#so smeared when I erased the pencil sketch :
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Botober day 14 - A kraken… but tiny
#botober#botober2023#twsbi eco#fine liner#white gel pen#sketchy sketch#ID in alt text#was too impatient to dry#so smeared when I erased the pencil sketch :/#added some more details post this picture also
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Passion Pallette (Y.JH)
Summary: You need an inspiration for your next artwork. Luckily Jeonghan has a lot to spare.
Genre: Artist!Reader x BF!Jeonghan
Themes/Warnings: Boyfie, slight long hair Jeonghan (we must prioritize his sexy lil evil mind babygirls) , the following contains NSFW content(heavy on smut, straight to the point, love use of cameras, , mature language, overall it's just things we good girlies want men like Jeonghan to do) MINORS DNI!
Songs- Angels by Chase Atlantic, So Wet by Elita, Often by TheWeeknd, Feel That by Junny, 34+35 Ariana Grande, Close with Desires by Thuy, Wet by Jooyoung&Superbee,
WC: 3.5K
A/N: Happy Hannie Day<3 speciaIly for our 1004 boy. Tbh I don't think so I'll ever be sane when Jeonghan's got black hair. Blonde Hannie drives me bonkers but HIM? I would devour every single pride of his phhhew~~ enjoy this lowkey philosophical scrumptious piece caratdeuls!! Hanniehae💜💜
"Fuuu-uuck This won't do" you let out an agitated, low yet soft grumble resonates in thick air among stenches of erasers, fresh papers, acrylics and graphite pencils.
With tousled hair and pencil smudges on your hands, Y/N definitely embodied the tormented artist archetype in a world where questionable AI and digital art has taken over. Your eyes darted critically across each failed attempt, a mix of determination and irritation etched on her face. Despite the exasperation, your sketches hinted at an inexplainable beauty that seemed to elude your grasp. The past hour unfolded with a string of complaints, grappling with the current sketches, that seem to fall short of expectations in a creative mind disrupted by the stark reality of the artistic struggle.
Meanwhile Yoon Jeonghan, your smart-mouth, overly encouraging, sharp yet short-tempered boyfriend provided a contrast as the calm in your artistic tempest; occupying the quiet corner of the room perched on the bed in his usual white shirt-grey sweatpants, with his phone in hand and snacks as companions.
It wasn't a brand new thing for him to see you covered in pencil smudges, a few shavings stuck to your wooly clothing and beads of sweat, followed by smears of paint intact on your skin. Swallowing the last bits and dusting the crumbs off his finger, Jeonghan, engrossed in whatever had captured his attention on the screen, abruptly paused. He clears his throat, as a sign for you to turn around in his chair, and lean back, both of your hands on the arms of the chair; a worn-out disappointed expression plastered on your face meeting Jeonghan's unaffected lazy sunday cool and chill vibes, all while fidgeting a pencil between your fingers.
Somehow, a minuscule atom of irritation seemed to dissipate from your demeanor just by seeing him exist.
He arched an eyebrow with a playful smirk gracing his lips "Perhaps the profound muse for your next masterpiece lies in the gripping scenario of that snobby neighbor attempting to assemble something, which seems like a drawer to me. That's interesting. Hanging a hammer be pulling his jeans though" Curious, you turned your head to observe exactly whatever Jeonghan had claimed the neighbor to be doing. Tucking a strand of his newly growing hair behind his ear, he wore a lazy smile on his everlastingly beautiful face.
He continues, "well, since you're seeking for your savior, I'd say you take a good look around this room. Maybe your next stroke of genius could be inspired by the epic tale of my lone sock that always goes missing in the laundry. A true masterpiece in the making" He bites into his crackers whilst he rubs his chin and you roll your eyes, silently comply according to his suggestion. Your gaze shifts from the failed crumples of sketches on these white sheets, to the walls adorned with your vibrant creations among ivory canvases.
You realize that you do,have a discernable mood to your work. Your artistic endeavors, mostly landscapes with a touch of fantasy or nature, displayed a restraint from the chaotic realm of "multicolors on a canvas." Unless a particular idea sparked your imagination, your aesthetic embraced simplicity, classic elegance, and a penchant for monochrome. Safe to say your aesthetic was always something that's not too much work. Something that radiates simplicity, classic and monochrome.
Your distinctive perspectives, where focus and pressure converged on the canvas, propelled you towards an 8-week apprenticeship among renowned artists in the enchanting city of Paris. During this artistic sojourn, you didn't just participate; you left an indelible mark with your meticulous approach and unwavering passion.
Jeonghan as well tagged along your journey. He possesses an enchantment for photography, turning moments of your artistic journey into captured treasures. His lens became a portal to the nuances of your triumphs, framing the dedication etched on your face during meticulous strokes, the palpable joy of artistic breakthroughs, and the undeniable chemistry between you and your boyfriend amid the vibrant backdrop of Paris. What went on in the streets were no secret, but what went under those sheets certainly were.
Each photograph was a narrative, telling the story of your artistic evolution. The peculiar enchantment of Jeonghan's photography wasn't just in freezing moments; it was in capturing the soulful connection between artist and muse, the shared joy, and the unspoken dialogues spoken through brushstrokes and stolen glances. Among these visual tales, a particular photograph held a special place. Attached near your Paris Masterpiece artwork, it became a center of the collage photo-set. This photograph encapsulated a moment of shared triumph, where you and Jeonghan, in the city of love, converged in a harmonious blend of creativity. The collage itself became a visual symphony, each candid frame resonating with the echoes of your artistic journey, all with the ever-present, enchanting gaze of Jeonghan.
Your boyfriend's sharp remarks were that each of your piece has always radiated not just simplicity but a timeless beauty, where the pressure on the material seemed to extract the essence of your creative soul.
However, on this particular day, a subtle roadblock seemed to challenge your artistic flow, leaving you searching for that elusive spark amidst the familiar canvases that held the stories of your passion and precision.
Following Jeonghan's suggestion, you survey the room until your eyes land on him. He's immersed in his phone, savoring the crumbs off his lips with a casual yet endearing demeanor. In that moment, a realization dawns – a silent connection between the imperfect sketches scattered around, the vibrant stories on the walls, and the living work of art himself, your boyfriend, on the bed.
He, the constant cheerleader, has observed your artistic reverie. According to his shrewd observations, whenever you zoned out, you stood in a particular position-arms crossed, head tilted at a precise 75 degrees, and your lower lip caught between your teeth. All accompanied by the rhythmic tapping of your right foot. According to him, it's the hottest and weirdest thing ever.
"What?" He questions, because at this point you've most certainly lost in your thoughts. He rise on his knees,adjusting his waistband while calling your nicknames. eyes still didn't move. "Y/N? Hey Y/N? Babe? Baby!!" His soft vocals exhaust on the common affectionate names he often calls. Finally, you snap out, a downward smile suggesting a revelation.
You meet Jeonghan's gaze with eyes that now hold a bright spark, silently claiming, "Well, I have an idea." Clasping your hands together, you take a deliberate breath, a pencil poised smirk slowly overshadows your expression, "I've found my muse. And it's you!"
