’s the cost of living for the sake of perfection? what even is my handwriting now? I had to dig out one of my scrap paper lists to figure out how its a blend, less measured and more movement without being driven purely by entropy.

loosely held together.

and now, how often do I write, like with pen and paper the letters carved and inked their ghosts passing through the walls between pages bumping up against other memories. these lives and voices call out to me across the decades, some more familiar than others almost like specimens in a museum glass box too fragile for the dust or the humidity or the air or the light of day. I’m an archeologist glowing at her simple discovery which really just involves showing up onsite and digging and dusting and continued search over and over into the pits of my being delicately brushing away at the dirt around my bones, the silt and sediment compressing into a cross section of history held in my hand. look! here it is.

so I write again, if only for this moment to leave my future self some clues (in no particular order): the return of my freckles. Craigslist apartment daydreams. I’m building my callouses learning a new landscape of metal strings and broken chords. say a little prayer. tonight, I made choong yao bang from scratch with Mom. I’ve been staying up way too late (it’s 4:35am right now... why?) and then falling asleep to ASMR videos (specifically, Emma). Mom and Dad are actually not fighting much these days despite spending all day under the same roof (find your Google doc, love in the time of quarantine).

my younger self might not even recognize these people inhabiting our same house.

Mom and Dad are both still here. and I’m trying not to take it all for granted, I promise. we’re together for now but he’s gone again (eerily, much like 10 years ago but this time on his own terms) or at least he’s far away, who knows, who’s to say. we’re giving him time and space. and we’re learning how to hold each other while we fall apart, sometimes all at the same time. usually in different ways.

how I’m scared and excited for my life to unfurl one leaf at a time. allowing myself the gift, the anticipation, the surprise, and then counting the splits.

reach for the sunlight, keep reaching.

and I still don’t know what I wanna be when I grow up but when have I ever had it all figured out and what fun is that.

and a note to my younger self: PS—not only will you continue to write for emotional release (reference my pure bewilderment of this cathartic power in diaryjournal dated February 10, 2007) you will also connect with other humans in your words and we’ll play in our world and revel in theirs too. keep writing, for yourself. and dare to share it with others.

gather what others refer to as the weeds, make a bouquet, blow and scatter the dandelion seeds.

[sidskywrote]

What do you do when you feel depressed? I'm sorry if this question makes you feel uncomfortable...

Hi, it’s alright :) But you should know I’ve never been diagnosed with depression (although honestly that may just be because I’ve never been to a therapist) so I’m going to answer this more in the mindset of what my family likes to call “rough patches.” Please bear with me. 

I find that what pulls me out of rough patches typically comes down to varying combinations of socializing, learning, physical health and creating.

Sometimes when I’m feeling dejected or isolated, I’ll realize that I haven’t picked up the phone and talked to my parents, or my non-work friends, for weeks, and in that case I usually feel a bit better once I’ve done that. People need people, and even if I can’t been in the same room with someone I care about, reaching out even just to hear their voice for a few minutes helps me reset. Even texting helps, if I’m worried they might be busy, and not able to talk on the phone. Which happens a lot, because I work afternoons/nights, and most of them are on normal 9-5′s or thereabouts. Any way I can stay in touch helps.

Learning new things has always made me happy. So if I find myself spending all my free time watching Netflix or scrolling social media, I try to switch it up a bit. TED Talks are a great way to get bite-sized bits of information about all sorts of topics, and it’s really cool seeing people talk so passionately about the things they do. 

I’ve also been getting back into reading lately. Fun books; not just the classics everybody says you should read even though they’re really racist or misogynistic and you’re just supposed to “ignore” all that and say how “great” the book is. Fun books: fantasy and mystery and drama and comedy and whatever else I feel like reading. And unless it’s a fanfic, I read books in physical paper/hardback form. I spend way too much time in front of a computer screen at work, and while writing my own stories. Sometimes you just need something you can hold in your hands, and physically turn the pages, and has that old/new book smell. It also helps me focus: it’s hard to open a new tab when your laptop’s closed.

I sometimes get into cycles of eating really poorly, or forgetting some other aspect of taking care of my physical needs. If I forget to take my allergy tab when I wake up–especially in the summer, and especially since I’ve moved closer to Chicago–then there’s a good chance I’ll spend the rest of my day with a mild sinus headache, which doesn’t combine well with an office job staring at a computer for eight hours while editors are scrapping page designs and getting me content ten minutes before deadline and still wanting the page out on time. Really adds to the stress, which in turn adds to wanting to numb the stress, which just numbs everything, which goes bad fast.

