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boaillustration · 6 months ago

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The Artisul team was kind enough to send me their Artisul D16 display tablet to review! Timelapse and review can be found under the read more.

I have been using the same model of display tablet for over 10 years now (a Wacom Cintiq 22HD) and feel like I might be set in my ways, so getting the chance to try a different brand of display tablet was also a new experience for me!

The Unboxing

The tablet arrived in high-quality packaging with enough protection that none of the components get scratched or banged up in the shipping process. I was pleasantly surprised that additionally to the tablet, pen, stand, cables and nibs it also included a smudge guard glove and a pen case.

The stand is very light-weight and I was at first worried that it would not be able to hold up the tablet safely, but it held up really well. I appreciated that it offered steeper levels of inclination for the tablet, since I have seen plenty other display tablets who don’t offer that level of ergonomics for artists. My only gripe is that you can’t anchor the tablet to the stand. It will rest on the stand and can be easily taken on or off, but that also means that you can bump into it and dislodge it from the stand if you aren’t careful. It would require significant force, but as a cat owner, I know that a scenario like that is more likely than I’d like.

Another thing I noticed is how light the tablet is in comparison to my Cintiq. Granted, my Cintiq is larger (22 inches vs the 15.8 inches of the Artisul D16), but the Artisul D16 comes in at about 1.5kg of weight. While I don’t consider display tablets that require a PC and an outlet to work really portable, it would be a lot easier to move with the Artisul D16 from one space to another. In comparison, my Cintiq weighs in at a proud 8.5kg, making it a chore to move around. I have it hooked up to a monitor stand to be able to move it more easily across my desk.

The Setup

The setup of the tablet was quick as well, with only minor hiccups. The drivers installed quickly and basic setup was done in a matter of minutes. That doesn’t mean it came without issues: the cursor vanished as soon as I hovered over the driver window, making it a guessing game where I would be clicking and the pen calibration refused to work on the tablet screen and instead always defaulted to my regular screen. I ended up using the out of the box pen calibration for my test drawing which worked well enough.

The tablet comes with customizable hot-keys that you can reassign in the driver software. I did not end up using the hot-keys, since I use a Razer Tartarus for all my shortcuts, but I did play around with them to get a feel for them. The zoom wheel had a very satisfying haptic feel to it which I really enjoyed, and as far as I could tell, you can map a lot of shortcuts to the buttons, including with modifier keys like ctrl, shift, alt and the win key. I noticed that there was no option to map numpad keys to these buttons, but I was informed by my stream viewers that very few people have a full size keyboard with a numpad anymore.

The pen comes with two buttons as well. Unlike the hot-keys on the side of the tablet, these are barely customizable. I was only able to assign mouse clicks to them (right, left, scroll wheel click, etc) and no other hotkeys. I have the alt key mapped to my pen button on my Cintiq, enabling me to color pick with a single click of the pen. The other button is mapped to the tablet menu for easy display switches. Not having this level of customization was a bit of a bummer, but I just ended up mapping the alt key to a new button on my Razer Tartarus and moved on.

The pen had a very similar size to my Wacom pen, but was significantly lighter. It also rattled slightly when shook, but after inspection this was just the buttons clicking against the outer case and no internal issues. The pen is made from one material, a smooth plastic finish. I would have liked for there to be a rubber-like material at the grip like on the Wacom pen for better handling, but it still worked fine without it.

Despite not being able to calibrate the pen for the display tablet, the cursor offset was minimal. It took me a while at the beginning to get used to the slight difference to my current tablet, but it was easy to get used to it and I was able to smoothly ink and color with the tablet. The screen surface was very smooth, reminding me more of an iPad surface. The included smudge guard glove helped mitigate any slipping or sliding this might have caused, enabling me to draw smoothly. Like with the cursor offset, it took me a while to get used to the different pressure sensitivity of the tablet, but I adapted quickly.

So what do I think of it?

Overall, drawing felt different on this tablet, but I can easily see myself getting used to the quirks of the tablet with time. Most of the issues I had were QoL things I am used to from my existing tablet.

But I think that’s where the most important argument for the tablet comes in: the price.

I love my Cintiq. I can do professional grade work on it and I rebought the same model after my old one got screen issues, I liked it that much. But it also costs more than a 1000 € still, even after being on the market for over 10 years (I bought it for about 1.500 € refurbished in 2014, for reference). The Artisul D16 on the other hand runs you a bit more than 200€. That is a significant price difference! I often get asked by aspiring artists what tools I use and while I am always honest with them, I also preface it by saying that they should not invest in a Cintiq if they are just starting out. They are high quality professional tools and have a price point that reflects that. You do not need these expensive tools to create art. You can get great results on a lot cheaper alternatives! I do this for a living so I can justify paying extra for the QoL upgrades the Cintiq offers me, but I have no illusion that they are an accessible tool for most people.

I can recommend the Artisul D16 as a beginner screen tablet for people who are just getting into art or want to try a display tablet for once. I wouldn’t give up my Cintiq for it, but I can appreciate the value it offers for the competitive price point. If you want to get an Artisul D16 for yourself, you can click this link to check out their shop!

