#i love my coloured led pencils

[salchat]

I've been experimenting with graphite on canvas. Here is the resulting picture of the delectable Jensen, with my materials. I used the graphitone pencil first to sketch it out roughly, then smeared if with my finger dipped in water to make nice shadows. Then I used the graphite sketching pencil and the tinted graphite to get more detail and depth. Then I used the hard pastels for coloured highlights and skintone. Pastel doesn't mix that well with graphite, but oh well... Then I used the really dark graphite stick to make the background more dramatic and to emphasise some bits of his face. Then I used the little HB stick of graphite to get sharper lines around his profile and hair.

And here is the finished portrait, corrected for poor lighting and the way my phone washes everything out!

It was a lovely angle, but really tricky. I've kind of captured it. I like the drama. As usual, I should have analysed the structure more. But I just wanted to stick my fingers in the graphite and get messy. And there's nothing wrong with that.

Oh, and the final essential was my playlist of wall-to-wall Led Zeppelin.

[ragyragd0ll]

Vincent painting date fanfic

Requested by: @nightvers

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire

Genre: Romance

SFW

"Good morning, my schaje." Vincent greeted her, "Good morning Vince!" She smiled as she entered the room, her eyes slipped down to look at the two blank canvases in his hands. "What are those for?"

"Oh, I was thinking that we could go out and paint each other. If you want that is..." A slight blush appeard on his cheeks. 'Is this a date?' she thought, and smiled as she answered "I would love to." "Alright, let's go to the garden" he said "Wait, now?" "Yes" he said as he gently grabbed my hand and led me to the guarden. It was a little more breezy than usual today.

"Ready?" He said with his usual soothing voice, as he sat up two wooden easels Infront of each other. "Uh, yes" "Then let's start." He handed a canvas to her and sat his own on his easel. As soon as she sat down her's, he began painting her. And she hurriedly began too. On his side his careful and practiced strokes danced beatifully across the canvas, forming a beautiful silhouette of her. He occasionally looked over his canvas to look, and memorize her appearance, her every hair strand and every eyelash.

 On her side however, her strokes were too stiff, messy, and the colours did not compliment. A crime against anything art stands for. In fact, she could- No, she SHOULD be executed for this abomination. Nevertheless, a few minutes passed and Vincent laid his pencil down "Done?" He asked "Umm, Yeeaaah..." "Great, who will reveal theirs first?" "You go first!" She  quickly answered. He carefully picked up his painting and turned it around to show her, and gosh was it beautiful, you could even mistake the painting for her! "I'm sorry I couldn't capture your beauty, it was too big to fit on the canvas." He said bluntly "How about you, may I see your painting?"

 "M-My painting? Haha... Umm, first! Did you sleep well tonight?" She laughed akwardly "I slept well, thank you" he answered "May I see your painting?" He reached for it, but she quickly snatched it away before he could see it. "My schaje?" He tilted his head in confusion. "Oh, umm..." She hid it behind her back, looking for anything to distract him, until someone who seemed to have snuck up behind her grabbed it out of hands "Are you bullying my brother?" Theo said as he stared at the painting "Ah! Give it back!" "Nope" Theo said as he tossed my painting over to Vincent, which landed in the grass. "Careful, you could ruin her beautiful pai-" Vincent cut himself off as he looked at the painting. "This is..." He slowly picked it up and stared at for a few moments "V-Vincent?" She asked, concerned at his silence. Then, a tear trickles down his cheek "I love it" he said softly.

The painting in question:

.

.

.

END

I honestly didn't know how to end it so I just did... that. Hope you enjoyed it.

[slaterherms]

             ˗ˏˋ 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

                                              𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒔 ! ´ˎ˗

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑!

hello !! i really enjoyed making these and sharing a little slice of my muses with you all, and i’m happy people seemed to find them useful!! so while i’m at work doing nothing.... here is more AESTHETICS BASED OFF MY MUSES. 

cw: mentions of drugs and injuries 

LINCOLN ‘LINK’ CRAWFORD ashtray with finished cigarettes and empty bottles of alcohol on the windowsill, red LED lights, a collection of CDs, piles of books all over the place, printed out posters of horror movies, a laugh in the face of authority, dark greens and black filling your wardrobe, ripped jeans, thrifting for home decor and clothes, the smell of cigarettes stuck to clothes, an old camera slinging around your neck, lies that sound genuine, found family. 

FLORENCE JACOBS over-sized clothing, constantly saying sorry while repeating the same mistakes, chipped nail polish, showing up late to everything with a large coffee, empty bottles of alcohol all over the windowsill, ripped jeans, a collection of lighters, bags under your eyes, a worn out beanie, still using an ipod for music. 

ROMAN BIRCH dark academia, papers all over their space, a pencil behind their ear, bedhead, lingering smell of coffee, research books and journals, greek tragedies, a worn-down leather briefcase, rolled up sleeves, dark color schemes. 

ASHRAF AL HAFEZ the echo of an empty theatre, a sense of the dramatics in everything, an urge/starvation for the unconventional, thoughts scattered on pieces of paper, a half empty bottle of wine, a small yet cozy apartment, cat hairs all over your sweaters, roaming empty streets late at night, singing to yourself, musicals and theatre. 

JUDE JACOBS a bomb of colours in your wardrobe, worn down hands from drumsticks, loud noise, loud laughter, a smile so wide and contagious, unruly curls / hair, the lingering smell of marijuana, chipped nail polish, messy make-up, glitter on the eyes, the sound of a roaring crowd, 

RIO SMITH colourful bandanas, the lingering smell of fruity bodyspray, glazed lip gloss, eye gems / decor, bright colours, a compassionate love for animals, an urgency to help and assist others, mis-matched nails,  flowing skirts and dresses, festivals and bright lights, music playing 24/7, thrifted furniture, a mini garden, a softness in their eyes. 

NARI PAK black clothing, big combat boots, baggy pants, early 2000′s styled pixie cuts, the sound of a bass, blistered fingers from the bass, the lingering smell of cigarettes, a resting bitch face, sapphic goth, a face full of piercings, heavy eyeliner, posters hung haphazardly, big headphones on 24/7, silver jewelry. 

A FEW BONUS AESTHETICS I JUST LOVE light academia, ribboned hair, always smelling like lavender, a sarcastic tone, sleeves under big t-shirts, fishnets, brightly coloured hair, soft-spoken tones, worn-down sneakers, stacked jewelry, bright eye-shadow, stick-n-poke tattoos, bruises from stunts, leather jackets, driving too fast on an empty street, the peak of a high. 

[exhaustedcatte]

Grimmauld Place

“Yes, yes,” Draco huffed. “Tell Kathleen to ask Robbards instead, I’m only a mere banker, he’s the auror!”

Draco put the receiver down with force, fuming at the audacity of some clients. Even after cleaning up his act, absolutely spotless might he add, some people still found ways to poke through his defences.

Their newest target was Harry Potter, or also known as Draco’s fiancé.

Gringgotts had kindly offered him a spot fresh out of school, after Draco had submitted a letter of referral from both the Headmistress and Arithmancy professor of Hogwarts. It helped that he had vast knowledge about the kind of money that was sent here for safekeeping.

It was only a couple months in that Harry had turned up at his office, with a huge sum left behind by a certain Sirius Black. One thing led to another and Draco promised him a coffee. Now, almost eight years later, Draco was going to be promising him the rest of his life.

“Alright Malfoy,” Pillai strode into his cabin, closing the door behind her with her pencil heel. “What’s wrong?”

“I want to run away,” Draco dropped his head on the table, groaning.

“I bet. Well, your little hunk is out there being sniffed by Skeeter’s rats.”

When Draco lifted his forehead to see Malavika tuck her saree pallu into her skirt, she smiled sinisterly. “Go get your man.”

Draco pulled on his coat and let his glasses drop by the chain around his neck. A quick swipe of his wand and his messenger bag was packed up and ready to go.

“Be a dear for once and tell Cecily I’m clocking out early?” He kissed Malavika’s cheek, in an attempt to disarm her while being sincere with his love.