It’s easy to get into a rough patch when I’m physically not feeling well, so I try to make sure I’m taking my allergy medicine, and eating right, and drinking water. Some days I’ll feel miserable, then realize the last thing I ate was eight hours ago, and I’ve just been drinking black coffee in the interim. That’s when I have to make myself stop what I’m doing, and go get some food, or it’ll just get way worse. My dad is terrible at watching his diet, and he’s had giant sugar swings my whole life, leading to some pretty hurtful comments coming out of his mouth with no apologies once he’s had something to eat. I don’t want that for myself. So that’s an added reason for me to try and keep track of my physical health, even beyond the rougher rough patches.

Last but not least: creating. Writing. Drawing. Sculpting. Painting. Gardening. Photography. You name it. Creating breaks me out of a monotonous loop and gives my brain a chance to play by its own rules, all while producing something that is a physical proof of my efforts. It doesn’t have to be good; in some cases, it doesn’t have to cost more than a ballpoint pen and drawing on my own skin (or a piece of paper if I’m trying and failing at origami); it doesn’t even have to be all that useful. It just has to be something I did. I don’t have people over often in my apartment, so my “dining room table” is constantly covered in projects. Right now I’m gluing popsicle sticks to the back of thrift store picture frames, so that I can have a decent base to attach some command strips to, so I can actually put the photos up on my walls. It’s small, but it’s still creation. And for me, cooking counts too. It’s like a little experiment that’s successful if I can take a bite and go “yum.”

A combination of socializing and creating helped drag me out of the worst rough patch I’ve ever had. It had gotten so bad that I actually needed a kickstart to care about anything, and that kickstart came when the mom of a friend from high school–someone who is now a friend in her own right–asked if I would be willing to assistant-direct a play she was putting on. Which led to also stage managing that play. Which led to working the lights on another play, and set building on another, and spotlighting another, and getting back into acting, and on and on. Working with that theater company’s one of the things I miss most since I’ve moved. I’m honestly not sure where I’d be without them.

And it was during that time that I started working on both Safe, and some original stories. All of which helped bring back my confidence, and make me want to take care of myself again.

So really, it’s a combination of a bunch of things that help me when I’m in a rough patch. And these things might be different for other people, but these are the kinds of things that have worked for me.

I hope this answers your question, and I wish you well.

[librivore42]

Step Zero (a PSA about art/drawing)

I have watercolours at home. I gave up on them several times because every book, every tutorial I found, just said ‘load your brush with water and paint, and lay down a wash’. That was very much a thing that was not happening. I barely got enough colour on the brush unless I actively mashed the brush into the pan, which meant the brush got clumped with colour and wouldn’t lay down anything smoothly.

And then one day, a youtube tutorial mentioned that if you’re not using tube paints and have pans, you should drop some water into them and let them sit and soften a bit, so you can get the most intense colour possible.

This may seem like a very obvious thing to you, but for me it was a revelation.

These are expensive paints, I wasn’t going to experiment by dumping water on them of my own volition. I’m still absolutely awful at watercolours, one useful piece of advice does not take the place of practice and skill, but I can now at least control the intensity of the colours in the way I want, rather than wondering if I was just so awful that I somehow couldn’t ‘unlock’ the colours with the ease that every tutorial seemed to.

What I’m saying is, if tutorials are leaving you behind, if you’re struggling with a medium and getting frustrated, if making anything is frustrating because everyone seems to have gotten some big secret you haven’t, sometimes you just need a step zero.

Step zero is maybe finding another tutorial, because a lot of these are written by people for whom the lesson might be second nature, and you personally need steps between each step, or a different way of tackling it. That’s okay.

Step zero is realising your drawings aren’t the best not because you suck, but because you just have so much to learn, and your work will improve in patchwork and puzzle pieces. That’s okay too. Sometimes step zero is thinking to yourself ‘why can’t I get this?’ Maybe there’s a step you missed. Maybe something that’s obvious to the rest of the world isn’t obvious to you. Maybe you just need to practice before it ‘clicks’. But it’s never because you suck.

Step zero is taking a step back, way back, and getting comfortable with yourself and your medium, knowing some of what it can do. Sometimes step zero means realising your medium isn’t the one that can easily achieve what you want, and letting it go, at least for a while. Maybe your medium is just wrong for you. Not everyone can do everything.