AMAZON.US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TQLGC81

AMAZON.JP: https://www.amazon.co.jp/dp/B07T6ZT84V

AMAZON.MX: https://www.amazon.com.mx/dp/B07T6ZT84V

Once again thank you to the Artisul team for giving me the opportunity to review their display tablet!

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dawn-moths · 11 months ago

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Wriothesley x Female Reader

word count: 1,200+

18+ content! minors dni! smut, dubcon, minimal/no prep, rough sex, sub/dom dynamics.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

In the soft, yellow dimness that floods the room of his office, Wriothesley lets out a hiss through clenched teeth. His hips are pressed into yours, sharp hipbones pinning you against the surface of his desk, every slip of paperwork and sharp-nibbed pen swept away and sent clattering to the floor in his haste to get you exactly where he wanted you.

You let out a soft mewl as his teeth scrape across the rise of your throat, tracing down to one of your collar bones and landing at your shoulder as his grip around your wrists tightens to keep both your hands pinned above your head.

The Warden lets out a cold chuckle, nakedly amused by your struggle as you feebly attempt to break free of his hold. “Ah-ah,” he chides, flexing his grip around your wrists hard enough to bruise the flesh and grind the bones, earning a whimper and a wince from you as you go still beneath him. “I thought we agreed you’d take your punishment without a fight?”

He raises his head, looks you in the eyes, that glacier’s stare of his sending a shiver down your spine, the scar curved beneath his right eye shining faintly as it catches the artificial glow of dim light through the damp, industrial dark. He presses his clothed cock, which has become painfully hard, firmer against your sensitive core, skirt bunched around your waist, leaving only a thin layer of soaked lace between you and so much pleasure.

Shamelessly, as if testing him, you attempt to grind harder against the bulge in his trousers, chasing friction as you whine out a pitiful little, “C’mon… You know that’s not fair…”

Wriothesley smirks, swishes some of that tousled dark hair from his eyes. “Given your offense,” he says, “I’d say this is far more generous than you deserve, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth to protest— to tell him that the only reason you’d snuck into his office (broken into, more like, given you’d had to pick three sets of locks along the way) was to win a bet and most definitely not to procure your release forms three months early despite already having your sentence reduced on grounds of good behavior, impatient to step out into the sun again after so much time spent underground. But you suppose you’d gotten a little too cocky. And, besides, you really should’ve known better.

Thievery had been what had gotten you sentenced to two years in the Fortress of Meropide in the first place.

“But I’ll cut you a deal…” the Warden offered, his lips pressed close to your ear, cool breath wafting across your neck, the chill a welcome reprieve from so much heat that had been building between your two bodies as he teased you to damn near torturous lengths. “You just admit what we both know is the truth, and maybe I’ll let you off easy, hm?” You exhaled a shuddering breath, feeling the burden of forbidden desire hazing through your brain, making it hard to think. “So what’ll it be?” He asked, each syllable of his ultimatum laced with condescending manipulation.

You knew, both from first hand experience and the warnings you’d heard passed around by others, that the Warden was particularly fond of playing these kind of mind games.

The best thing to do, especially in your case, was to just count your losses and admit defeat.

“Alright…” you sighed. “Fine. I was breaking in to steal my release papers and forge your signature to get out early. There. You happy now?”

To answer your question, Wriothesley grinded down, mean and harsh against you, eliciting a needy moan from your throat, destroying any and all of your prior obstinance as arousal coursed thick and pleading through your core.

“Gotta admit,” he said, his voice a little more strained than before as he tried to subdue his own desires, “you’re pretty brazen to think you’d get away with it.”

In truth, you didn’t think you’d get away with it. A piece of you had secretly hoped he’d find you. Had secretly hoped he’d back you into a corner and pin you against a wall or a table or a bed like he was doing right now.

But you couldn’t tell him that.

What fun would that be?

“But a deal’s a deal,” he concludes, easing off of you only enough to undo his belt, silver buckle clacking against itself and serving as the bell to toll your fate. He pulls his aching cock free, the sight of its blushing red tip causing your next breath to catch. He’s bigger than you were prepared for, and you shudder at the thought of it bullying its way inside you.

Wriothesley slightly cocks his head to one side and inquires through a crooked smile, a dangerous flash of teeth, “Though, you don’t really want to be let off easy, do you?”

You still beneath him, eyes widening a fraction as you try and subdue the thick swallow that threatens to bob in your throat, exposing your fear.

Cracking a nervous grin, your voice only trembles a little bit as you reply in what would’ve been a smooth coo, if not for the runaway pulse hammering beneath your ribs, “Knew all along, did ya? Well… I guess I have to work on my acting skills then.”

Wriothesley slips two thick, calloused fingers in through the side of your panties and tugs the slick fabric aside. His touch makes your body jolt, your blood humming with trepidation.

“Nah…” he breathes against your neck, leaning in close again to keep your view of what he has planned for you blocked, trapping you in even more suspense and keeping you at his mercy, just where he likes you. “Your act was actually half decent…”

He waits until you exhale your next breath, then buries himself inside of you down to the hilt in one quick, sharp thrust, punching what air remained from your lungs before a startled gasp clipped off onto a yelp punctuates the quiet room.

It takes a moment for him to regain his composure, though feels a sick sense of pride when he pulls back to take a good look at you, admiring how small and helpless you are under his control.