“I’m always a dear,” she said heatedly to his retreating back, obviously flustered, still unused to being subjected to physical affection.

Harry Potter, as it turned out, had a few tricks up his sleeve. He’d finally learnt to sneak out of the paws of those terrible paps, who still to this day stalked him. It obviously didn’t help that Draco was involved. It made Harry Potter more of a spectacle than ever.

When Draco walked past the camera flashlights unnoticed, he heard a whisper behind his ear-shell telling him to keep going and to take the fire escape out the building. Draco heeded the advice obediently, thrilled at the turn of events.

He felt around him for a solid body after they’d safely exited the lobby and stumbled into the stairwell. Harry pulled the invisibility cloak off to wrap Draco in a hug.

“They were about to raise hell out here and I knew you’d get nasty if they did,” he explained cheekily, mouthing at Draco’s earlobe.

“Damn right,” he murmured, hands settling on the Professor’s waist.

It was still a little disorienting how well they knew each other – Draco was self-aware, it was obvious they’d kept some rather strong tabs on each other but he’d never imagined a reality where’s they’d use the information they’d gleaned for loveable motives.

It made his heart beat loud in his temple, as if a prayer he had memorised.

“So,” Harry continued, “I snuck into the washroom and hid in my cloak. Then stood behind those godawful gnome statues till I heard Pillai shove you out.”

“Good job, Potter, colour me impressed,” Draco nodded, feeling delighted at the steady rise of red up Harry’s throat at the compliment.

“Why did you come anyway?”

“Oh, right! Hermione mentioned there’s a nice thrift store a few blocks from here so I thought we could go look at furniture.”

Harry had disposed most of Grimmauld Place’s rotten furniture. The wood had begun to splinter off, nails popping into the cushions of the chairs, wallpaper peeling away. The whole scene.

Draco, when he had come around, had donated (given as a placeholder in place of– well, himself) his own things from the Manor. Beautiful pieces he couldn’t part with. He never imagined Harry would want to do away with those as well.

“Furniture?”

“Ah, well,” Harry cleared his throat. He sounded much more nervous now.

Draco squeezed his hand, a silent hey, it’s okay.

“Right, um. Since we’re getting married and all,” Harry said quickly, “I thought we could get some new things for around the house. Like a new chapter? Something to start afresh? Just a few things here and there to add on to your collection…”

Harry Potter was a child who was always given hand-me-downs. Very rarely did he use his money to get something for himself either. Draco wanted to smack himself in the head. To think he wanted to build something with Draco? Of course he would agree.

“Lead the way, Potter,” Draco smiled, sweet, all teeth showing.

Obviously relieved, his fiancé whisked him away in a blur of magic to the furniture store.

An adequately well-curated collection stood pristine in the small building. Draco let go of Harry to let him shop while he did some browsing.

Draco, who had been an absolute wizard at Charms (hah! wizard), had picked up a few fun tricks while squatting around in the library, the one place Harry Potter hated entering, searching for ways to one-up the Gryffindor.

In his search, he found a rather curious spell – one that allowed him to see whose belongings were what, to see who last used it and such.

Draco cast the spell on a hat-pin first.

Owner – Candace Higgins. Last Used – Jemma Jones.

Maybe they were mother and daughter or sisters or best friends. Or maybe they were unrelated.

He looked behind, but Harry was in the other end of the room, near the beds, talking to a salesman about prices and such.

Draco picked up a hand-mirror.

Owner – Lucia Phyllis. Last Used – Felipa Phyllis.

It was definitely a collectible, maybe an heirloom. Gold gilded and shiny. He put it back down reverently. Lucia had good taste, whoever she was.

Feeling a bit bold, Draco spelled a bookcase.

Owner – Gideon Bones. Last Used – Susan Bones.

Draco jumped back at the familiar name.

“Excuse me, sir? How far back do these pieces date?”

The salesman looked around the room. “Well, we have some pretty vintage things here – some that we don’t use anymore. We have stuff from the 80s and then more recent things from few years to a few months ago.”

“I see,” Draco said. Harry furrowed his brow in question but Draco smiled to reassure him.

He then began spelling away. Flatware, silk bedclothes (which okay, kind of ew), tables, stools, hats and scarves. All the sort.

Harry Potter was still shuffling around looking at stuff like vases and ink pots. Poor thing had no idea where to begin. But Draco wanted Harry to pick something out for himself by himself, like a present.

But then.

He saw a pair of identical slipper-chairs, a velveteen red, and decided that would go well with the green rug in the salon.

Spell.

Owner – James Potter and Lily Potter. Last Used – Harry Potter.

Draco stopped in his tracks suddenly like he was hit by a Colloshoo.

There was no way. Absolutely one in a million chance.

He spelled it again. Once, twice, thrice, four tim–

“Malfoy,” Harry hissed. “Don’t be spelling things in front of muggles!”

“Harry,” he said, dazed. “Tell me what you see, okay?”

He cast the charm again.

Once again, gooey letters formed over the two soft chairs.

“What the fuck?” Harry muttered. “What?”

“It’s a spell that tells you the owner and the person who had it last. Um.” Draco’s throat felt sticky.

Harry reached over to smooth the fabric. “This is? Mine? My parents’?”

Draco nodded dumbly. “Seems so. Isn’t that lovely?”

“I… yeah. Yeah. But how?”

“I’m guessing someone donated it after…”

Harry ducked his head mutely, overcome by emotion. Draco pet his hair, trying to offer comfort.

“Hello? Good sir, we’d like to buy these here, please!”

The salesman, or owner, by the looks of it, he was the only one in here anyway, ambled to where they were stood. “The chairs? I’m afraid it’s been booked.”

Harry wilted under Draco’s palm. Like flowers drooping under the harsh sun.

“I can pay you double. Please. This belongs to him.” And as a last ditch attempt, “It’s a family heirloom.”

The man raised his eyebrows below his thick hair, finding the heirloom thing ridiculous. But he only replied with, “How can you prove it?”

Harry stood up and put a restraining hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s alright.”

“No no,” Draco frowned. “Listen, sir? Douglas?” he read the name-tag. “We can pay full amount right now. Please?” Draco wasn’t one to beg or plead, but he would grovel for Harry Potter if he had to.

The man shrugged. “Sorry, can’t do nothin’, well, unless the other guys don’t turn up for payment.”

Draco stood away, eyeing the chairs while Harry booked something for the house. He’d already known what he’d wanted apparently.

“Home?”

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. “Home.”

Draco remained patient till dinner, trying not to pry, but then again, he couldn’t let Harry drown in his head. When they sat down on their leather chesterfield with a glass of red, Draco decided to open the can of worms.

“Potter? Are you alright?”

Harry looked at him for a minute over the rim of his glass while downing his wine. Draco sat nervously still, not backing down.

“Thank you,” he said finally, after polishing it off, shy.

Draco felt his heart melt. “Oh, Harry. Oh, sweetheart.” He set his glass down, and tugged Harry closer.

“No, really, thank you so much.”

Draco blushed. “I didn’t even do anything. We didn’t get the chairs,” he pointed out uselessly.

Harry shook his head, wayward curls flying with his movements. “You tried.”

Then, reminded by the failure of the chair situation he sighed, dejected. Draco hated seeing Harry like that, like an abandoned pup on the curb-side on a rainy day inside a soggy cardboard box.

“Hey, I’m sure if I dig around I’ll find a charm that can play memories from objects, you do own some old things of theirs, right?”

Harry, who was absolute pants at Charms, perked up at that. “You’d do that for me?”

“I would burn the world to keep you warm, Harry Potter,” Draco said seriously, but still laughingly.

He finally cracked a smile.

“Thanks Malfoy.”

“Stop thanking me, I’m not God –although I could be.”

“No,” Harry agreed, smile lines crinkling the skin around his eyes. “You’re too disgusting, too potty-mouthed for that.”

“Pot calling kettle,” Draco sniffed. “I might even venture to say you seem to quite enjoy it.”