Jeonghan, who was now sipping the life out of his juice raises an eyebrow as loud as an 'objection' in court, "Oh, have You now? Think you can capture my snack-induced radiance." You flash him a teethy grin, "I don't think so, I know so. Your carefree vibe is a challenge, but there's nothing I can't do."
Jeonghan can be a hassle sometimes. When he willingly agrees to something, he plays hard to get. It's so frustrating at some point you have to fuck it out of him. It makes him equally attractive and annoying. You toss your book onto the white blankets, with the title "Simplicity meets Seduction" which is a part of your new artwork theme. Lets be honest, nothing ignites the fire- a lava in you unless it's Jeonghan. The warmth of lust pools in your body whenever he gazes at you, touches you. You don't boost his ego much but the way he handles you, forces you to do add some catalyst in his already sky-high mentality. He's equally the meanest and the kindest person you've ever known.
"Simplicity and seduction, interesting" he scoffs "you definitely know how to take a challenge. Since you're adamant, I'll let you do the honors. Ask and you shall receive my permission for a tester sketch" he fixes his posture, grabbing a lollipop from the jar of candies he loves to keep at bedside. You lean towards him, capturing his now frozen body between your arms, and meet him at eye-level, "Hannie, do you mind being my model for my artwork.." you move towards his ear for a whisper "please?"
The effect is immediate – a swallowed gulp, a beetroot red face, and his gaze darting toward the window as if seeking refuge in the bright corner of your creativity sanctum, all while holding the lollipop between his lips, contemplating the fragility of his sanity.
With a wicked grin, you add, "Oh, I can already see the artistic brilliance oozing from this 'tester' sketch. Brace yourself for your immortalization, Hannie."
Sitting between Jeonghan's legs for the next hour, capturing every meticulous details. Defined face, long lashes, gravity defying, soft loose strings of hair. Cheekbones subtly accentuated, with the faint mole that adds the sophistication. He looked a whispered tale of care.
Throughout the process, Jeonghan couldn't help but steal glances at you, his gaze lingering on your focused eyes and the loose button-up cardigan that slipped off your shoulders, revealing collarbones equivalent to a blank canvas begging to be painted.
"Here," you say, breaking the artistic spell, showing him your sketchbook. "Took you forever...phewweee" you hand it over, both of your hands linger dangerously close to his middle, a move that was evidently driving him crazy. Another strong gulp betrays his inner turmoil as he shifts his gaze to the book, his lips parting in anticipation.
When he sees your work, his eyes widen, and for a moment, he's utterly speechless. The sketch, beyond expectations, captures not just the physical features but the essence of Jeonghan's charisma. The defined face, the playfulness in his eyes, a shade of graphite to enhance the blush he had earlier, the tousled crown of hair – it's a mirror reflecting the unique cocktail of sophistication and mischief that makes Jeonghan, well, Jeonghan.
He continues to examine the sketch with an appraiser's eye, and his expression shifts from playful to genuinely impressed. "This is more than just a sketch. It's like you captured the essence of a moment, frozen in time. The daisy, the playful expression – it's a piece that breathes life."
As he sticks it over the headboard, he adds, "Perfection deserves a place of honor. And this, my dear, is perfection." His compliment is laden with a sense of appreciation that goes beyond mere words.
"This is simplicity at its finest, and you know how it meets seduction?" He smirks, that is a signal of danger His tone holds a hint of admiration, his eyes lingering on the sketch as if unraveling its secrets. "Follow"
As you follow him, his grasp on your wrist adds an unexpected thrill and the exact "warmth of lust" pools in your veins. He leads you to his perfect yet contained studio.
"You're an artist with a wicked touch, turning the ordinary into a seductive masterpiece." He continues, each remark a dance of words that adds another layer to the charged atmosphereIn his studio, surrounded by the remnants of his photographic pursuits, Jeonghan's remarks don't cease. He positions his camera at a distance on the tripod, capturing the two of you against a rich, simple pearly beige background. Jeonghan's scent wraps around your senses, leaving you without control over your escalating feelings.
Standing behind you, he wraps his arms around your body, creating an embrace that feels like a hypnotic spell. It's more than a mere hug; he decides to unravel layers, unbuttoning your cardigan to expose the glistening skin of your collarbones and shoulders. Soft, sloppy kisses descend from your ear to your neck, rekindling familiar sensations. Without hesitation, he nibbles on your skin, each touch tinting it with the subtle intensity of his teeth, and a soft whimper of pleasure escapes your lips, the dance of his actions rendering you momentarily lost.
The timer he had set on the camera, ticking away while you were in a delightful haze, finally clicks, capturing the perfect shot – a half-shot from the nose. His slender fingers rest on your left side, and his mouth on your right collarbone, creating an intimate composition that radiates a sense of closeness. Another timer is set, this time his arm wrapped around your shoulders, his thumb teasingly between your lips. The camera goes off once again, capturing a moment that transcends the boundaries of conventional photography.
Jeonghan, with a voice laden with appreciation, murmurs, "This, my dear, is the beauty of our connection. Every click of the camera is a testament to the warmth we share, frozen in time for eternity. You're a canvas, and we're painting a masterpiece of shared intimacy." Once again the camera goes off. The final shot was a distance shot of his deprived lips between your breasts, while he fists your hair. Again the shot comes out perfect as ever and he didn't stop.
With a jerk he lifts you up, and kisses you feverishly. Desperation dripping the dews off the fresh grass. You could almost feel his erection had he held you a bit lower. Everything about a horny, flushed, swollen lips Jeonghan drove you insane. "Yoon Jeonghan" you moan.
"You're truly an artist" he pants, "to be making such fuckable faces"
"What's stopping you from fucking me then?"
"You're right" he smirks "it's been a while I've heard you beg, and rammed myself into that cunt of yours babygirl" Against your better judgement you began imagining it. Jeonghan's large hands squeezing your thighs, peeling them apart. His mouth on your breast, biting and sucking in turn, tongue running over your hardened nipples. Nails digging into your skin, shoulders wedging between your legs. Fingers working you open just enough to fit his dick without causing you pain, careless otherwise. Life does flash beneath your vision.
"Want it?" You could only nod in response.
Jeonghan definitely isn't the most patient one. One moment your tongues dance against each other as he keeps you distracted, while he takes you upstairs, which isn't a long journey from his studio, to the next where you're already out of breath, and lay flat naked on your bed, while he tosses his clothes off. Chilly air and his lustful gaze have your nipples hardening and a shiver running down your spine. As if he can sense your thoughts, his eyes move downwards, onto your breasts before going lower. He hums, pleased. He holds up his camera, and gets another shot, and all you see is flashes. Placing the camera aside, his attention draws all to you, for you, towards you. You could read his mind through his eyes.
You gasp as he tugs at your legs to pull you closer. His face hovers over your covered core as you feel his warm breath and it is enough to make you lose your mind. “hannie, please.” You plead.