Finally, he speaks again, and when he does it’s a teasing statement of, “Next time though, let me in on it beforehand so I can make sure and let the guards who patrol this area take an early lunch break.” He lets go of your wrists, allows you to grip both his biceps in your trembling little hands, desperate for something to anchor yourself to. “Wouldn’t want anyone to start a rumor I give special treatment to my favorites…”

He covers your mouth with one hand, muffling your next moan as he begins to move, slow and savoring. Sadistic in the way he’s spurred on by the mist of tears welling in your eyes, your tight little hole struggling to accommodate the sudden fullness his cock provides, the sting of the stretch making you fear you’ll end up being split in two by the time this is over.

But it doesn’t matter how rough he wants to be. You’ll take what he gives you and be grateful for it.

And, who knows, maybe, when the time comes, the Warden won’t want to let you out early on good behavior after all.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

#he’s been on my mind so much lately ugh #had to write just a lil something for him #wriothesley #genshin impact #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley x you #wriothesley x y/n #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x y/n #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #genshin impact smut #genshin smut #wriothesley smut #drabble

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a-wraith-891 · 26 days ago

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A Hawthorne Mafia AU

Characters: Alexander Hawthorne, Jameson Hawthorne, Nash Hawthorne,

Extra Tags: Dark Hawthorne Family, Dark Jameson Hawthorne, Dark Xander Hawthorne, Dark Nash Hawthorne.

summary: Everyone knows that if you want an audience with Tobias Hawthorne I, there are a few people you have to get through first. (And honestly, his grandsons can be just as terrifying)

Part 2

Everyone knows the truth in this city: if you want Tobias Hawthorne the First to hear you, you don't simply walk up. You don't knock. No. You navigate a gauntlet.

And the first gatekeeper, is Alexander “Xander” Hawthorne—the favored grandson. There is no whim of his that his grandfather will not grant.

Xander wears mischief like a perfectly tailored suit, a disarming mask of innocence. But his genius is a honeyed blade. Beneath his too-bright grin, something always glints, sharp and predatory, a darkness that promises ruin.

Often, a cocktail rests in his hand, something expensive, experimental, its ingredients as obscure as his intentions. He dares the world to guess its deadly composition. (No one is foolish enough to try.)

The first test is simply finding him. Xander has a connoisseur's taste for the obscure, a habit of choosing lounges so hidden they feel like secrets, or forgotten basements that someone with enough ill-gotten money has transformed into "members-only" establishments. These are never the glittering clubs directly under the Hawthorne name. Instead, he gravitates to places one strong wind away from ruin, places with faded stains on the walls and the echoes of old tragedies in their very foundations. (These are hunting grounds, not showpieces.)

There is never obvious security around him. Newcomers, blinded by their own ambition, mistake it for arrogance. (They are always wrong.)

Everyone else knows better. Tobias Hawthorne doesn't put protection on his grandsons out of hubris. He doesn't need to. No one manages to sneak up on the Hawthornes. There is no threat they don't anticipate, no shadow they don't already own, or, at least, none that has ever survived to tell the tale.If you know someone—a bartender drowning in a debt to the family, a former courier who once crossed them and, against all odds, lived—you might get a whispered tip. Alexander favors places close to chaos. Police taped crime scenes. Fresh disappearances. Unsolved mysteries. There's never any proof that he caused the disappearances, but he gravitates towards them nonetheless.

(He doesn't cause all the violence, no, but it follows him. Like a hungry wolf, drawn by the scent of blood.)

Once you are in the right place, finding him isn't difficult. Even amidst the hum of the crowd, the entire room subtly shifts around him. People unconsciously adjust, as though the very air around him carries an undeniable weight. The staff cater to him with fear lining their eyes, their movements swift and silent, as if he personally signs their paychecks. (Perhaps he does, in ways far more binding than paper currency.)

He never seems to demand much. A solitary drink, perhaps. A small, meticulously arranged plate of something esoteric. Always, a leather-bound journal lies open before him, a fountain pen, who's nib probably costs more than your car, scribbling cryptic notations. But there is that smirk, a slow, knowing curl of his lips. The kind that registers every bead of sweat on your brow, every tremor in your hand, savoring the delicious cocktail of your nervousness. He doesn't just observe; he consumes.

The second test is what you dare to say. Xander has no patience for sob stories, no time for appeals to loyalty, hollow pleas of loss, or perfectly rehearsed pitches for an audience with his grandfather. That isn't why you are here.

You talk to Alexander to see if you can pique his interest. No one can truly explain what catches his attention. Sometimes it is a perfectly timed, dark joke that cuts through the polite facade of the room. Sometimes a cryptic quote from an obscure, forgotten novel. Sometimes, infuriatingly, it is simply standing there in absolute silence, waiting, until he breaks the stillness first. There is no predictable logic to it, no discernible pattern, at least, not one visible from the outside.

But the other Hawthornes always understand. His brothers can read the subtle tilt of his head, the fractional shift in his gaze, and know when the youngest is truly intrigued. Nash knows. Jameson knows. Grayson—especially Grayson—knows.When Xander reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a handcrafted puzzle box, its polished surfaces gleaming under the dim light, and begins twisting its intricate edges with deceptively lazy fingers, that is when you know you have him. That is when you are truly being watched, measured. He offers it to you then, the smooth, cold metal a silent challenge, and he asks, his voice a silken thread, if you want to solve it.