“You might have to remind me,” Harry blinked slowly, eyes turning into liquid fire. Draco loved when Harry got like this – all coy and blithe.

“Oh?”

“Mhm,” he inched closer. “Bought us a new bedframe.”

“Oh.”

“Want to test its quality?”

“You’re so on.”

Three weeks later, on Christmas day, after Draco kissed Harry pink for the novelty glass chess-kit, Harry opened Draco’s present. His very enormous and neatly wrapped gift.

Two red slipper chairs which read James, Lily and Harry Potter when spelled.

Draco saw Harry’s lashes lower over his eyes, in an attempt to blink his tears away. Draco let him.

“How?” his voice was tight, strained with emotion.

“Went back to the store,” Draco grinned proudly. “They put it on sale again because it wasn’t paid for, only marked by a couple who never turned up even after a month. So I snatched it up. Scourgified it and well, here it is!”

Harry fisted Draco’s emerald green Weasley sweater in his hands and kissed him roughly, but still sweet, still kind, still grateful.

“Thank you, Draco.”

“Think it’ll read Last Used by Harry and Draco Potter someday?” He asked with a smile, looking at the red chairs.

Harry squeezed his hand. “Stick around and find out for yourself.”

[lala1267]

Is it wrong (Part 4)

Summary: Priscilla knows and gets her revenge

Warnings: slight blood, glass, mentions of cuts, violent imagery, age gap.

Notes: Idk if this is good.

Legs swaying and smile lurking on her dimpled cheeks. Lolita's hand muffled her childish giggles as Elvis ran across her little mind. He was like a haunting melody, a lovely life saver. The way his big hands felt around hers, the way his back velvet hair hung in front of his face, the way he puffed on his cigar, the way his head tipped back against the sofa, relaxing. The visible dust molecules floated around her in the sunlight. Her long blonde curls seeped over her upper body like a golden waterfall. Her black shiny school shoes tapped against the wooden floorboard. The pencil in her hand scribbled against the white paper, leaving a trail of grey led. She couldn't wait to see Elvis. She was like she was a magnet to him. She just couldn't seem to pry away from his rose red magnetic field.

She walked out of the school gates with a skip in her step. She quickly rushed home.

The next few weeks

Lolita and Elvis would send flirtatious letters to eachover. Sometimes, Lolita would even sign the paper with her cherry red lipstick kisses. She would spray her floral beach scented perfume on the thin paper before sending it. Elvis's heart would ache and dim into a cold grey as he spent more days from his little Lolita. Lolita's violets would whimper in agony as the colour disappeared from the once purple petals. Her flowers were hauntingly delicate. The green stem that was now a rusty brown was weaping over, bent over like a sorrowful willow tree. Lolita would run across Elvis's mind like a shooting star, making its way through the galaxy. Lolita was so cheerful and happy. It was like the sun lived inside of her golden heart that was glittered with glowing pixy dust. It was almost as if you could hear a twilight twinkling sound whenever you were around her. You could hear the echoe of her childish giggles that filled the pollenated summer air. As Lolita was a burning desire, Priscilla was a captivating darkness. Her long black hair and foxy eyeliner accessorised her alluring sexyness. She had a mystery to her dark void. She was a secret witchy mistress trapped in such a small body. She was underestimated often. She was a woman of destingtion, calm and calculated. Even though Priscilla's nights and seas were colored black velvet, she would unfold a core of sweetness. If you pick at her petals and shower her in diamonds, of course.

One windy night

Priscilla sat on the cream lever couch that was situated in the lavish living room of Graceland. Her fingers that were covered in shiny sparkling rocks rummaged through the bag of popcorn that sat in her lap. Her eyes softened as she saw baby Lisa gently fall asleep in her high chair. Priscilla lifted herself from the couch and placed the popcorn aside before picking Lisa up. She cradled her and admired her cuteness. She placed tone little pink kisses on her soft cheeks.

"Oh my baby, I think it's your bedtime."

Priscilla whispers as her tone lifts to talk on a baby voice. She places Lisa in the downstairs cradle gently before sitting herself back down. She is distracted at the sound of the letter box ingraved into the front door. It clangs. Her eyebrows furrow as she looks as the small white letter that is swiftly floating towards the ground.

"Post man, at this time..."

Priscilla seems to be worried, but her emotions die down once she remembers that it is probably Elvis sending her a little letter. A smile appears on her face as she walks over to the note. She eagerly picks it up and tears the envelope off. The rubbish travels to the carpet as her eyes scan the letter.

"To my little Lolita.

I will be coming back tomorrow, I can't wait to see your pretty face again. I have a big suprise for you honey, you will be so happy when you see it!

-E.P."

Priscilla's once cosy living room crumbles and sucks her into a black void. Her breath is snatched from her as spicy salty tears seap down her tense throat. She feels her heart burn and crackle like a bonfire in a dead forest. The once bright red apples that hung from the green trees were now rotting and decaying as the rusty brown leaves fell off onto the muddy ground. A waterfall of tears gush down her tournamented face like oozing blood from her stone grey heart that is gradually burning into a red flame. Her tears dropped to the floor as her fist strangled the letter. She instantly sprints up the stairs. The sound of her heavy footsteps rang like a doorbell.

Lolita sat in the dimly lit guest room of Graceland. The cold night wind blew the cottage white curtains away. A smile plastered on her pretty face as the black ink wrote flirtatious words onto the lined paper. Her delicate hands moved around over the paper. Her feet kicked as she tried to contain her energy. Her heart thumped a sweet melody against her ribcage. The moonlight shot stars into her tangled hair, leaving behind sparkling fairy dust. It was as if there were rivers sweetly perfumed with vanilla in her bright soul. Her big blue orbs scanned the black Inc words that were tattooed onto the page a thousand times. Suddenly, loud footsteps echoed throughout the hallway, quickly getting closer to the door that separated her and the rest of the house. Without warning, the Swan white door flew open and hit the wall, leaving an indent. Priscilla's face was glistening with her warm salty tears whilst her clenched fist grasped the white love note. Her teeth grunted against eachover, and her eyes were bloodshot. She was like a baulk of fury that would explode any minute. She stood in the doorway before pointed to the crinkled letter in her hand with her quivering finger.

"What is this?"

She asked through her teeth, trying her best to remain calm. Lolita's eyes widened as they met with the letter that was suffocated in Priscilla's now white nuckles. She was filled with an ocean of apologies, but not a word escaped her pretty pink lips. She was silenced. Priscilla took a dangerous step closer to Lolita, who cowered like the pathetic little girl she was. Lolita's head hesitantly tilted up to Priscilla, who was now towering over her seated position.

"I said what the fuck is this!?"

She yelled before throwing the scrunched up paper at poor Lolita's face, causing her to flinch like a scared puppy with its tail in between its legs. Lolita's watery eyes looked back up to Priscilla, who was at her boiling point, but still, not a word escaped.

"If you don't wanna talk, we can handle this another way."

She grunted under her hot breath. Priscilla's hands aggressively grasped Lolita's precious, lininen curls. The sting and pain on her scalp caused her to yelp helplessly. Priscilla pulled her powerless body to the cold, hard ground before jumping on top of her. Her long nails clawed at Lolita like an animal, scratching, hitting, punching, anything. Lolita's cries and screams meant nothing to Priscilla. She felt no remourse, no mercy. Priscilla was filled with rage. Her hands curled into a tight fist before landing numerous blows on Lolita's bright red face.

"Who the fuck do you think you are bitch!?"

She shouted at the top of her lungs like a mad woman.

"Huh!? I can't hear ya!"

She yelled causing her lungs to burn like a cigarette. Her face lit up red as she carried on her vicious attack on the small teen.

"Elvis is mine!"

"I'll make sure you'll never meet again like goddamn vegans!"