He grins evilly, clearly enjoying this as he presses a kiss on your covered pussy. Then his mouth trails down, between your thighs where he takes his sweet time nipping the flesh, making you whine in pleasure.
pulling back just a little and thrusting back in. “Feel good?” He breathes. You almost choke on your words. "Stop being a ppm.pp.paintbrush" He laughs; movements are slow, taking way too long to mark the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs. He licks and sucks at the blooming marks and stops when a wet patch forms in your panties and your moans increase their pitch. “Desperate, aren’t we?” He whispers, hands reaching for your soaked panties to peel them off. The cool air on your core makes you shudder and release another whimper. “I- I need you Jeonghan, please.”
He hums and suddenly licks a stripe from your core to your clit, eliciting a scream of surprise from you. Your hands immediately fist in his hair to pull him closer and you are scared he is going to ask you to let him go but he doesn’t, busy sucking your pussy. He devours you with no break, tongue working skillfully to tease your opening and your clit. Your pussy gushes more and more at each of his movements as you keep chanting a series of pleases.
He slides a finger inside you, slowly, as your cunt greedily takes it all in. He curls it inside you simultaneously tonguing your clit and you wail in pleasure, tears brimming in your eyes. He enters another finger and then another before moving the three of them tirelessly inside you, curling them against your sensitive spot that has your whole body shivering. That feeling paired with him torturing your clit brings you close to your orgasm.
“J-Jeonghan…I'll cum.” You breathe and much to your disappointment, he gives you one last suck before pulling away with a satisfied smirk. “Jeonghan!” You call for him, half wanting to smack him from taking your orgasm away from you. The man has the audacity to laugh. “That’s what you get for being too perfectionist. Being mine"
"I'll blow...hnmmmmmmmmyour brains" you roll your eyes, in pleasure.
His habit of pushing your buttons to your peak irritated you so much, you muster your fucked-out energy and pull him by the neck over you, and swiftly roll yourself on top of him. Your sweaty body slithers down Jeonghan's pale, beautiful body down towards his cock, and as you promised, it was Jeonghan who was so loud with his whimpers, moans all while he was helpless and feeling his senses pop out of his ears. He was melodic. He was whiny. You loved to take him all your capable of.
Oh fuck-” Jeonghan grunts, head lolling back as you feel the grip on your hair strengthen. “Fuck, that feels so good.” His praises make your pussy leak as you start bobbing your head with new vigor, one of your hands trailing down to rub yourself, the sinful sight of Jeonghan moaning making you extremely needy. That one shiver he does, is a clear sign he's dangerously close and with a pop, you move your mouth off. He opens his eyes, moving the sticky hair off his forehead to look at you.
"Hannie" your soft voice, paired with the needy, doe-eyed look you give him is enough to make Jeonghan lose his damn mind. With a growl, he captures your lips in a bruising kiss as his hands move to line up his cock to your pussy. “You asked for it.” He warns and that’s all you get before he’s pushing his entire length inside you, a high pitched shriek falling from your lips as an overwhelming feeling of fullness consumes your entire body.
He pulls you on his chest by your arms, and rams himself in you. "Ride it" he whimpers and you do not hesitate to hold his hands and bounce on him.
With a swift turn, Jeonghan turns you, pinning you below him. He increases his pace, his sharp thrusts hitting so deep inside you, your whole body shakes. Mindless babbles fall from your lips as your hands clutch into his back tightly, your nails digging into his skin which makes Jeonghan hiss in pleasure. His sweet words paired with the way his lips venture down towards your breasts, sucking and biting while one of his hands plays with your oversensitive clit make you release a loud cry of his name.
Soon after, you come for the second time, your orgasm brain numbing, making your toes curl and your whole body twitch. Jeonghan feels you tighten around him as you come and he can’t hold back either as he fills you up for the second time, calling your name softly, his warm breathes fanning your face.
“Fuck, I don’t think I’m gonna last long.” He mutters, eyes moving onto your face, the fucked out look on you making him groan, as he buries his head in your neck, painting the skin with pretty marks. He didn't even spare your lips and mercilessly nibbled onto them until they're red and swollen. He held pride in himself and at this rate, your heart was godspeed.
His soft whisper sends shivers down your spine and without thinking, you nod, holding him tightly, burying your face in his neck. Your brain has stopped functioning properly long ago and all you can feel are the way Jeonghan’s hips snap into you and the warmth radiating from him. You feel vulnerable yet safe at the same time as you hold his body close to yours and breathe in his sweaty scent.
Soon, your orgasm is brain numbing, making your toes curl and your whole body twitch. Jeonghan feels you tighten around him as you come and he can’t hold back either as he fills you up for the second time, calling your name softly, his warm breathes fanning your face.
Your ears ring and you are too tired to move a muscle as you lie there, with Jeonghan panting harshly on top of you, careful not to crush you with his weight. For a while there is silence, nothing other than the harsh breathing of you both before you feel Jeonghan soften and slide out of you, making his release drip down your pussy and you wince. "No paint is of this consistency as my cum" even with zero energy, he made you laugh a little too hard, your ribs ached. The "tester sketch" had long fallen on the carpet, and the sheets were wet.
He helps you to the bathroom, carefully takes care of you and himself and back to another lazy position on the couch, because none of you had the energy to deal with the bedsheets.
"When simplicity meets seduction..." he strokes your hair, hugging your tinted body closer to his stiff chest "an artistry in shared intimacy blooms" he completes. "Those photos, are your reference for the artwork. Make better use of it, babe" "I don't see why wouldn't I" you snuggle closer "anyways simplicity and seduction won me a good sex and dirty sheets"
"That's the harmonious convergence of elements that generate a symphony"
There he goes. Good thing is you've love him endlessly.
#seventeen#jeonghan#yoon jeonghan#jeonghan fic#if youre reading this#ashwrites#seventeen fic#jeonghan x reader#jeonghan smut#jeonghan scenarios#jeonghan x y/n#jeonghan au#jeonghan seventeen#hannie#jeonghan fluff#jeonghan hard hours#jeonghanday#happyjeonghanday#yoon jeonghan smut#yoon jeonghan fanfic#svt ff#svt x reader#svt fanfic#jeonghan fanfiction#yoon jeonghan scenarios#seventeen yoon jeonghan#cuntycheolwrites#svt smut#seventeen smut#seventeen fanfic
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Just out of curiouse, do you have any tips for beginner artists? I would really appreciate one
Of course! ^-^ I'm more than happy to help!
Let's see...without the ability to have a conversation, I'm not sure where exactly you are in skill level, so I guess I'll start with some basic quality-of-life tips.
General:
You don't have to go to college to get good at art. I didn't go to art school!
Watch youtube videos from good artists, or those you admire!
What kind of art do you ultimately want to produce? This isn't an instance of "I can only pick one thing", it's more like...each type of art requires different skills, and if you know ahead of time what you want to do FIRST, you can narrow down what you have to learn.
learn proper sketching and use of circles and other shapes to build the figure, don't just jump in making the final lines right away! It's not a "cheat", it's proper technique. It's "caring about your work".