And then comes the third test: what you do next. React too boldly, too confidently, declaring your immediate ability to solve it with a brash tone, and he shuts down, his polite goodbye a death knell. You are escorted out, your name forgotten before the door even swings shut. React too meekly, too unsure of your own capabilities, and you vanish into obscurity—lucky if it is mere obscurity and not a shallow grave beneath some forgotten overpass.He isn't the one who passes final judgment. But he is the one who decides if you are even worth the Hawthornes' time, if your existence holds any value in their bloody ledger.

If you pass, Xander allows a sliver of a genuine smirk to play on his lips, promising you a future challenge of wits. (A veiled threat and nothing less.) He rises, claps you on the back, hard, too hard, perhaps even making your knees buckle, and personally escorts you to the exit, his presence a gilded cage.If you fail, he offers a smile. Polite. Almost sweet. A viper’s smile. He dismisses you with a promise to "be in touch." (He won't, of course. Only fools believe him.)

If you pass, that is the precise moment to leave. You nod, lower your eyes, a silent submission, calling him Mr. Hawthorne even if he is half, a third or a quarter your age. You are dismissed, and you go.If you pass, this becomes the agonizing time to wait. You don't chase them. You can't. You simply exist in a suspended state of anxiety, knowing that the family, like a predator, will come to you when they are ready.

You receive an invitation. Sometimes that same night, a phantom presence at your door: a man in a perfectly tailored Armani suit, appearing at precisely 3:14 a.m., a stark white card pressed into your hand, a message whispered in the pre-dawn quiet. Other times, it takes days. Weeks, even. The silence itself a form of torture. But if it is time-sensitive, if your problem is truly urgent, somehow, they always know. (No one questions how anymore. It is simply a terrifying truth of their world.)The meeting, if you are deemed worthy, takes place at The House—a club in name, but not the kind you'd ever find in a guidebook. It is too elegant, too meticulously curated to be a mere mob front. (That is the point.) Marble floors gleam under ambient lighting, velvet booths invite, and the live jazz band plays smooth, oblivious melodies as patrons, unaware of the currents flowing beneath the surface, sip aged wine. Two guards, impeccably dressed, stand just out of sight, their eyes constantly sweeping, their hands never far from the hidden weapons beneath their jackets. If you are here, you are either someone of immense importance—or you have been summoned by someone who is.

After Xander, there are two more shadows to navigate, two more fae to appease before the true meeting takes place.Jameson Winchester Hawthorne, the Golden Grandson.And Nash Westbrook Hawthorne, the Prodigal Grandson.

Jameson is the first you see—lounging in a plush velvet booth like he owns the very air he breathes. He possesses that crooked, effortless grin, one arm flung over the back of the seat, head cocked in theatrical boredom. Someone stands before him, talking fast, gesturing wildly, sweat beading on his linen shirt. Jameson nods along, humming when appropriate, his smile never faltering, a perfect mask of engagement. But if you are truly paying attention, if you understand the language of power, you notice—he has already stopped listening. Long ago.

Jameson, with his devil-may-care charm and sun-gold smirk, has ruined more men with his words than any of his brothers have with their hands. Some people mistake him for the soft one, the merely clever one, or the spoiled one. The chilling truth is he is both. And terrifyingly, neither. He is the Hawthorne you never see coming until he has already dismantled your world piece by painful piece, leaving you exposed, and is walking away with your most guarded secrets tucked into his suit pocket like souvenirs. (Years ago, when law enforcement foolishly believed the Hawthornes were vulnerable, they tried to get in through Jameson. One agent vanishes without a trace. One flips, becoming a ghost in the system, working for the very people he swore to destroy. One falls hopelessly in love with him, willingly stepping into the gilded cage, and never comes back out.)

Just behind Jameson—leaning against the far wall like a storm waiting to happen, or more accurately, a fight waiting to happen—is Nash. The eldest. The quietest. The Prodigal Grandson. His arms are crossed over a chest that seems carved from granite. His expression is a stone wall, utterly unreadable. His eyes, the color of warm earth, scan the club with an unnerving calm, pausing just long enough to send subtle, silent signals to the guards with a twitch of his shoulder and a barely perceptible flex of his hand to look alive.

While Jameson is the temptation, the siren song that lures you onto the rocks, Nash is the inevitable, brutal consequence. If a bar brawl explodes somewhere downtown, leaving bodies broken and blood on the pavement, Nash is likely the reason. A fist. A gun. A chilling, undeniable message. He doesn't lose sleep over blood, not a stranger's, and certainly not his own.

Most people, the ignorant and the doomed, assume he is just muscle. Just heavy fists and a blank stare. They are wrong. A simple delve into the Hawthornes' carefully scrubbed past would show that the transcripts from his old school, before he inexplicably drops off the map, tell a different story. He is top of his class, a mind as fast and sharp as his instincts. People tend to forget that. (Until it is far, far too late.)