She yelled. Her shouts echoed around the dark room like a haunted melody. Priscilla stood up from weak Lolita, who was whimpered and sobbing like a baby. She turned around to rummage on the messy desk. She finally got her hands on an expensive perfume that Elvis had recently brought Lolita. Priscilla's grip was tight on the glass bottle as she turned to look at Lolita. Her arms raised in the air, holding the glass perfume filled bottle up. She aggressively threw it straight at Lolita. She watched as sharp shards of glass smash all over Lolita's poor body, leaving cuts for the perfume to seep onto like pink venom. Lolita let out an ear deafening scream as she felt the burning sensation of the perfume travelling into the bloody openings on her body. This only added feul to the fire. Priscilla wasn't going to stop until her screams would dissappear into the dense air. She wasn't going to stop until she was dead. She needed to feel every one of Lolita's bones crush. Priscilla quickly turned back around and grabbed anything she could from the table. She threw glass, makeup, decor, and hairspray at the weak little girl. The wooden floor was now decorated in little blood stains and glistening glass peices that shimmered like diamonds.

Her hands pushed the stool over. She needed to hurt Lolita badly. She stood for a few seconds, thinking. The screams and cries of Lolita just clouded the room. Priscilla looked at the desk before man handling it. She dragged it closer and closer to Lolita's beaten body until it finally fell on top of her. Lolita's screams and breaths were snatched from her as she felt the heavy wooden table crush her ribs, and the tall mirror break into sharp shards on her body. Immense pain coursed through her veins as her mouth was locked shut. The sound of glass breaking rang in Priscilla's ears as Lolita was deafened by the white noise.

Priscilla just towered over her, looking at the mess that she had made with her bloodshot eyes. Her chest heaved up and down, and her red nuckles relaxed. Her eyes looked at the painted red floor. Her brows furrowed as tears streamed down her face.

"J-just, leave my relationship alone, please."

She whispered breathlessly before rushing out of the room and into the darkness. Lolita's breath left her body as her consciousness also followed. Her glassy eyes fluttered shut as her blood oozed out of her body like slime.

Next morning

The smell of perfume lingers around the room. Lolita's eyes slowly drift open. Her blue eyes scan her position. The heavy table feels as if it is cutting her waist in half. Her body aches. She slowly lifts the table up. She sits up with slight pain before she gets up. She tries to stop her tears as she sees the number of nightmare blue bruises that were decorated on her body through a shard of the mirror. She gasps as she continues to examine her beaten body. She feels like a punching bag. She was quickly taken back by the sound of the front door opening and closing.

"Where is my beautiful baby Lisa!"

A manly voice excitedly shouts from the living room. Lolita's heart races as she has a feeling of ecstasy wave over her. Panic courses through her veins. She needs to hide this scene and her bruised body. It was only a matter of time before the truth came out.

[the-kr8tor]

I've been writing so much tonight that my finger's are cramping up in the double jointed way and I'm listening to the sauciest, most diabolical jaw-dropping, toe-curling, the father the son and the holy spirit amen-needing songs but WE PERSIST. Daily Hobie HC! I love the art of Hobie you get for your fics- they're crunchy and tasty and I love them. Hobie was always mesmerized by the way your art seemed to be so captivating, yet you were always able to find things you don't like about it. Whenever you tried to even nitpick ever so slightly about your art, Hobie would hold a hand over your mouth, whispering playfully about how you shouldn't talk badly about something that you spent hours on in case the government finds out, and that's where he knows he loses you due to the absurdity of it all. But, despite you rolling your eyes multiple times at him , he's aware it works wonders as you're no longer hyper-focusing on every little detail of your art and instead just laughing at his creatively worded ramble about government schemes. He always loves to nick (or buy, depending) art supplies and sketchbooks for you, adoring the way your eyes light up at whatever he brings you, whether it be a mechanical pencil which you always gush over what led it is (Hobie is clueless but he likes listening to you), or a new sketchbook with one of those textures on the hardcover which feel nice to run your fingers along. Any time you're doing art, you can't help but use Hobie as a muse. He could be doing anything, and yet you can't help but sketch him out, including his texture and border. Hobie teases you on how he is the perfect remedy for art block, and yet he really is. His textures, borders and colours always make you try something different with how far you can stretch with your style, as if he was perfectly made to be the cure to one of the most frustrating things you have to go through. One thing that usually happens as you're sketching out a picture, this time, a polaroid picture, Hobie will come over and drape himself across your back, burying his face into the back of your neck while his arms tightened around your middle, snuggling into you from behind. Occasionally, he'll look over your shoulder and rest his chin against it, his eyes roaming over your work. He'll sometimes point out things that you might've forgotten, like an extra stud on his choker or the dripping mascara design on his Spider-Man mask. Or, when you ask, he'll suggest things for the background. Certain flowers to frame, or a pattern or just even funny icons. However, you noticed that sometimes, Hobie will toss some crumpled up papers aside with a frustrated sigh, as if he had no idea what to do and was trying to think of something. Once, your curiosity got the better of you, and you took one of these crumpled pieces of paper while Hobie was patrolling. Your heart melted when you saw the chibi drawings that Hobie had doodled representing the two of you. You could see that in corners he was planning out your design, before one being a coloured final. This one, you two were holding hands and smiling at each other, with little scribbly hearts surrounding it. Unravelling the other pieces of paper, you noticed that Hobie had spent a while in figuring out what design best suited you, not wanting to simplify your appearance too much, yet not wanting to complicate it.

He figured that he wanted to leave a bigger gift this time, so why not leave a piece of art? Yet, he was having some trouble over the past few days figuring out a doable design for you. When Hobie came back, he barely noticed that one crumpled paper was missing, while you had already cut the doodle out and hid it in your little memory box, out of Hobie's grasp. Only was it on the anniversary of you two when Hobie finally gifted you the little drawings that he did was when you revealed the one you took. Although he was slightly surprised you paid that much attention, he was happy that you at least enjoyed it much more than he did. For Hobie, that made it all the more worth it. -🐦‍⬛

I'm so jelly rn I wanna write a lot today too! I'm happy that you are writing so much today tho!! ❤️

Daily Hobie HC ‼️‼️‼️

I have such talented and amazing lovelies! I'm not worthy of their talents

HHAHHAHAHAHHAHA he starts to spill out conspiracy theories just to stop u from bringing yourself down

Oh Hobie would have the time of his life (nicking) in one of those bougie art supply stores with the world class stationary!

You are so right! Hobie is the best muse there is! (Stares at my 100+ fics of him)

Lol he's backseat drawing 😂

Aisbwjbswhjs He makes art of you!!! 😍😍😍 Ooh what if he paints like a little chibi version of your face on his guitar! That would be so sweet I'd cry fr 🥹

[a-reading-dreamer]

Color of Pain [Susie fnaf story]

A story about the day Susie died.

! I have not read the fnaf books and it‘s been a while since I have played the games, so this is just a story that came to my mind I apologise if there are any mistakes, feel free to let me know them !

The little girl had always loved to draw. In the brightest colours that reflected the world as she had always seen it through her childish eyes. Not only did this bring her immense happiness during her lifetime, she also always made her family smile with these colourful works. Wherever they were hung in the house, they left a spark of joy, a part of Susie that would always live on.

On this day too, she sat at her desk, surrounded by crumpled paper, coloured pens and all sorts of other things that allowed her to make her world more beautiful. Concentrating, she completed the last lines of her artwork before letting the pencil slip from her hands and looking at the picture of the dog with satisfaction. Just at the moment her mum called her to leave.

The little girl quickly jumped from her chair, put on her new yellow jacket and folded up the paper before stuffing it into her bag. With excitement, she hugged her teddy bear goodbye before placing it on her bedside table. Right next to the cupcake she had stolen from the kitchen that morning to eat later. "Make sure nobody eats it." were the last words she said to her stuffed bear before leaving her room. Not realising that she had just closed the door to her nursery for the last time.