Same for references. Google up some images of what you want to draw and look at them while you draw your own picture. It's not only okay, it's what professionals do. You need to train your EYE as well as your hand.
It's okay to mimic styles you like! But be aware that each artist may stretch or squish or exaggerate proportions to fit what they personally like to see. This is why it's IMPERATIVE that you learn realism alongside any manga style you want to try. Once you learn where the eyes sit on the face, the different facial planes and what bones they relate to, and different sizes and builds for the face, you can then manga them up to any style you want!
For real paper:
Use a protector sheet, or wear a glove on your drawing hand. You want to make sure you don't get graphite or colored pencil on the side of your hand, and then smear it on your drawing. Placing a piece of paper under your hand will protect your work!
Don't touch your art with your fingertips. Fingertips have oil and gunk on them, and will smudge your drawing. (If you're working with charcoal, this could work to your advantage! But you're probably not using charcoal. It's messy and usually limited to college art students.)
Get the right tools! You can buy a small eraser set in the art section of Wal-Mart for like $3 -- it has a polymer eraser, a smaller white eraser, and the all-important KNEADED ERASER. This thing can be squished and torn apart and it'll pick up graphite like a champ! Do not bother with hard pink erasers, they're trash.
You don't need special paper to learn. I used to draw on the backs of my dad's extra math photocopy papers. Copy paper is smooth and not too fussy and I like it. "Sketch pads" usually have a rougher grain, and I hate the way the paper feels. Also there's a lot of ugly white spots when you try to shade or use colored pencils. Only use that if you're keeping a cute little book or using pastel crayons or something (or it's all you have). Don't fuss over it too much while you're learning. It won't make much difference until you're ready to specialize!
Blending stumps are cool and even pros use them.
Get a small electric pencil sharpener. They're less than $10 at places like Dollar General, and those stores are literally everywhere.
If you get a manual sharpener in an "art set", that's fine, too, but it hurts my hand to do it manually. I like the ones that have little covers.
It DOES matter what kind of ink pen you use. Gel pens will smear. Most markers are washable, and you better believe they will run at the first hint of moisture. India Ink also smears and runs with water. I recommend Sakura Micron pens, Zig Mangaka pens, or my favorite --- the Kuretaki Bimoji felt tip brush pen. You can get all that on Amazon, and it's like $6. I got the superfine tip.
LET YOUR INK DRY BEFORE YOU PUT MARKERS OR WATERCOLOR OR ANYTHING AT ALL OVER IT. It takes maybe 20 minutes.
If you don't plan to color it, you CAN draw with a ball point pen and it'll look just fine.
Do a tiny little water streak test with any markers you plan to use with watercolor. Just brush a tiny bit of water over the mark after it's dry to see if it bleeds. I use that bleed to my advantage sometimes, but you just gotta be aware of what's what.
Digital:
You can buy a small, cheap tablet from HUION for less than $40. MAKE THE INVESTMENT. IT'S WORTH IT.
Clip Studio Paint is EXCELLENT. Well worth the $50-$60 price tag. I think you can try it before you buy it, too. It gives you access to the Asset Store -- which is the single greatest artistic sharing tool I have EVER seen, and I've used SAI for ...probably a decade... I've used dozens of custom brushes and even made my own, and I just can't even believe what is available with CSP. Do yourself a favor and get it.
"But I can't use a tablet! I can't look at a screen while I draw!" Yes you can. YES you can. Yes you can, if you'll just try it. "but I tried once and it didn't work" Well YEAH, if you only tried a handful of times, OF COURSE it didn't work. Do you know what practice is? HUION screen tablets are over $300!!!!! Do you have that kind of disposable income lyin around? (plz donate some to me if you do lololjk =u=; )
Start saving a folder full of refs.
Ask people to tell you what to draw. Let them request something for free. This makes you draw things you wouldn't normally draw, and there is INCREDIBLE value in stepping outside of your comfort zone. You will level up in no time.
Whew...that covers most of the basics, I think. If you have something specific you want me to go into more detail on, please let me know! I love helping ;w;
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Sketch I just whipped up! New YBG oc sneak peek :)
Still working out her personality, background, hobbies, etc. I’ve also been thinking of some names for her. One I’ve thought of is ‘Bambi’, ‘Bee’ for short. Or ‘Bo’. Haven’t decided yet!
I feel like Jessica Rabbit’s infamous quote, “I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way.” Fits her perfectly. Because I feel like when people first see her, they think she’s a stuck up bitch because of her constant >:( face haha.
Admittedly, she does have a bit of a feisty personality haha.
More sketchy sketches from awhile ago :)
I’m so awful when it comes to traditional drawing (´Ａ｀。) Pencil lead smears and eraser marks everywhere omggg! I can never make it look clean
#my art#art#yb game#ybg yn#your boyfriend game#yb sona#ybgsona#ybsona#doodle#your boyfriend yn#your boyfriend ynsona#your boyfriend game oc#ybg oc#yb oc
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Is drawing rami online just as easy drawing him on paper?
(previous anon who asked a few weeks ago about how to draw him/his facial proportions)
Heh, is this a hint for me to draw him with pencil and paper? I mean i guess i could, although i promised myself that bread would be the only non in-person portrait sketch in my little sketchbook. I'll think about it :P
In general, i find that any new medium gives me trouble no matter what it is. I've been sketching on the computer seriously since 2017ish when i went through the process of moving across country and having to tear out and recycle 10+ of my hardcover sketchbooks from college till then (shipping was too costly and my car was FULL). I just decided then and there that i wasnt going to sketch on paper anymore (and then my friend bought me my little sketchbook so now i HAVE to fill it lmao).
But its been HARD trusting pencil and paper again. I have had to get used to the hardness/softness of the lead, and the eraser and the lack of an undo button. But by the same token, jumping from using only pencil to the computer was hard for me too. Switching right now from my old computer to my new computer with a higher pressure sensitivity and a non-grooved screen has been hard! Figuring out how much i hated coloring by the usual blur/smear/blend techniques people do on the computer was hard! Coming up with something i liked (hard edges, hundreds of layers with light opacity) was hard and i'm still learning!
I would say that difficulty lies in the mark making, though. The proportions and likeness skills you develop tend to transfer. I think for me personally one of the weird quirks of drawing on the computer especially is that it helps my anxiety/perfectionism - if i can 'delete' a bunch of scribbles before starting the 'real' drawing it takes a lot of pressure off!
#Hope this long winded ramble helps!#I love drawing rami no matter what :) both he and steve fall under the category of comfort faces to draw for me haha#I have drawn him on paper once#When i hiked up mailbox peak last i brought some scraps of paper with me#And wrote a little letter to the universe and sketched a tiny snafu head at the bottom and left it in the mailbox#My stylized snafu i can draw from memory :P whether or not he looks exactly like rami is another question#That was with PEN too lmao absolutely no undo there
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Nobody has permission to use my art. Don't repost it. Don't save it. Don't fucking cross post it. Do not fucking use my art. Unless I give explicit consent nobody can use my art. Anyways...