Together, Nash and Jameson are a study in terrifying contrast: one all fire and shadow, the other golden and grinning, a shimmering mirage of false promise. But they are two halves of the same perfectly calibrated machine, and if you make it this far—if they let you make it this far—you had better be ready for the final, ultimate test. One of the most ruthlessly brilliant decisions Don Tobias Hawthorne ever made is keeping those two grandsons close—Jameson and Nash—and the world is a far worse place for it.

When you step through the lacquered doors of The House, Nash zones in on you immediately. He watches the precise way you move. The calculated path your eyes take across the opulent club. The specific drink you order when the waiter materializes at your side, silent as a wraith. The exact route you choose to approach their secluded booth. Every motion, every minute detail, cataloged, dissected, and weighted.His hand twitches near his side, a barely perceptible flick of his wrist. Just a fraction of a movement, but Jameson sees it, understands it, and with an easy, charming smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, the older boy turns and dismisses the sweating man who has been pleading his case. The man leaves, beaming, utterly convinced his troubles are over. (That is Jameson's trick: pretty smile, pretty words, and poison laced into every syllable. He makes people losing everything think they are winning.)

"Please, sit," Jameson says, his voice a honeyed invitation, when you reach their booth. He gestures to the plush seat across from him. His smile is warm, radiant, even but his eyes are cold steel, and something about the way he watches you makes your pulse trip, your hear a panicked hummingbird in your chest.Nash doesn't smile. His poison isn't hidden like his brother's; it simply drips from him, quiet and thick, like crude oil waiting for a spark to ignite a conflagration. The slightest lift of his chin feels like a warning, a prelude to the violence that will inevitably ensue. You can see, then, why people underestimate Jameson. Why they mistakenly call Nash nothing but the enforcer, the blunt instrument. You can see it is all part of the act, a meticulously choreographed performance, and it is a performance that ends in blood if you miss your cue.

"I'm Jameson, and this is my brother Nash," he offers, as if there is any remote chance you don't already know. You give your name, your voice perhaps a little hoarse. They don't even blink. (Of course they already know. Your name, your record, your habits, your vices. Probably your blood type, your deepest fears, and the names of your childhood pets.)

"What did Xander say?" Jameson asks casually, as if inquiring about the weather.And you pause. Because—what did he say? Nothing. Not really. Just a backhanded compliment, a puzzle box twirled between deceptively lazy fingers like he was bored, like your entire presence was only mildly more interesting than the expensive drink in front of him. So that's what you describe. The shadowy booth, the strange, disjointed conversation, the chilling moment the youngest Hawthorne tests your nerve with something sharp and silver that glints in the dim light. You speak carefully, every word a tightrope walk, acutely aware that each syllable is being weighed, measured, dissected.

Jameson's smile doesn't waver, but there is a glint behind it, something unreadable. Nash doesn't move at all, a statue of contained menace, but you get the distinct sense he has already decided something, the verdict already etched in the hard lines of his face. You aren't sure where to look. Jameson's eyes draw you in, a beautiful, fatal current, but Nash's expression holds danger like a loaded weapon, aimed squarely at your head. You flick your gaze between them in a desperate attempt to find a safe place to land.When you finish recounting it, Jameson lets out a soft chuckle, light and melodic, like the tinkling of ice in a glass. Nash shifts, just a shoulder-roll, something minuscule—but Jameson's smile sharpens, a predator's grin, at the motion. Something has just passed between them, an unspoken signal.(And you didn't catch any of it. You are merely the pawn.)

"Tell us what we can do for you," Jameson says at last, his voice losing its honeyed edge, becoming colder, more direct.

Nash bares his teeth then. It isn't a grin. It isn't friendly. It is the primal, chilling display of a feral animal. It makes your stomach twist into a knot of cold dread.You explain, the words stumbling a little, caught between your dry throat and the suffocating pressure of their combined gazes. You scan the room. Anywhere but at them. Looking at them too long is like staring at the sun—beautiful, yes, but it will blind you. And then burn you to ash.

They could kill you now. Right here. No one would stop them. Anyone not already owned by them can be bought. Silenced. Buried in a shallow, unmarked grave.You finish your story, and silence stretches, thick and suffocating, like a heavy shroud. They don't look at you. Don't look at each other. Just... watch, their eyes drilling into you. Your skin prickles, a phantom chill crawling up your spine. You wonder how anyone survives being in the same room with the Hawthorne grandsons for long.

Finally, Jameson turns his head, a deliberate, slow movement. Nash meets his gaze, an understanding passing between them without a single word. You see the flick of an eyebrow, the barest curl of a lip from Nash. That's all it takes. Jameson breaks into another of those breathtaking smiles, a dazzling, lethal display. "Alisa," he calls, his voice like velvet laced with acid.A girl appears almost instantly, seemingly materializing from the shadows. Tall, severe, her long brown hair perfectly slicked back into a precise bun. She raises a single brow, a silent question. "Yes, Mr. Hawthorne?"

"Let Grayson know we've got someone for him."She nods once, a crisp, efficient movement, and disappears into the crowd, heading for a heavy, unmarked door guarded by two grim men in black suits, their faces impassive, their hands never far from their concealed weapons. Your breath hitches, a gasp caught in your throat. If Jameson is sending you to Grayson... that means you have passed. You are still in the game. One perilous step closer to Don Tobias Hawthorne I himself. Jameson catches your eye. Leans back. His smile softer now, a shark-like tenderness. "Go on," he says, with a lazy, dismissing wave of his hand.