On the drive to Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria, the blonde-haired girl talked cheerfully and vividly about her day. And even if her parents found her behaviour a little strange in view of the fact that Susie's beloved dog had died only a few days ago, they were glad that their daughter had a smile on her lips, as usual. Which grew even bigger when the girl saw her favourite place and quickly led the way for her parents. While the adults took care of ordering the food, Susie followed her plan for today and ran determinedly towards the rabbit that was part of the place, which she was sure would understand her problem and be able to help her, unlike her parents. As she ran, almost tripping over her own feet, she pulled her picture out of her jacket pocket and came to a halt just in front of the rabbit, who was already eyeing her curiously. Fortunately, or perhaps it was her misfortune, she was spared the murder-hungry look in the eyes of the man behind the mask, so she began to talk unaware of the danger before her, unknowing that the next few words would be the bridge to her death sentence.

"That's my dog." She explained, pointing to her carefully crafted picture as if it explained everything before she continued.

"He just ran off a few days ago, but he must be somewhere - he's my best friend." She continued and her smile faded briefly. "You know, my parents say he died but... that can't be true. I know it, but they just won't listen to me Bonnie." The sadness in her voice turned to anger and made her voice seem even higher pitched than it already was, she stomped the floor in frustration for a moment to emphasise her feelings before handing the now slightly crumpled picture to the figure in front of her. "But I know you understand and believe me. So if you see my dog, you have to keep him here so that I can take him home with me next time." The small nod of her counterpartner was enough of an answer Susie needed, to pay attention to different things. Naturaly her mind was always focused on something new in the blink of an eye, so she went to play with other children together with Freddy and Bonnie.

To fast for her her father called her to dinner just before she ran off, Bonnie turned to her to give her some last words before she would go to eat “Just stay near. I am sure we’ll find your dog“ and with that said the girl, gripped by new hope, ran joyfully away from the arms of the evil one, for now.

The food had tasted particularly good that day and she would have loved to try everything from every plate. It was almost impossible to pick out the best flavours from all of them, but in the end she was full and satisfied. But that didn't stop her from playing a little while her parents talked to other adults about things that didn't interest her anyway. She had just decided to paint a picture of the colourful place next, which always brought her so much joy because it was always fun and had great food on top, when the rabbit joined her again. They were standing apart from everyone else when the disguised William began to speak. "I've found your dog, come with me."

No one noticed how the little girl disappeared into one of the back rooms with the rabbit, full of excitement. And so they were spared the heartbreaking sight of her looking around the room in confusion and seeing no dog, just something big and yellow in a corner.

The smaller girl squinted her eyes to get a better look around in the darkness, still hoping to catch sight of her beloved pet. She didn't even notice what was happening behind her as William slowly closed the door. The rustling only caught the girl's attention when she saw something light-coloured fall to the floor in the corner of her eye: her picture.

"You dropped that," she realised and crouched down to pick up the piece of paper.

"You stupid girl, your dog is dead." were the last words she would hear in her life and sadness mixed with anger again as she angryly wanted to shout "no!" However, the word choked on her scream as she felt the stab through her back and stomach. The last thing she saw was the colour of her blood slowly staining her image.

The colour that would have reflected her pain in any other of her paintings had it not been for the black nothingness that was slowly taking her. If only that was were she could stay, but the evil that took her life from her was just the beginning of something bigger, of more tortures she would have to go through because of William.

[allegra-j-joann]

The Will to Write

My writing life is such a strange concept to try and summarise. My Writing life, my inspiration and will to write, is like a cat, fickle and demanding, it’s always been such an enormous part of everything I did, and yet it was so inconstant. It shone in the starry eyes of a four-year-old, learning in the early morning to read of the lands above the Faraway tree, it mirrored the Cheshire grin of a six-year-old falling in love with the land down the rabbit hole, it pawed at the heart of a fourteen-year-old hiding notebook under her pillow, throwing herself away in favour of a fictional personality, and purred in the arms of a sixteen-year-old with more stories than friends. It was there, warm and soft through some of the worst times of my life, baring its claws as I brought myself to the brink of disaster, yet abandoned me when I wanted it, leaving me with notebooks full of scratched-out lines, scribbles in the margins, and undirectable rage.

My first novel was Enid Blyton’s whimsically beautiful ‘The Magic Faraway Tree’, I remember my copy, bound in gold and blue, almost as big as myself, I remember bouncing on the end of my parents' bed at 7 am on a Saturday, nagging them about the words I didn’t understand, about things, I couldn’t make sense of, I devoured that story, again and again, I read it until its spine gave out until I could near recite it, but it wasn’t enough, not for me. Barely a week after I started primary school, I had decided that I too wanted to visit the land of toys and the kingdom of pots and pans, and so I took to pencil and paper and wrote my first fanfiction. The story was a paragraph long and told the story of a kitten escaping his backyard to befriend the tree fairies and the man in the moon, that was the beginning of Will, the beginning of my life as a writer, but I wouldn’t meet him myself for another year and a half.

Not long before my sixth birthday, I received my mother’s copy of ‘Alice Through the Looking Glass’ and it was love at first sight, that was the day I met Will, an ink-stained cat with a Cheshire grin, the embodiment of every story I ever had, or ever would write, an imaginary friend, true, but one who represented something very real to me, who I still see today. By this point in my life, I had been diagnosed with Severe Anxiety and Obsessive tendencies, I fixated more than a normal child, I found a single thing, a hobby, a colour, a concept, and devoted myself entirely, before returning to somewhat of a hollow state, I would spend hours, sometimes entire days, ordering and reordering my books, and even with counselling, I found myself unable to make friends, I couldn’t keep up with the other kids, they changed so quickly, but books, characters, they were so constant, I could come back time and time again and always know them, I prefer them to people, I started believing there was something wrong with me, defeated, I stopped trying to communicate with the people around me, it was in this state of radio silence that I came across the most life-changing quote I have ever read, in which the Cheshire Cat quotes “I’m not Mad, you see, My reality just differs from yours”. Enid Blyton may have led me to write my first stories, but it wasn’t until Lewis Carroll’s work that I fell down the Rabbit Hole, I realised that I wasn’t broken, there was nothing wrong with me, in fact, one of the most beloved books of all time was filled with characters just like me, I wanted to be part of that, I wanted to be like Carroll, I became obsessed with creating something that could reassure and inspire others the way Wonderland had for me.

My creative bliss managed to last several years after that, Will and I communicated freely, there was a lot of fanfiction involved, small scenes, and even the first draft of a novel, I even adjusted to being alone. It couldn’t be maintained though, Will abandoned me, I spent weeks being lost, I became angry and destructive, I shut people out, and I burned months' worth of notebooks and sheets. I’ve never quite been sure what possessed me to do it, but One day, when we had the bonfire in the backyard, I took my draft, I took my notebooks and pens, my sketchbooks, my references, and I threw them all in, I stood by, watching everything I loved turn black and disappear. I didn’t forgive myself for months, and I didn’t see Will for almost a full, icy, lonely year. I was about to finish year nine, I’d self-destructed and barely passed, I’d driven away my few friends, I was in a long downward spiral, and there he was, sitting on my arm, purring and grinning, the very next day, my aunt bought me a new notebook and pen, I remember staying up until three in the morning, writing everything I could remember, writing anything and everything that came to mind, I filled the book within a week, then another, soon I had a shelf in my bedside dedicated to notebooks.

Year ten was where things peaked, I stopped completing projects, I stopped doing homework, I stopped talking, I had more notebooks than I could count, none of them filled, none dedicated to a single project, written in fifty different pens, one page could have me in an epic fantasy land, the next I’m a sci-fi rebel on the run, the next I am a detective on a murder case, then nothing, another book abandoned, more cursing at myself at unhealthy hours of the morning, Will became bitter and demanding, he would lie across my shoulders and yowl, he’d fill my head with incomplete ideas until I couldn’t focus, I tried stringing them together, but they faded away, he stayed stubbornly this way for two years, trapping my in an inane routine, I began to wish for the days when he was nowhere to be found, and then, I graduated, suddenly I could be who I wanted, do what I wanted. Looking back on it, I realise how much damage Will caused in the first years of high school, and how much he saved me in the last few, I didn’t see him in the first semester, but then there he was in that first Tutorial, grinning his Cheshire grin anew.