Just a painting of Dante that I did. Used a screenshot I took when I inevitably went down during the Vergil boss fight. I was testing out my new Cotman Watercolors. I got the smaller travel case bc I was on a budget. I also used Windsor and Newton titanium white and lamp black to mix the greys. As well as zenacolor watercolor pencils for ya boi's hair.
Basically I can't draw realistic people, I do a lot of tracing to help with that. I used Canson tracing paper and a pencil to trace over my screenshot of Dante after flipping the image. Then I went over the tracing and added as much graphite as possible. I taped the tracing down graphite side to watercolor paper. Then, I traced over the image again to do a carbon transfer. I did it this way instead of scribbling over the tracing bc scribbling like that can leave indents that can't be hidden should I need to use my watercolor pencils. When I thought I had traced well enough I removed the tracing sheet and set it aside, still haven't decided if I'm going to reuse it. I taped my border down (first time ever doing that bc it never occurred to me that I really don't need to fill a whole 9x12 page). Then I went over what I had transferred to my paper; basically drawing Dante yet again. After making that sketch and adjusting for things that didn't completely transfer I used my General's kneaded eraser to gently lighten the sketch to prep for painting over. I worked left to right since I have known myself to fuck up and smear my paint. It took me 20 minutes to mix as close to his skin tone as possible and I believe I made at least 7 different shades of grey. I was going to do more shading and little details but quickly realized if I didn't chill on the details, I would start to fucking hate my painting. I used Strathmore 400 series watercolor paper, I don't remember what kind of press the paper is but I do know it's not cold press. I used a set of watercolor brushes that I got for Christmas (all the packaging is written in Japanese) and two really really tiny 0000 and 000 cotman round watercolor brushes.
I will say the Windsor and Newton colors carry a lot of pigment so less is very much more. I was constantly replacing my water and diluting my colors.
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what's everyones handwriting like in the Leda verse. (and if you have opinions what kind of writing utensils do people use)
Ah great question to end the night on! (Nearly bedtime for me). For the record, I'm disgraphic and pretty much type exclusively, so no handwriting judgement from me!
In writing this list, turns out Izzy notices handwriting the most.
Stede- Absolutely lovely slanted script, very legible and he loves a fountain pen complete with ink cartridges. He has Opinions on ink.
Eddy- According to Izzy in You're Awful, I Love You where he collects her notes, it's got 'odd loops and swirls'. Eddy likes writing in script, but adds a lot of flourishes and doubles back a lot to make corrections. She'll use whatever is around, but naturally steals Stede's nice pens on the regular. He buys her her own which she loves and goes on stealing his too.
Lucius- Very functional and neat, his signs in script, but otherwise uses print. He likes a good blue ink pen with a rollerball for notes. Black is for sketching.
Pete- Moderately legible mix of script and print. He likes a good pencil, useful for marking things when making patterns and he likes the feel of having one behind his ear.
Frenchie- Pretty script, but rarely writes anything down so that's hard to prove. Uses whatever is at hand and has dashed off notes in eyeliner and eyebrow pencils more than once. Usually adds doodles.
John- Print only, messy and rarely in a straight line. He bought a pack of cheap black stick pens years ago and somehow they still work. Life's little magic tricks at work.
Izzy- Eddy describes it in 'just like a one-winged dove' as 'unmistakable spiky handwriting' and Izzy himself describes about Lucius' tattoo 'the sharp spikes of his handwriting'. So yes, very spiky print and he also likes a good black pen and will buy packs of the good kind for the office.
Jim- Izzy describes it as 'copperplate'. It's perfect print, all the letters even and straight, like it was typed. They'll use whatever is around, but they like the office pens and often take them home.
Oluwande- Serviceable print with a bit of a slant to the letters, everything listing to the left. He likes a good fine tip marker because he thinks it looks better, but the stolen office pens are good too.
Roach- Just a massacre. He can write neatly if he goes slow, but he never does. Letters crash together or are separated by a mile with no rhyme or reason. He likes whatever free pens he has around.
Read- Izzy describes it as 'crowded like she worried about running out of space' and 'hard to make out'. She has godawful handwriting, and going slow doesn't help. It's just bad. She smears the ink from the office pens and it annoys her, so she just uses pencil. And highlighters sometimes, but that's mostly to give Izzy twitches.
Anne- Very nice script, almost as good as Stede's and probably more legible since she uses fewer flourishes. She has gotten used to the pens from the law office which are also high quality, but on her own, she'd use whatever was handy.
Alma- In Sing a New Song, Frenchie describes it as 'spiky, letters jabbing up and down like the paper was someone that just wouldn't listen'. It's also a spiky print, though hers is both less legible and more bearable to look at than Izzy's. She likes her father's pens and has also stolen them. Eddy gets blamed and she gets new pens.
Charlie- Izzy describes it as 'chipper' and 'chunky script'. It's very bubbly basically and fairly easy to read until he gets rushed and then it's impossible. He like pencils because Charlie has a deep need to be able to erase.
Felix- Very tight cramped together letters. Not impossible to read, but too small to be easy. He favors mechanical pencils.
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Karst Stone Paper - journal review
Decided to try out a new brand of journal and thought I'd post a lil review. I didn't find one when I was ordering it, so maybe someone else will find this helpful (:
I bought a Karst A5 dot notebook. Mostly because it was the only really good color red notebook I would find and I was looking for red. Also though, I was really interested in it because the paper is not made from trees. It's made from sustainably recycled stone! I thought it was super cool and ya know, save the environment.
I did a light sketch using a Blackwing pearl pencil. Even with very light pressure, the pencil goes on suuuuper dark. Extremely smooth, zero drag. My pencil was super sharp, and you can tell. There's a lot of raised through on the other side of the page, though it does taper off later in the drawing as my pencil dulled, so if you don't go in with a freshly sharpened, or if you aren't a pencil person, you'd be alright.
Now, my biggest complaint. (And probably a deal breaker for its intended purpose as my daily journal, still trying to decide.)
I tried to erase my sketch to go over it in pen, and it will not erase. Not even with ole betsy Staedtler Mars. I eventually gave up trying and just started inking because I was like whelp might as well make this a test subject instead of a sketch in a journal I use every day, at this point.
Ink goes on really well. Honestly, surprisingly well given how much smeared lead it was going over. You can see the ink through the other side, but there is zero bleed through to the other side.
So if you're ink only, and don't care about being able to erase or use a sharp pencil, this could be the journal for you. But I wouldn't recommend it to a pencil artist or someone wanting to be able to edit their to-do list.