You rise, murmuring your thanks, a faint, almost inaudible sound. You incline your head, a deep, respectful bow. "Mr. Winchester Hawthorne. Mr. Westbrook Hawthorne."

Nash doesn't respond, his expression still a mask of granite. Jameson just smiles, a thin, knowing curve of his lips, and lifts his glass in your direction, a silent toast to your continued, precarious existence.

You follow the girl. Into the deeper shadows. Knowing the real game, the deadliest one, has only just begun.

This is part one! Hope you guys enjoyed it.

#grayson hawthorne #jameson hawthorne #the hawthorne legacy #jennifer lynn barnes #the grandest game #xander hawthorne #nash hawthorne #mafia au #fanfic

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vimeddiart · 2 years ago

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I DREW MY OC TOAST AAAAAA

The folks at XPPen sent me the XPPen Deco Pro (Gen 2):

XPPen is having its 18th anniversary, and is celebrating with sales and product promos, so it's worth checking those out.

My thoughts on the tablet (and purchase links) under the cut!

⭐ Review ⭐

First impressions: After unboxing the tablet, I thought it sleek and professional-looking, especially after setting it up with my PC.

The remote I LOVED right out of the box because I enjoy fiddling with buttons and wheels. The keys are super satisfying to press.

The pen and storage case are nicely complete, lots of spare nibs to switch out (though I mainly stuck to the default nib while drawing, the textured ones have a nice gritty feel similar to paper).

I had some troubleshooting when I started, as connecting to Bluetooth wasn't happening with either the tablet or the remote. I tested the Bluetooth connection with a different device and my phone successfully, but couldn't with my work PC. I was promptly helped by XPPen Support, and it turned out to be a Windows update messing things up, so I uninstalled it and Boom; I could connect both the tablet and remote, no problem. Up until then, I used both via cable, which was a convenient option!

The tablet: The XL model at 15 x 9 inches, with plenty of space to work (although you'll need space to put it, luckily I have a lot of desk to spare), and can connect via cable or Bluetooth. It also looks so dang pretty.

The tablet was so smooth, and the pressure (16k pressure levels) felt amazing to draw with. After fiddling around with the pen settings, I barely had to press down to get a nice flowy line.

I usually work on a screen tablet, so it took some getting used to returning to a pen tablet and looking at my PC screen again, but it came back to me quickly. It actually helped my posture, as I tend to shrimp-curl over my screen tablet while working.

As lovely as it was to work on, I feel this size may be too large for me, despite it being perfectly proportional to my PC screen. I like to draw quickly, and I noticed myself making more effort to travel over the surface of the tablet and tiring my arm out faster than usual. I needed to take more breaks and stretch often, although I could classify that as positive. That said, this tablet has a sloped resting area that helped. All my drawing tablets have been medium-sized, so I'm probably just conditioned to that surface area.

The battery lasted as long as it took to draw this piece and more! I didn't need to charge it the entire time.

The remote: I love this thing so much. It has ten shortcut keys and a wheel you can configure to your heart's desire. Five sets of key functions!!! That's fifty shortcuts!! I only configured four sets and struggle to memorise them, but it's very convenient. I have my keyboard right next to the tablet and would bang out shortcuts there, but this remote changed my life.

I've been using it for a month now, and it still hasn't needed charging!

The pen: Comfy to use, with a design I was already accustomed to, and one thing I noticed was that the nib wasn't scratching the heck out of the tablet. After all the drawing I did with it, not a single mark.

I LOVE popping the case open to retrieve or store the pen, and it's one of those physical things that I find satisfying and so rare with digital products. I thought it would be nice to have a pen stand too, but I have pet birds that will (and have) run away with my tablet pens, so a storage case is a strong solution.

Final thoughts: This is a solid tablet with the potential to become an essential tool for industry professionals and freelancers. I didn't think I could be convinced out of a screen tablet, but I was offered a super strong contender. I can confidently recommend it, plus my experience with support was a positive one that boosted my trust in the brand. Overall, I had a great time using this tablet and really appreciate the opportunity I've been given to try it out!

⭐ Purchase links ⭐

US Walmart Store

CA official store

#mine #xppen #review #toast

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barzfrommarz · 7 months ago

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c!wilbur doodle I made while testing out a new pen nib for my apple pencil

#dsmp #dream smp #dsmpblr #c!wilbur #cwilbur #dsmp wilbur #c!wilbur fanart #dsmp fanart

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mufos-photo-album · 9 months ago

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Sphirn (Spherical Hirn) @kaftoci

(This was a nice excuse to test out a more efficient rendering style, however if I was actually concerned about efficiency I probably shouldn't have bothered with the hair shading as much as I did. While drawing this I also realized what's actually helping me with pen pressure is my brush size, not my pen's felt nib. More I know.)

#sky children of the light #sky cotl #that sky game #thatskygame #skyblr #mufo draws #not a photo from the album

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syncallio · 1 year ago

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Today's pen is the Parker 51:

Also known as the most popular fountain pen ever made. The original production run lasted from 1941 to 1972 and sold at least 20 million pens.