[astramthetaprime]

That High Cold Place

And at that moment a wind came out of the northwest, and entered the woods and bared the golden branches, and danced over the downs, and led a company of scarlet and golden leaves, that had dreaded this day but danced now it had come; and away with a riot of dancing and glory of colour, high in the light of the sun that had set from the sight of the fields, went wind and leaves together.

-- Lord Dunsany

So they're taking Mom off the ventilator tomorrow.

And she's expected to die from it, since she can't breathe on her own.

Last night, after my aunt and cousin had gone and I was alone with her finally, I stood there smoothing back her hair -- matted from the gunk they use for the EEG -- the only part of her I could touch without hurting her or disturbing some tube or wire. I thought of the woman who had read me James Bond novels in the womb. I thought of the woman who watched her husband sicken with some unknown malady, and no idea what to tell her four year old daughter why the father she loved couldn't walk anymore. I thought of the woman who worked three jobs to support her husband and kid, always on the verge of losing everything, without complaint. And later, when she'd gotten the job she loved, I thought of the woman who worked thirty-four years at that same job.

Work was always her focus. She wasn't the smartest person in the room. But she had a dedication and perseverance that got jobs done.

She had very little imagination.

She hated science-fiction.

She never read any of my work.

We led separate lives. I was expected to take care of myself from a very early age. I was expected to stay out of the way, she didn't have time for me, she had work.

I couldn't say anything when my aunt tried to prompt me to say something to Mom. What was I supposed to say? I was afraid of saying anything for fear of saying the wrong thing. It's better to stay silent than say the wrong thing. Or something inappropriate.

Stay out of the way. Shut up, the adults are talking.

I doubt she even recognized me anymore.

I told her I loved her. That I'd always love her.

My aunt had told her it was okay to go with my grandmother and grandfather. So I told her if she saw Daddy, tell him I said hello.

And I left.

I'm writing emails to my boss and my contracting company to tell them I won't be at work tomorrow. Because we've learned how to schedule death. It's penciled in for Monday. I'll be at the hospital, watching my mother die.

I'm scared I'll freak out. Scared I'll cause a scene. Scared I'll dissociate, or say something inappropriate. I'm supposed to stay out of the way. Do as I'm told.

Stay in my own little world.

[twinkskeletons]

61, 74, 96 !!!

61: Colored pencils, markers, or crayons?

markers i never draw traditionally anymore but they’re def the easiest to use + look at least kind of ok. i do love the kind of look u can get w coloured pencils but i dont have the patience i think u must need 4 that (or my supplies r just low quality lol)

74: Favorite show as a kid?

well the first one i remember was the 80s alvin and the chipmunks show on youtube when i was like 5 .. my first and i think fave anime was tokyo mew mew it was the first one i ever watched in japanese bc i wanted to see how it ends but i think my fave show overall had 2 be phineas and ferb :3 i only ever had the free tv channels so watched it online and still have the notebook where i wrote down which links led to which episodes

96: Favorite fast food place?

this one is kind of fun since in the uk we have different + less options umm maybe dominos? i think it’s worse in the us but here it’s good even if it’s often too much. mcdonald’s and tim hortons are also pretty good

[kylamurriedesignresearch53a]

W8 | Tutorial

Unpack 2 chosen elements:

I have decided to unpack the Adobe Logo and the "The Public Theatre" Logo. I have chosen these two elements because I feel that they best showcase my strengths and weaknesses as well as my goals and inspirations.

My 20 Elements & Final Explanations:

Musical Theatre

Musical Theatre, dance and other art forms can educate individuals on how to express themselves. It can also communicate important societal messages to an audience through creative measures. I think that musical theatre is a beautiful way of showcasing one's love for music through expressive song and dance numbers and some musicals showcase powerful messages about society, history, beliefs and culture. For example, Hamilton, Hairspray, Wicked, Les Mis and Dear Evan Hansen. These are just some of my favourite stories.

Music

Creating or listening to music increases blood flow to the regions of the brain that can control emotions. I have always been surrounded by music as all my family members can sing or play an instrument. Music is a powerful tool that can improve someone's health by lowering blood pressure, pain, and anxiety. 

Pasta

Pasta is the best meal in the world. To me pasta will never get old, it can be done in so many ways with so many different flavours. It is my comfort food and my study brain power food. I think I work best after a big bowl of pasta.

Australia Zoo

I grew up in Australia and Australia Zoo and the Irwin family were a huge inspiration for me. Their passion for animals and conservation is something I really admire and I can very easily say that Australia Zoo is my favourite place on earth. I would love to create work that raises awareness in the brilliant way that they do.

MILK Studio

MILK Studio is a very interesting art studio. After researching them and diving into their digital portfolio I noticed they did a lot of brand identity systems which is something that I am very attracted to.

Ipad + Pencil

I bought myself an Ipad and Pencil when I was 17. From then on all I have wanted to do is design. I have gone from designing posters for my high school to designing logos and brand identity systems for uni with the hopes of getting a degree in graphic design communications.

Business

I believe I have a natural knack for business and entrepreneurial endeavours. I started a small business on my own in highschool (about animal conservation) that led to 3 awards. Excellence in customer service, individual of the year and 3rd in my region for YES Enterprise Scheme. I would love to start my own full fledged business one day. 

Sunflower Tattoo

My favourite flower is a sunflower, because they are beautiful and because they symbolise positivity and hope. My tattoo is matching with my Mum because she believes I embody the same things as a sunflower and has always gifted them to me on birthdays and as celebratory gifts.

Environmental / Conservation

Due to my upbringing in Australia I was surrounded by wildlife and developed a strong love for all things nature and animals. I like to create work and campaigns that encourage people to think about others and the consequences that actions may have on our wildlife. I want to ensure that our wildlife will be protected for future generations to see.

Specific Colour Palette

I have noticed throughout my work that I am not yet comfortable using an extensive colour palette. I like to stick with black, white and one other colour that I choose based on the task at hand. I think this is natural to me because I have not yet travelled outside of my comfort zone and most of the work I am attracted to has a simple colour palette.

Maori Culture

I am part Maori as my Grandfather on my Mum's side is full Maori. We have never been super in touch with our Maori heritage, but since I have gotten older I have decided to make an effort to learn more about my culture and the significance it has in New Zealand. I want to celebrate being part Maori and showcase this culture through as much work as I can.

People 

I have forever gained my energy from surrounding myself with people. I enjoy meeting and learning about people and discovering their needs and wants in life. I have a gift that allows me to learn about someone's family and history whilst working behind a counter at a gas station. I would like to use this skill in the design industry to develop customer relationships just like the Alt Group.

Mental Health 

I think it is important to be aware about mental health and to talk openly about it in order to reduce misconceptions that people may have. I believe that we should aim to encourage those who are suffering to seek help and I believe design can be one of the elements in the pathway to encouraging reaching out for help.

Identity Systems (The Public Theatre)

I love learning about a company or a business in order to find out what they are about and how I can best create a logo or design system that represents the message and image they hope to present to the public. Paula Scher’s work with The Public Theatre is a great example of an excellent Identity System that inspires me greatly.

Publication design (Astrid Stravo)

I enjoy organising information and graphics into a well laid out publication. I am drawn to Astrid Stravo’s work because she uses a similar colour palette to what I usually go for. I also  like that her publication layouts are simplistic, sophisticated and interesting. I would like to learn more about publication design and to discover new and intriguing ways to present information.

Adobe

Adobe is a designer's greatest tool. It holds so many opportunities for creatives to express themselves. I am both intrigued and terrified by the endless possibilities in the adobe suite. I am dedicated to learning as much as I can about these programs before graduating and beginning my journey into the design industry.

Neurodivergent Umbrella

I am really intrigued by the neurodivergent community and wish to learn more about them and how I can use design to make some things in life easier. My interest in this community comes from my Mum as she works with children on the spectrum and helps them in a way that allows them to thrive and learn.