#journal review#no one asked#literally no one#yet here we be#lovin on nice pens and paper#karst stone paper#paper#paper review#paper made of stone#blew my mind#twsbi eco#ferris wheel press#blackwing#blackwing pearl#sketch#Staedtler Mars
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"bury me on i90"
i once knew an old friend named september
he swallowed his baby teeth on a dare and feigned ignorance when presented with the empty jewlery box
coffee remained as bitter to us as it always had
i frequent a cafe and envision his disdain with my order
september glued his heart valves closed with poplar sap
his limbs branches of oak, he tore me from the grasp of my mother
i howled and pounded upon her weathered bedroom door as she yearned for sleep
september heard of my aspirations for fame and slipped me a twenty to tell him the color of my panties
i once knew a girl named october
october hired stage lights as background dancers and busied me with delivery of awe until i broke the soles of my heels in delight
i posed for the front row, heels in hand for the headlines
unbeknownst that this show would serve as my final headache, unbeknownst that my face wouldn't grace the 7pm news
october and i sat cross-legged behind the curtains waiting for a ride home
she painted drugstore blush onto my cheeks and shoved lip liners into her bra
i promised i'd see her next fall and that i'd answer when she called
we split a ham sandwich and left mustard smeared on the handrails
i once knew a man named november
november kept peanut butter crackers and bic lighters in the pockets of his cargo pants
he aimed to lure bluejays only to singe their wings as they cried
i found a body limp in the kitchen sink and it felt like mine:
damp hair that smelled of lemonade and bruised thighs
november held my hand as our feet sent echoes down the hallways of the middle school
we took the steps three at a time and slid down the banisters long after the lunch bell had rung
he called me a sky-leaper; i called him turbulence
i once knew a thief named december
unbleached hair billowed in the gusts as i crouched at the end of a rotting dock, my hand stretched into the waves
his grip was malicious and i'd quickly be spitting up sea
we spent my brother's birthday in a cold auditorium watching old films
i ate shrimp for dinner that night and wondered if i could drown from the oil
the sun went down as i sat in december's lap in a waiting room
i sketched my sorrows into his shoulders and stabbed, "i can't diagnose" into the back of his neck
i buried his body in a snowdrift off a buffalo exit and mounted the pen above my mantle
i once knew a woman named january
she purchased colored pencils for me and i drew the person i wished she could have been: waist-length black curls and irises of chocolate bark
in shame, my friend shrunk behind the christmas lights i'd left hanging long since the holiday
i would remain weak so long as my body continued to prove itself incompetent
the scent of medicinal tragedy left my lips chapped and hives across my cheekbones
january and i were newly self conscious of our wardrobes and threw my clothes into the hallway to be stepped over
ashamed of how my birthday suit did not age as i did, i waited until she left and took my sweatshirts back from the hall
what did my age matter if i had nothing to bear ?
i once knew a daughter named february
february struggled in my grip as i laid against the glossy wall, bathing in the glow cast from pink lights
i thought of her mother with her back to the gymnasium door, cold sub in hand
february screamed for her persecutor and threw her closed fist into my eye
she bore red wrists and disdain for the men in office chairs that surrounded us
i brought my first crush tulips from the garden and left them to wilt in my locker
he found my painting in the hundreds lining the tile so i erased my name from the label
i was willing to bargain in order to soon find blood in my sheets if it meant i had grown
i once knew a boy named march
his fingers, filthy with dried mud and fairy dust, turned white whilst he gripped his father's baseball as if it was the clarity that had escaped him
march perched atop drainage pipes to write letters he would never dream of mailing
he wrote of worlds locked behind heavy oak doors,
of shabby houses where he would drink grape juice and chew his fingernails until they bled
march and i caught bullfrogs in the afternoons
he'd speak as if we were lovers; i dared not speak of mine
i'd allow him the simple pleasure of curling irons even though we both knew that the curls never held
i once knew a lady named april
april cradled me underneath a hydrangea tree in my babysitter's front yard
her wrists bled from run-ins with thornbushes and stained my tee shirt
our laughter upheld the spring currents; i didn't mind that she'd ruined my clothes upon disgorging her guts
april offered me her condolences as i dropped childhood tendencies into the fire pit we crouched overtop of
i fumbled with the task of lighting a match, leaving her to burn my soul
april fished blades from the ashes and pressed them into my palm: a reminder that embers merely smolder
i motioned towards the gorge and asked if i'd return; april refused to respond
i once knew a soul named may
she spit fire at my feet, unconnected to my mother's god
we stood in front of the looming medicine cabinet, leering at the bottles
she mused over pills of my favorite color and wiped the mucus from my lip
i knew that may didn't mind my skinned knees
for lava coated her eardrums and she hadn't fallen victim to my cries from the sidewalk
asking, "mother may i, mother may i?"
all in effort to lay in a bed all too large for us
i once knew a friend named june
she watched flower buds reopen from her class seat at the window
we spoke on our walk out of school; i told her where i buried her brother
june bore no halo
she graduated without a forlorn glance although i stood in wait near the flowerbeds
i did not care to admit that june was undeserving
that she was unregretful of the number of abandonments she had executed or that she refused to acknowledge the passage of time
i crept into her house through the side door and unpinned her diploma from the master bedroom wall; i had always deserved it more
i once knew a mother named july
she drained the blow-up pool in my backyard and scolded me for trampling through her lilies
desperate, i imagine we are in walmart; she pushes the cart and people stop in admiration
july kissed me cheeks raw and permitted the rough summer to steal my tears
i sand alongside the radio forgetting i was singing to static
whales breeched the surface as we stood at the prow of the boat, boxed lunches in hand
july never forgave me for throwing her overboard in lieu of my chips
i realized i'd forgotten to tie her ankles to an achor and hid in the cabin
i once knew a ghost named august
we resented the very fact that the sun must, each day, fall
crows decided against cawing as i skidded across damp grass, august always a step ahead
silent except for ragged gasps; earth laid still in anticipation
i hid pills in august's desk drawer and when my father found them i said they were hers
simple pleasures at the side of the road occupied the recently stranded
i did not wake early enough to escape the ambulance she called
i woke again strapped to a stretcher, stuffed rabbit in hand as i caught my last glimpse of clouds
i met september once more after my thirteenth birthday
he burned my mother's ford at the end of our driveway
september had fallen ill; his dying wish to see me in lace briefs
he slipped a fifty in between my bony hips and the tattered waistband of the pair i wore to the hospital
orange suns rose and fell from my view on the sixth floor; i licked the window out of hope i would taste rays
for i had forgotten that wind existed and of a time when i laid on my rooftop
september watched me from across the street upon my release
i stood at the entrance, spine ablaze
#grunge#grungy aesthetic#grungyteens#queer writers#women writers#writers on tumblr#female poets#poetry#poets on tumblr#journal#writeblr#writers and poets#writing#writerscommunity#writerslife#creative writing#female writers#writerblr
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08. Toad
Turns out ladies love a toad that’s a snappy dresser.
I had a lot of fun sketching this one up, because at first I had no idea what to do for it. (Mainly due to keeping the bunny theme so far)
Then I figured why not have a Mr. Toad like character interacting with a bun, played with a few ideas and then came up with this. I think I did a better job of using my line weights on this. Though I’m still managing to smear some ink when erasing pencils at the end, even after letting it dry a long time. I’ll have to keep working on figuring that out.