As simple as it looks, it has some features that were groundbreaking at the time. The cap is a slip cap, when everybody else was using screw threads. The nib is tube shaped, making it especially rugged. Said nib is protected by a plastic hood so that only the point sticks out, to minimize drying when uncapped.

And the plastic is acrylic, which has stood the test of time. No cracking, no shrinking, no weird discoloration. Look at this sleek little bullet of a pen!

It's a nice size, lightweight and well balanced. And it writes beautifully.

Also, fun fact, this was Queen Elizabeth II's favorite pen. She had a red one.

I think in any industry there's a model that just works. Like, all the engineering comes together in such a way that you get exactly what you were aiming for. There are prettier fountain pens than the 51, and many more expensive. But the 51 is pure Fountain Pen in the best way.

#fountain pen #vintage pen #fountain pens #parker pen #parker 51 #sailor ink #it's also virtually indestructible #the only self-filler that can spend six decades in a drawer and only need a good cleaning to write again

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liaromancewriter · 11 months ago

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The Next Chapter

Premise: Ethan looks back at the man he was through the lens of his apartment.

Book: Open Heart Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine) Rating/Category: Teen. Angsty Fluff. Words: 1,955

A/N: I had this fic idea for a while and finally got the right inspo to write. It's not quite fluff and not quite angst. Just reflective.

I. 2013

Ethan Ramsey scrawled his signature at the bottom of a stack of forms, the pen's nib leaving a dot of ink in its wake.

Who knew becoming a homeowner involved so much paperwork?

He smiled absently at the realtor’s chirpy chatter but didn’t engage in conversation. His mind was on a case waiting for him at Edenbrook. The patient’s syncope didn’t have an apparent cause yet, and he mentally listed the diagnostic tests he needed to order.

“All done.” The realtor handed him an envelope with his copy of the deed, other forms, and a set of keys. “Congratulations, Dr. Ramsey!”

The keys gleamed brightly under the fluorescent lights for a second, a beacon beckoning him to his future. And then they were just keys, one to his brand new high-rise apartment in a newly renovated historical building.

The check he’d cut for the down payment had taken a good chunk of his savings. But, now that he was an attending physician and making good money, he could afford it.

The apartment wasn’t just a place to him. It represented who he wanted to become—a cultured and sophisticated doctor who enjoyed opera, owned several custom suits and dated beautiful women. All while solving medicine’s biggest mysteries and being written up in medical journals.

Dr. Ethan Ramsey was on his way to achieving everything he’d set out to do in life.

He didn’t have time—he knew he didn’t—but he couldn’t resist. Instead of heading back to the hospital, he turned his car toward Downtown, noting the changing vistas outside the windshield and the blend of commercial and residential buildings as they neared the waterfront.

He liked the busyness and pockets of quiet, the coffee shops and restaurants within walking distance, and parks and squares tucked away between buildings.

When he’d started his home search, he’d figured to find a place close to work, the West End or Back Bay. Nothing there had appealed to him, and he found himself losing patience. Out of desperation or perhaps fear of losing the commission, his realtor asked him to take a chance on a new listing near Faneuil Hall.

So, he went for the viewing, and, thirty days later, he signed on the dotted line. And another thirty minutes after that, he placed the key in the front door lock and entered his new home.

Ethan walked into the living room, his eyes drawn to the view outside. From here, he could see the boats bobbing gently on the harbor and the distant outline of the city’s skyline. He could already imagine mornings with a cup of coffee in hand, watching the sunrise, or evenings unwinding with a glass of wine, the glow of the city lights reflecting off the water.

He moved through the open-plan living area to the kitchen, where state-of-the-art appliances gleamed beneath soft lighting. It was a space designed for serious cooking, and the idea of preparing a real meal here, maybe even for someone else, crossed his mind—an unfamiliar thought that he quickly brushed aside.

Finally, he found himself standing in the bedroom and the wall of windows that offered a stunning view of the city. He could already envision a large, inviting bed, crisp bedding with muted colors, calming. Here, he could let go of the day’s stresses and recharge for the battles that lay ahead.

As he stood there, Ethan realized how much he had needed this—more than just a place to sleep, but a sanctuary. A space that was his, where he could shed the relentless demands of his profession and simply be. He took a deep breath, feeling a rare sense of contentment settle over him.

In an hour, the chaos of his life would resume. There would be rounds to make, patients to treat and mountains to climb. But right now, in this quiet stolen moment, he savored the promise of what this new home could mean for him.

And as he turned away from the window, Ethan couldn’t help but sigh wistfully. Maybe, somebody, he’d shared this amazing view with a woman he loved enough to let her into his life.

His inner cynic scoffed. Sure. And maybe someday he’d become Chief of Medicine.

Ruefully shaking his head at the absurdity of his thoughts, Ethan locked the door behind him and went back to work.

II. 2018

Ethan poured himself a glass of red wine and sighed heavily, shoulders hunched in defeat. He didn’t know how long he could keep going like this. He hadn’t slept more than three or four hours a night for the last few weeks and long hours had finally caught up to him.

Despite his best efforts, he wasn’t close to figuring out what was wrong with Naveen. If he didn’t diagnose the mystery illness soon, he’d lose him just like he lost Dolores.

He was forever destined to lose the people he loved.