Leadership

I have always loved being a leader and taking on leadership opportunities. I think this has to do with my people skills and the way I communicate with others. One day I would like to be a head of a company or own my own business.

Typography

I am really intrigued by Typography and the way it is crafted and created. Kris Sowersby is a huge typography inspiration of mine as I love his thought process behind the work that he creates.

Family Tree

Family is a huge part of my life. I am the oldest child on both sides of my family and have over 10 cousins. I am greatly inspired by my family members and they each support me in their own way. I take their opinions very seriously and I am always striving to make them proud.

[greyfacade]

I should draw my dragonsona and post it here.

They are a grey dragon. Grey because I used to love drawing with led pencils and it was my favourite colour... even if it isn’t technically a colour.

[planetkiimchi]

19

no. 1 of my song collection

summary — two kids growing up together fell in love, and one of them, reminiscing, suddenly wonders if their remaining love is one-sided.

a/n: i listened to this song on repeat for a longg time and it was just so pretty and i love best friends to lovers so this was a combination of the two :]

i remember when we were five, we thought we were the coolest thing around. we paraded the house with our painted faces and temporary tattoos messily pressed onto our skin, clothes hanging on our itty-bitty bodies as we made chaos out of the silence of the house.

i remember our raucous laughter. it filled me up inside, felt like the warm milk my mother gave us to drink on a rainy day when we were told to stay inside. i used to hate it, i remember, and you always told me to “just drink it”, that it “wasn’t that bad” and i was just too fussy, and i’d remind you of the vegetables you left on your plate and we’d both go silent.

not for long, though.

i remember when we were six, the first day of primary school. it was such an alien place (and we’d left home so early, i hadn’t had time to meet you) and i was so lost, until we found each other and then it felt like it wasn’t that bad, wasn’t that lonely after all.

you made all the cool friends and i stuck to you like a magnet; you were always the extroverted one. i build slow friendships, the kind that lasted over a long period of time. i made quality friends like you.

i remember being seven, fiddling with crayons and colour pencils as we created art for a homework assignment. back when we drew our sun in the corner of our papers and drew sticks for people, stacked a triangle on top of a square and called it a house.

if you looked into our windows made from 1+1=, you could see the soul of our art, and eyes that sparkled like they'd never seen the world.

during that time, all there was to life was being messy and unapologetically loud, creativity spilling out of us the way our food often spilled at mealtimes.

i remember being eight and running down the school hallways in uncomfortable uniforms, shoes skidding on the slippery floor. the structured routine we had then appeals to me now, and the friends we had that we only ever spoke to in school.

i miss enjoying school, often anxious and nervous when we thought we might miss even a second of class.

and yet, our eager anticipation at the end of school, waiting for that glorious sound of the bell which would release us, the sound that led to freedom .

what a time that was.

i remember when we were nine, i think. you were on the field running, and i was screaming at you to slow down, because you ran so very fast and i couldn’t catch up. the teachers had told us not to run, that we’d be sweaty before our termly assessment, but of course we didn’t listen.

i remember regretting it all when i saw you fall down from a distance, panting as i caught up to you. your skinned knees were bleeding, not much, but enough to scare the both of us.

what had you skinned your knees on? i don't remember. perhaps it was the drain by the side of the football field, because surely there was no way to scrape your knees falling on faux grass.

we bawled our eyes out—i can’t remember who cried more, or longer, or harder—until an adult came over and told me to help you clean yourself up.

it was one of the scariest experiences in my childhood.

i remember when we were twelve, discovering how sexuality worked and i stumbled across a post online about “alterous attraction”. i’m still not sure if it was true, but i thought that maybe i felt something like that for you, wanted more than a platonic love.

it was hard to act on it, and i was so scared too.

i remember when we first decided to be "together". it was a foreign concept, difficult to establish, and we spent an entire night discussing it: who to tell? our parents? our other friends? how to let people know politely if they asked? would we announce it?

i remember while we were dating, it was a trying time, an awkward time. our patience seemed to be running thin; we grew sick of each other sometimes. too much time spend together, and we each needed our own space. we fought a lot during this time, and i wasn’t sure if i loved you any more.

i remember when we were fourteen, holding hands under the table when our families ate dinner together, you pushing the vegetables on your plate secretly to mine, and i sighed and rolled my eyes but ate it anyway.

we snuck into our rooms and locked the door that night, just to blast love songs and have karaoke sessions. no one batted an eye.

it was the most fun period of my life.

i remember being sixteen, and though the stress had been there all throughout our teenage years, it seemed to suddenly get exponentially worse when we were sixteen. i remember thinking, everyone calls it sweet sixteen, but this year seems more sour and tart than sugary sweet.

everyone was discovering themselves. friendships broke apart like ceramics, brittle but not weak. at the tipping point, everyone crumbled and relationships gave way. i was so afraid we would end up like that.

seventeen was our best year yet. i remember buying trendy clothes and gaudy accesories, which may have looked terrible on us, and going to concerts to scream our lungs out.

the elation of concerts fails to escape my memory. until now i can describe in vivid detail how it felt to be a part of a crowd, a huge group of people immersed in the music and the thrill of seeing someone we admired perform live in front of our very eyes.

the adrenaline rush was exhilarating. it made us breathless, and i remember us crying afterwards when it was all over, and how we could never quite experience it exactly that way again.

prom night was perhaps the most memorable. we dressed up neatly and smartly, did our hair and slicked it back. and for a moment only, we were truly dancing queens, only seventeen.

i remember being eighteen, not going to the bar to celebrate even though we were both old enough to drink, because we’d made a pact not to become alcoholics and to stay sober for as long as peer pressure would allow us to, and we’d heard tales of classmates having sex but we were both willing to abstain. “until marriage,” you used to say. “forever,” i’d joke.

but driving, we indulged in. fooling around in alleyways until we hit the main road, feeling victorious and elated. we didn't need to drink to be drunk, that giddy feeling of euphoria we had.

i remember missing out on parties, seeing instagram stories and posts of our friends clubbing with their hair down and loud music in the background. all this i spectated from afar, in teh comfort of the couch as i snuggled up against you while we watched silly movies.

do you remember?

do you remember, nineteen in the driver’s seat of my parents’ car. we didn’t crash, but when i scratched the car door it definitely felt like the whole world was crashing down upon me. you told me to finish parking, dragged me out and took me somewhere we could sit outside and drink warm milk as we searched the polluted sky for a glimpse of the stars.

i wonder if you remember, or maybe i simply hold you too dearly to my heart. maybe it all meant nothing to you, and i'm hanging on too tight to memories best let go of. perhaps i'm being overly sentimental and none of this meant anything in your course of life.

but if you do remember, i want you to know this: i have loved you since we were children. though that love has changed through time, the way we have, i would love to take you back to when we were nineteen and just live in the moment again.

[sirdwindl]

Trait doodles

[atlasscrumpit]

Helloo,

I don't have any plot in mind but I would love more stern yandere moonknight with slight age Regression for the reader!

Love you! 🤍

You love us

You couldn't decide if life was better or worse since Marc had taken you.

Was it better that he had killed your brother and gotten you away from the abuse?

Or was it worse because you were still trapped.

"Sweetheart?" You heard Steven say as you looked up from your spot on the couch.

"Sorry, did you say something?" You muttered as he sat beside you.

"I asked if you'd like some tea." He said as you shook your head.

"No, I'm okay thank you." You said as he came closer to you.

"You look deep in thought, love. Anything bothering you?" He asked as you looked away from him and sighed.

"Just thinking about my brother." You whispered as his face hardened, letting you know it was Marc.

"You shouldn't be thinking about those things, babygirl." He said as you looked at him.

"I'm sorry, I can't help it." You whispered in fear as he reached forward to hold your cheek.

"Do you miss him?" Marc asked as you looked into his eyes.

"Sometimes, but I'm glad he isn't around. I think I just miss having family." You whispered as he sighed and looked between both of your eyes.

"You have a real family now, baby. All three of us are going to take care of you, love you and protect you for as long we we're alive." He said as you nodded and tried to look away but he kept your face in place.