I need to work on taking pictures in better lighting too.
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Does anyone here use Copic markers and the like when drawing. If so, how do you avoid smearing the pencil lines for your sketches with the markers. The led from the pencil smears into the marker colors and make the colors "dirty' and the marker tips discolored. If I use fixative spray I won't be able to erase any of the pencil lines, right. But maybe that's impossible anyway if the marker covers it????
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review - kobeha graphilo notebook, A5 blank
the graphilo notebook has only one conceivable flaw and that's entirely based on how I'm using it (which is not as a notebook).
let's start with the statement that I'm an artist who LOVES inky pens—adores them, ruins them with sumi ink, drenches pages with them, it's bad. when I went looking for my next sketchbook—that's right, sketchbook—I went into the search with an eye out for something that would be a step up from standard rhodia paper.
why? for a few finicky reasons to do with certain supplies out muscling the weight of the paper but mostly because rhodia doesn't have the decency to make a blank, softback, staple-bound, travel friendly notebook for me to use. for my last sketchbook I had to bind it myself out of pages that were falling out of my A4 pad. workable? yes; it's my favorite sketchbook I've had so far. tedious to do yourself and almost more trouble than it's worth? absolutely. (rhodia? make a lightweight A5 bound notebook with blank white paper please!)
anyway, I went on the hunt looking for a notebook that would be a step up from the rhodia because I really wanted to be able to use the pilot shunpitsu pocket brush pen (soft) without it going straight through the page (I'll do a review of it some time, it's a fantastic pen but my LORD does it like to bleed onto the next page if you're not careful). now, normal people would get a thicker paper to help solve that problem but I'm testy about anything over 100 gsm for my general use sketchbook (rhodia standard is 80).
the kobeha graphilo notebook does not have that problem when it comes to the shunpitsu soft. the graphilo says bleeding is for mortal sucker chumps who need to go home crying to their mommies. for a paper just over 80 gsm? that's INSANE. the only materials I could get to bleed through was a papermate W10 permanent marker (HUGE chisel tip on this bad boy) and the freaking brush side of a copic sketch.
a quick summary of media I tried that didn't even try to bleed through: noodlers eel ink, pentel pocket brush pen ink, shunpitsu brush pen ink, frixion markers, higgens acrylic ink, j. herbin rusty anchor ink, zebra mildliners (gold/grey/dark grey), sumi ink, kuretake bitmoji brush pen ink, walnut ink, sharpies, and more.
the only ink that didn't perform well was my noodler's pasternak ink and even then all I did was get light feathering as the dyes in the bulletproof ink separated slightly. I will admit that my gel pens didn't work as well (the inks had a tendency to railroad around the ball tip) but this paper isn't made for them. even my ballpoints looked nice, though I wouldn't recommend them as the force needed to write dents the paper slightly. pencils go on smoothly and erase cleanly, even colored leads.
okay, yes, this paper is a joy to write on, you guys get it, now what about that flaw I mentioned?
ah, yes. well.
the ink doesn't freaking dry. the shunpitsu especially took forever to dry and it's branded as a quick dry pen! almost everything I used took ages to not be a wet puddle on the page and smeared or smudged even when looking dry. it's a serious turn off but also a problem of my own making. did I know the dry times would be longer? yes, but this is downright absurd! for a notebook this would be a hassle but not impossible to deal with for a right handed person. but as a sketchbook it's almost prohibitive to use without taking huge breaks.
unfortunately it looks like this is gonna stay as a test notebook for me. that's it for now but I'll update with any discoveries I may have later. in the meantime though wish me luck in my sketchbook search! ヾ(*'▽'*)
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Hey dude! Love your art a shit ton. Just one piece of advice tho, one small thing from one artist to another, those smudges? can be avoided by using another piece of blank paper, folding it in half (mainly so you have the space) and resting your hand on it whilst you work :) helps bunches and you won’t have as many smudges 👍🏼
Hope this helps!
Thank you!!! The smudges aren't actually from my hand brushing over the pencil, though - otherwise I'd definitely try and fix it
It's actually from the eraser I use (it's a completely different one from the one I keep at home - like different brand and everything). The graphite sticks to it like nothing else and then smears whenever I erase stuff, causing the smudges (which usually can't be erased even with another eraser which sucks). That's why a lot of my class doodles are super smudgey while my home doodles - if I do them traditionally - are generally pretty clean, aside from ink stains from older doodles.
I know I should get a new one, but 1. I am a Fool who Forgets, 2. my pencils are long since out of eraser juice so I can't use them, and 3. I feel kinda weird "wasting" an eraser even when it's pretty bad to use all things considered lmao
but thank you tho!!! I will definitely keep that paper folding trick in mind for when I do more traditional sketches in the future :000
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Would you mind sharing how you bring SATIM comics to life for us? ^_^
Ha, ha, I've been waiting for question like that. Okay... *stretches the clasped hands, you can hear the crash of knuckles* Here we go.
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First of all, at the very beginning I would like to point out that each comic I make has a completely different method of creation. I draw a comic strip othey way (like SATIM), than comic page (like Kuro and Ninja or Before Henry). The former are characterized by great chaos, while the latter do not often differ from the final versions.
But let's focus now only on the comic strip for SATIM.
It all starts with an idea. I usually come up with ideas when I'm away from home and beyond the ability to save an idea, so many of them, unfortunately, are lost forever (sometimes I compe up with them again). However, if the idea is not forgotten and I return home, depending on whether I have time to draw or not - I either start sketching it right away in the form of comic frames or just writing the idea on a piece of paper. Apart from single exceptions (e.g. Radio strip), I do not write a script for a comic but I draw it straight away. The sketch is my scenario XD
For this reason, sketches can be very chaotic - sometimes the frames are completely out of sequence. I rarely sketch backgrounds at this stage (I rarely sketch them at all XD) - they are created only in the final stage of making the lineart.
Let's see it on the example of Bacon Soup, part 1.
Sketches are often very simplified, I do not play with details (e.g. stripes on Sammy's harness). In addition, I draw comic strips without dividing them into individual parts at first - so on one A4 page there can be frames from two different parts of a given strip (like here).
I also use what I call recycling, i.e. reusing a frame - when I know that the frames will not differ too much, I very often draw only those differences...
The second point in creating the strip is rewriting the texts from it. Since I draw in English, often without access to a dictionary, my sketches are often very linguistically incorrect. At this stage, therefore, I initially correct dialogues, vocabulary, grammar - and then send the rewritten text to one of my English proofreaders. Each strip goes through two people - they are usually Titatotrix and Ozio, but sometimes when either of them has no time, I turn to my husband. Discussions about dialogues are very often carried out here, sometimes it leads to minor changes in the structure (e.g. adding a frame or removing it) or dialogues.
Above you can see corrected text of strip.