When the knock came, even though he’d been expecting her, it startled him from his depressing thoughts. Setting the nearly empty wine glass on the counter, he walked to the front door to let Cassie Valentine in.

The headache he’d been fighting all day suddenly reared again. Rubbing his eyes wearily, Ethan motioned her inside.

“Rookie. Come on in.”

“Wow. Nice digs,” Cassie walked past him into the living room.

The surprised tone was the same as when she had commented on his car. He wondered what was it about him that made her doubt his financial worth.

He shrugged as she gawked at the quiet luxury of his furnishings and the stunning views outside. There was a time when this space had calmed him after a long shift. It had been a source of pride when he hosted a dinner party once with Naveen’s learned friends.

Now, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d stood where she stood and just took it all in.

He did so now, but if anything, it made him more sad. The plush furniture, the art that once spoke to him, the view that had sealed the deal when he bought the place—it all felt distant like it belonged to someone else.

When had his home stopped being a refuge?

“I’m barely ever here,” he said, feeling sadness creep up like an unwelcome virus. “Wine?”

“Yes, please.”

Ethan padded into the kitchen and poured wine into the empty glass, his mind again turning to the dark thoughts he couldn’t shake. He clenched his jaw at the feeling of powerlessness, the fear that no matter how hard he tried, he would always fall short and lose the people he cared about most.

“That’s… probably enough!”

“Huh?” Her exclamation broke through his distraction, and he glanced at the over-filled wine glass. “Oh, sorry.”

He passed the glass over and topped up his own, holding it up with a heavy sigh.

“To the unknown,” he said by way of a toast.

Cassie clinked her glass against his. “To the unknown.”

Ethan watched her as she wandered over to the windows, and an indescribable feeling spread through his chest. For the first time in a while, his apartment didn’t feel quite so empty, and he didn’t feel entirely so alone in his quest.

As he watched Cassie, silhouetted against the city lights, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to hold on—to Naveen, to himself and to the life that was slipping through his fingers.

But for now, all he could do was take it one breath at a time, one step at a time, and hope that somewhere along the way, he’d find the strength to keep going.

III. 2022

Weak sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and dust motes swirled in the air. Ethan stood in the center of the now-empty living room, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. The silence surrounding him wasn’t sad but poignant, marking the end of an era.

Once adorned with carefully chosen artwork, the walls were bare, the furniture that had filled the room now gone, leaving behind a hollow shell of what had once been his sanctuary. Moving boxes were stacked against the wall, waiting for the movers to transport them to their new home.

Cassie was in the bedroom, finishing up with the last of the boxes, but Ethan couldn’t bring himself to join her just yet. Instead, he lingered, taking in the space that had been his home for so many years, a place that had seen him at his lowest and, eventually, at his happiest.

He glanced over at the large windows, where the view of the city and the harbor stretched out before him, just as stunning as it had been the day he first walked in. But it wasn’t the view that held his attention now—it was the memories this place had held.

This was the apartment where he had spent countless sleepless nights, drowning in work, in doubt, in loneliness. It was where he had fought to keep himself together, to push through the pain of losing loved ones, to find answers for patients.

For so long, it had been a place of solitude, where the silence weighed heavily on his shoulders, where he had hidden from the world and from his own fears.

But it was also the place where everything had changed.

He smiled to himself, a small, bittersweet smile, as he remembered the first time Cassie had visited his place to discuss Naveen.

This was where they had shared their first real conversation, where she had seen him at his most vulnerable and hadn’t turned away. It was here that she had shown him that he didn’t have to carry his burdens alone.

And he recalled vividly the night she barged in before her ethics hearing and accused him of being indifferent to her. That night, he’d finally let go of his inhibitions and made love to her without regrets.

This was the apartment where their relationship had blossomed, love gradually replacing the emptiness. It was where he said, “I love you,” the first time to a woman. He had been confident but also afraid of how everything would change with three simple words.

He remembered the night he proposed to her in this living room. She was teaching him to decompress over Chinese takeout and a slapstick comedy on TV. She had been laughing as he cursed at the antics on the screen, and he blurted out, “Marry me,” never more sure of anything in his life.

She said yes, but for a second he’d worried she wouldn’t, and the future he could clearly envision would be a figment of his imagination.

And now, that future was here.

As Cassie emerged from the bedroom, carrying the last box, she caught his eye and smiled, a knowing look that told him she understood exactly what he was feeling. She set the box down by the door and walked over to him, slipping her hand into his.

“Ready?” she asked softly.

Ethan took a deep breath, his gaze sweeping over the apartment one last time. “Yeah,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. “I’m ready.”

This place had been so much more than just a home; it had been a chapter in his life, one that had shaped him into the man he was now.

But as much as he had loved this place, as much as it had meant to him, Ethan knew it was time to move forward. He had a new home waiting for him, one that he and Cassie would make together.

This might be the end of one chapter, but it was the beginning of something even better.

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All Fics & Edits: @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @jerzwriter @lady-calypso

@mainstreetreader @peonierose @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16

@justyourusualash @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction

Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Ethan & Cassie only: @cariantha @custaroonie @youlookappropriate

#open heart #choices open heart #open heart fanfic #ethan ramsey x mc #ethan ramsey #open heart fanfiction #playchoices #choices fanfic #choices fanfiction #ethan ramsey x cassie valentine

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