Don’t start with watercolours, for example, they’re beautiful but very tricky and fiddly, and require a lot of layers and drying inbetween. Markers are intense and solid, but will bleed through and buckle and ruin thin paper if you’re not careful. Colour pencils don’t lay down solid unless you really know how to use them, and even then they may not be as intense as you want. If you use paint, ink, ballpoint pen, have a tissue or a scrap piece on hand to get rid of ugly medium buildup before it makes its way onto your work. If you use a pencil, you might spend hours erasing the same line over and over again. Know that, and try to lose your eraser once in a while.

So listen. Step Zero is this: Get a pencil. Or a cheap ballpoint. Get some cheap paper, lined if that’s all you can find. Use the back of a printout or a receipt. Use a paper bag. Don’t use anything you’ll be afraid to waste. Grab a thing, and do a thing. Use a light touch, use a heavy hand, see what you can do, pencils and ballpoints are pressure sensitive. Make shapes. Squiggles. Make that fancy bar that shows shading from dark to light.

Is it terrible? Of course its terrible, but that’s fine. Look at me, I still don’t understand how a ball is supposed to become a head or how hair works. You’ve always only just started. Pick a shape. Draw it again. Pick one thing you don’t know how to do yet. Look it up, give it a try. Keep drawing noses or eyes or cloth folds. Draw stick figures. Draw wooshy gesture lines, or blobby bodies to get a sense of shape or whatever overly specific detail you like. It’s a puzzle piece. If you want to draw a specific something, look it up. Draw it badly, but draw it. If your friend did something really cool, ask, and try to do that. Do it rough, but do it. Don’t worry about colouring, listen, that’s a lot of steps ahead. Just get comfortable with the one colour. The pen or pencil on the paper. Make shapes. Try to shade. If you draw a body, draw those ugly hands and feet and faces you’ve been trying to avoid. And then maybe look up how to draw that one hand first. Puzzle piece by puzzle piece. If a head looks weird, draw it again next to it, a new and different weird. If something in pencil looks nice but too scribbly, try outlining it in pen, focus on what looks okay in the middle of the mess.

Don’t stop before you’ve even started. You’re only on step zero.

[themagiciansreccenter]

The Great Blank Spot: @highestkingbambi

So much goes into creating fanfiction even before the first words hit the paper. And in-depth spotlight on our writers and the process behind their work.

Tell us about your current project.

I’m currently working on a multi-chapter hardboiled style fic that I have called The Lamb in the Wolfskin Coat. Set in late 1940s Los Angeles, it follows Margo Hanson, a PI, and her assistant Eliot Waugh as they look into the disappearance of Quentin Coldwater. It’s one great big Alternate Universe that features many characters from the shows and books in a hopefully suspenseful and interesting story.

We’re well into the creation period for The Trials. Are you participating? If so, is this your submission? What Tier did you select?

This is my fic for The Trials, though I did start conceptualizing and wrote the first couple of chapters prior to the official start. I decided to keep it for The Trials as I’m not the most consistent writer and needed a hard deadline to finish the whole thing.

I selected Tier 2 for this story. As soon as I started putting it together I knew it would need more than 25,000 words to tell the story.

What is your current word count?

As of posting, I’m at 29,004 words and I still have a few chapters to go.

Do you try to write daily? Do you have a word count or other goals you try to hit for each writing session?

I do try to write daily, but it doesn’t always work out that way. When I first started, I had a goal to write 1,500 words per week but I haven’t stuck to that. Some days I’ll write 2-3k other days all I can do is open the document.

What was the inspiration for this fic?

The entirety of the blame for this fic lies with @gwendolynflight. Just kidding, but for real, she started talking about a fic of hers in a similar genre and all of a sudden the seed was planted in my brain and I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. I’ve also taken a few cues from some classic and modern hard-boiled/noir books and movies including but not limited to The Maltese Falcon, The Big Sleep, Notorious, and The Black Dahlia.

Did this fic require any research? How much research do you typically do for your fics?

So much research! As V can attest, I have gone on long-winded research journeys into elements as varied as 1940s dry cleaning processes to the cost of a ballpoint pen. I know for a fact that I’m not going to get everything right, but I have tried to be as accurate as I can to make the story feel authentic.

How do you stay motivated between chapters/stories?

A large amount of my motivation for this fic, in particular, has been the support and encouragement of other writers in The Magicians fandom. Without that, I probably would have given up a long time ago. Another huge motivation has been the WIP of some of the artwork my Trials partner has shared with me so far. It’s stunning and I’m so excited for us to share it with everyone once we’re done.