"Say we're you're family." He demanded looking into your eyes sternly.

"You're my family." You whispered making he smile softly.

"You love us, don't you?" He asked as you continued to state at him.

You didn't love him, you'd known them for three months, but you had to lie.

"I love you all, so much." You said making him smile again, he leant forward and kissed your forehead.

"I love you too, baby. My sweet girl." He whispered before pulling away again.

"I have to do some work on my computer, go get your colouring in book and pencils." He said standing up as you rolled your eyes.

"I'm not a kid." You grumbled as he looked at you with a raised eyebrow.

"Then why do you cry when you have a nightmare? Why do you cling onto me when there's a thunder storm? Why can't you sleep without your stuffies?" He asked as you looked away and pouted.

"Fine." You muttered getting up to go get what he asked.

You grabbed your book and pencils and sat in front of the TV.

He put on some random kids channel as you sighed.

You decided to not say anything.

--

Maybe Marc knew it was always like this, but after about an hour of kids shows and colouring you found yourself regressing without realising.

You got up and shuffled over to Marc who was working on his laptop.

"I'm tired." You muttered as he turned to look at you.

"You wanna take a nap, sweetheart?" He asked as you nodded.

He stood up and led you to your room as you climbed into your bed letting him tuck you in.

He grabbed your stuffies and gave you them watching you relax and close your eyes.

"I'll wake you up for dinner, baby." He said kissing your forehead before leaving.

"Night night."

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Hi! I was wondering if you can do one about Steve x reader? I feel like Steve being a good artist is overlooked so if you’re up to it how about one where it’s basically the tik tok trend if “the S/O takes pictures canon” and he pulls out this sketchbook of all his drawings if the reader doing little things in daily life?

Your work is absolutely amazing and I love reading it when I can’t sleep or when I’m working my usual graveyard shift 💕💕💕

I have to admit I haven't been on TikTok for a very long time so I haven't see this but I have hopefully guessed the gist of it 😅 either way I love the soft artist Steve xx

Life In Shades Of Grey || Steve

Warnings: fluff, mentions of nudity WC: 1.3k

|| Main Masterlist || Steve's Masterlist ||

The laundry pile was overflowing and you could feel Steve’s eyes on you as sorted the whites from the colours. His body filled the doorway that he leant against and his head tilted as if he could blink and take a mental photo for the album in his head. A small smile played at his lips before he stepped forward and helped you toss the whites into the washing machine.

“Is this coal?” You frowned as you held up a white long sleeve, a grey smudge along the forearm.

“Pencil.” He said with an apologetic smile.

“Have you started drawing again?”

You couldn’t hide the excitement in your voice, he had shown you his collection of sketchbooks he had filled over the years but something had stopped him, it was like he lost his muse. His small nod had you bouncing on the balls of your feet and you dropped the shirt in your hand, laundry forgotten as you planted your hands on his chest.

“Can I see?” You begged with wide eyes and his smile grew, you were always his number one supporter. “I bet they are beautiful.”

You remembered the magical sunsets he had captured perfectly, the portraits of people he knew growing up last century, the cityscape of 1940’s New York. He would have been making a living as an artist if it wasn’t for the serum, he could have been the next Da Vinci.

“It’s my greatest work yet.” He said with a blush as he covered your hands with his, pulling them to his lips to kiss. “But I might be a little biassed.”

He held your hand tight as he led you from the washroom and towards the study, his fingers softly squeezing as his doubt crept in. He pushed the door open and took the seat, pulling you onto his lap as he reached to open one of the drawers at the desk. You caught sight of three books, each thick with the heavy paper he used, and he pulled the top one out. You didn’t miss the slight tremor in his hand as he held it on your thighs and looked over your shoulder.

“You haven’t taken up nude artistry have you?” You teased as you felt this apprehension.

“Not yet.” He chuckled and opened the front page.

“Oh my…” you gasped as you saw the grayscale image, the delicate shading and lines capturing the moment, “that’s me.”

Your eyes couldn’t look away as you looked at yourself through his eyes, the curve of your body as you reached up to hang out the washing. You had never thought that task was noteworthy but the angles and the way the light of the morning hit you was surreal. You fingers traced the intricate details, right down to the creases over your knuckles and you felt tears building.

“It’s beautiful, Steve.” You murmured as you turned to look at his face, love for you and pride at your reaction radiating from him before he kissed you.

“You’re beautiful.” He corrected you. “I’m just the lucky man who sees it everyday.”

You turned the page and saw another sketch of you, a giggle rising as you saw yourself asleep. Your hand was cast across the bed, filling the space where Steve had been before getting up, your toes peeking out from the blankets as you found it too hot under and too cold to fully reach out. Your hair was a mess about your head and your lips were just a hint apart, but somehow he managed to keep you dignified as you knew there was probably a snore at that point.

“You couldn’t draw me all pretty in a ball gown, floating on a cloud?” You laughed as the tears began to run down your cheeks.

“You don’t need any of that.” He said as he wiped away your tears. “Everything you do looks perfect to me. These help me remember why I will always fight. I started to draw these when I went away on missions and missed home, missed you. You keep me grounded.”

Shadows were long cast against the walls as the hours passed, your entire afternoon spent laughing and crying over the portraits Steve had drawn of you in every random way he could think. He had drawn you tying your shoe, weeding the garden, carrying a bag of groceries, moments that you had not known could be special but he treasured them all.

It wasn’t until a week later that you finally got to watch him draw once again. You were standing at the kitchen island, a tray of muffins lined up and waiting to be iced. He had disappeared down the hall and returned a minute later with a handful of pencils and his sketchpad. You had watched him grab a chair and wink as sat down, only to shuffle a few feet to the side when he wasn’t satisfied with the light.

“Keep going.” He encouraged you as you had stopped what you were doing to watch him. “I’m not even here.”

“I can see you.” You rolled your eyes, suddenly nervous at completing the decorating you had done a hundred times.

“Pretend, for me.” He begged as he tucked a pencil behind his ear and picked up another instead.

You took a steadying breath and picked up the piping bag that was full of icing and grabbed the first muffin. By the time you had made it to the third you had almost forgotten that Steve was immortalising the moment and you put all your concentration into making the treats perfect. You had finished before he had but you still couldn’t help taking a peek and seeing he had almost finished your face. You hadn’t even noticed the tip of your tongue peeking out between your lips when you were concentrating or that your eyebrows knitted together when something wasn’t quite perfect.

“Huh.” You chuckled. “Do I really do that?”

“Mhmm.” He smiled as his eyes darted away for a split second before turning back to the page and moving to focus on your hands and the delicate hold they had on the muffins. “It’s like you do it on purpose to distract me.”

He shifted in his chair and cleared his throat before swapping pencils and shading some places to add depth and it almost made the picture 3d. His skill and the complexity of his drawings left you stunned, you would never tire of seeing them, he had even started hanging your favourites on the wall of the study.

“If I wanted to do that I would ask you to draw me naked.” You whispered in his ear, the line he was tracing darkening as his fingers pressed too hard and your soft laugh teased him. “Draw me like one of your french girls, Steve.”

A soft groan escaped his lips as you closed the book and placed it on the table. You both knew he would never disrespect you by drawing you naked, he would never risk the chance that it could be stolen or lost and thought of anyone else seeing what was his left his chest puffing with the rising of anger. But, that didn’t mean he hadn’t thought about it. The long lonely nights away on missions had left his mind picturing you in many positions that he would not dare to put on paper, but he had certainly thought about it.

He took your outstretched hand and rose up from the chair, the expensive pencils falling from his lap to the floor where they were forgotten as you led the way to the bedroom. His hand cupped your face as he pulled you to his body and his thumb brushed over your cheek, leaving a light smudge from the graphite he had rubbed. Even the mark across your face couldn’t detract from your beauty and he knew that this picture of perfection would be the very next moment he captured. Your pupils wide, lips pouting for a kiss. You would forever be his muse.