Outside of fandom, I try to stay motivated by surrounding myself with inspiration material, cosplaying as some of my characters. (Yes, I do own a fedora and a trench coat--no shame.) My husband is also a great motivator and by great motivator I mean he’s constantly nagging me about how much I’ve written and gets me off my ass to write some more.

[Outside of the Trials] Do you typically write ahead or post as you go?

I am not great at multi-chapter fics. In the past, I have gone out guns blazing, posting as I finish each chapter and it has not gone well, to say the least. I’m trying to write ahead now, as I still have one WIP sitting unfinished on AO3 because I ran out of steam and after a tea related accident, I no longer have my outline or any idea what I was supposed to be writing.

How much planning and outlining did you do before you started putting words on paper?

I’m not a planner. I get a rough idea of what I want, maybe write a handful of notes and then go full steam ahead on the first draft. With this fic, I did write a more in-depth outline after I had written about 10,000 words, but since then I have changed so much that the outline is basically a different story altogether. As a visual person, I mostly conceive of the work in images, which doesn’t always translate well to a rough written outline.

Has it been pretty smooth sailing or rough waters? When things get rocky, how do you handle needing to rewrite sections or scrap scenes entirely?

A mix of both. Some chapters have been super easy to write, with the words I put down matching exactly what I have in my mind, others have...not been so easy. One of my biggest challenges has been maintaining Margo’s voice in a wholly different universe to canon and essentially whenever I lose that, my writing stalls.

I can be pretty ruthless with writing that I don’t like and if it’s not working, I’ll cut it and leave a copy in my outline in case I need it later on. I’m leaving a lot of that to the very end though, I’m trying not to be too nitpicky with my edits while I’m still working on the draft so that I don’t end up too sidetracked--I already have enough of that with the research.

Teaser

Finding a reporter in Los Angeles was almost as easy as finding an aspiring actor. In a city where films were made and gangsters ruled, there was never a shortage of stories, or someone to write them down. The problem was finding someone objective. Freedom of the press only went so far as their freedom to take bribes from Jack Warner to Mickey Cohen and every asshole in between. With her gut telling her that the Quinn case had something to do with Quentin Coldwater’s disappearance, Margo didn’t need information from someone with a mysterious backer. She needed someone she could trust. Unfortunately for her, the most objective reporter in Los Angeles didn’t like private detectives.

The Great Blank Spot is an in-depth spotlight focusing on the writing process and previewing in-progress fics for our fandom. It is meant to be an organic, ever-evolving feature. Previously interviewed fic writers can reach out to us here, to have a specific work featured. If you’d like to have a work featured but haven’t done the author spotlight, reach out to us to get started. If you have suggestions for questions you’d like to see answered, shoot us an ask!

Image credit (x) (x) (x)

[roominthecastle]

a two part question for you, friend :) -- 1. have you drawn since the last time you posted about it (i think back in april)? if so, how's it going? and 2. for a beginner who wants to learn, do you have any tips on supplies? i don't own pencils or unlined paper (i've put them on my bday list but if i'm lucky enough to get gifts, that won't be until november), but i'm itching to get started. what kind of supplies did you start with?

Hi there!

1. Not as much as I should have tbh (life got in the way) but I am back to practicing 3pt perspective w/ simple forms and also putting together a cityscape that’s really just a bunch of rectangular blocks and cylinders (I also get emotional about shapes now, they’ve helped me so much, man). It’s nothing fancy or too exciting, but I wanna get comfortable drawing these before moving on to tackling the human figure, which is the very thing I have never been able to draw. Now there’s a light at the end of that tunnel. ;)

2. My tip is, don’t worry too much about supplies at the beginning and def do not spend too much on them (I mean, expensive stuff will not make your first attempts look any better). Invest time, not money. I still use a simple, cheap #2 pencil and, at the very beginning, I forced myself to use a garden variety ballpoint pen bc I was so insecure, I always wanted to just erase erase erase. Using a pen will cure you of that urge quickly. As for paper, I started on scraps, really, and they weren’t unlined or top quality, so just start w/ whatever you have around, imo, then get a simple sketch pad (I love those), then a proper sketchbook (it makes me feel like some professional despite not being one at all) when you have some experience.

And I might have mentioned this before but there’s this art prof whose vids I watch and draw along with, Marc Leone. I’m v picky when it comes to teachers and he’s one of the really good ones, imo, just a genuinely kind dude who knows his stuff, so if you need some proper, professional, in-depth orientation and guidance, check out his “basics” section.

And then just jump right in bc it’s a lot of fun, I promise! ;)