After linguistic proofreading, it's finally time for the lineart. This is probably the most important stage, though not the most time-consuming. I correct the sketches I made previously, usually starting with the speech bubbles and adding backgrounds to them. For this purpose, I use my UniPin fineliners, which have been proven for years and do not smear when using an eraser. Each part of the frame has its own fineliner - for example, speech bubbles are made with 2-thick fineliners, the foreground is 1-thick, but further plans and sometimes the background is 0.5 mm thick.
When the lineart is ready, there are two steps that I honestly hate - wiping the pencil lines with an eraser and scanning. Scanning a single page can take up to an hour, 'cause if it turns out that the lines that should be perfectly horizontal aren't that in relation to the edge of the sheet, the fun of arranging the sheet on the scanner begins. I honestly hate it.
After scanning, we have the stage of cleaning the lineart in the computer. I'm only human, you know, I make mistakes and errors. But since I process the strips on my computer, I can afford it. The graphics program I'm using is GIMP. I start by reducing the brightness and increasing the contrast and of course the desaturation. Then I erase all the unnecessary lines, correct mistakes (all red loops on screen above), and sometimes add in pieces that I have forgotten (e.g., I always forgotten about the patch on Sammy's trousers).
Next comes what often takes the most time - that is, arranging and placing frames. It sounds simple, but it is not. Frames must look aesthetically pleasing, the comic book must have internal symmetry - or just express controlled chaos. Setting the width of the frames, arranging them, creating recycled frames, adding backgrounds (if they were drawn separately), sometimes moving the speech bubbles... it can take up to several hours!
The next stage is my favourite - colouring. In the case of SATIM, where I really only color black and sometimes the shining elements light yellow or darker ones in dark yellow, this is also the shortest step in making the strip.
Usually, at the end, I leave myself to make bright contours on a black background. Working on them mainly involves manipulating the eraser tool, and then change colour to the background's. After this stage, sometimes there is play with details - light effects, Bendy's spots, etc.
When the strip is ready, there is only one thing to do - importing to a graphic file and zooming out (I work on a high resolution, which is inconvenient to read). Et voila!
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I hope you'll enjoy this "secret of SATIM's strips making". I've wanted to do something like this for a long time, but I didn't feel like doing it myself, so thank you for asking, @sobercupcake ^ ^
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Is your art digital or traditional? If it's digital--do you mind showing what you use? If tradtional--how do you take such clean pictures of the art?
Hello~.
The short answer is: The majority of my drawings are traditional. I trim and scan them into my laptop, and I edit them with Clip Studio Paint Pro (brighten, clean up debris and excess smearing, cropping, moving things around if needed, until I think it looks good). I use the same program with a Huion tablet if I want to draw completely digitally (outline and color, but the beginning sketch is most likely still traditional pencil). However, if the picture’s too big for a scanner, I take a photo of it with my phone (iPhone Pro 11) in the best lighting I can provide (a daylight/blue light bulb or natural light so it’s not yellow) and edit it on my phone, though transferring it to the computer to edit is possible.
I’ve provided pictures to go with the explanations under the cut. Also, I apologize ahead of time that my “workspaces” aren’t the cleanest. Also note that even though I mention brands, I’m not particularly loyal to them. I just use what works well enough to suit my purposes~.
The majority of my drawings are traditional. If it looks like pencil, chances are good it is~.
I scan them with my scanner onto my laptop, and I use Clip Studio Paint Pro to brighten and clean up the images (if I’m unhappy with the smearing or if there was debris in my scanner). I crop and move things around if needed.
For example, I had to swap L and Light on the bottom there.
My scanner ⬆️
I also use Clip Studio Paint Pro if I ever want to do something completely digital, but it still tends to start as a traditional sketch that I scanned. I use a mouse to clean up scans, but if I’m full on drawing, I use a Huion tablet. It’s kinda old but it still works fine so I’m not complaining~. Helps that I don’t use it that much.
I use that blue and black knife to trim my drawings since they’re a smidge too long to fit perfectly in my scanner. I want them completely flat. No wrinkles. It also helps keep the cut straight so scanning the picture isn’t awkward or overly skewed.
However, if I ever draw something that’s too big for the scanner—my dry erase works for instance—then I take a picture with my phone. First, I change the lighting from a warm bulb to a daylight bulb (I just use my regular floor lamp). Gets rid of the yellow tint a warm bulb gives. Or I could just wait until daytime and use natural light, but that’s rare for me~.
Bulb I use ⬆️. The picture’s not yellow and gross anymore~.
Then I crop and edit any photos I take until I think it looks good. I tend to just do it on my phone (it’s an iPhone 11 Pro; I splurged a bit when I needed a new one, and I heard it had a great camera [it’s pretty alright~]), but I could use Clip Studio if I transferred it to my computer. As long as the lighting is good and the camera is still and lined up properly, you can take a decent enough photo to start from and edit from there any way you can.
I start by increasing the exposure since I want the background as white as possible while not sacrificing the color. It’s a delicate balance sometimes. The better the lighting, the better the photo~. I need to invest in better lighting myself. 😅
This may have been info overkill, but I hope I fully answered your question~.
#asks and answers#my posting process#a-goose-wearing-cat-ears#art process#long post#explanations#a lot of brands are mentioned here but I’m not particularly loyal to any~
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abstract: chapter 2
chapter 1!! chapter 3!! you can also find this fic on ao3 :)
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader
Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?
Word Count: 7500 exactly. i am so lame.
Author’s note: hello!! when i was uploading ch 1 on here it never once crossed my mind that i should probably add ch 2 as well ... but oh well! it’s here now. hope u all like it. reblogs and likes and whatever else are very much appreciated. also i forgot to say last time- i paint a little but i am NOT a professional artist! i’m making all of this up as i go! if i’m wrong with something do NOT tell me. shh. but ok now enjoy!!
A blank canvas stands before you, as big as your torso and propped up on an easel. White, unmarked, clean- pristine and teeming with potential.
You hate it.
In your lap sits your sketchbook. Pages upon pages of rough, half-baked ideas, each more mediocre than the last. You thought that maybe you could churn something decent out if you came to your studio, soaked in enough of the atmosphere to coax out some sort of productivity.
Well, you were wrong. It’s the opposite- the empty canvas is slowing your thoughts down, muddling them together, disorienting you.
You stare at it for the better part of an hour, white searing into your vision, shoulders sagging with each passing minute.
There’s something there. You have something, a rough chunk of an idea in the back of your mind that could be great, but you can’t figure out what it is. And it’s not something you can just google- you can’t search up how to think a thought you haven’t had yet- so you sit on your own, unproductivity festering, oozing out like the orange from the skylights.
You’re not doing too well. The sun sets before it’s five, it’s Monday, you have a fifth adult class to teach, yesterday you only got to a third of your chores. It sucks- you should be better than this! Put-together, neat, confident, creative, actually able to do something.
You wallow freely, feeling no satisfaction when you reach forward and push the side of the canvas with one finger, tipping it off the easel and sending it clattering to the floor.
The warmth of the sun burns into your back. You don’t like wasting time like this, never have. Maybe you needed to, though, to help get you back on track.
You heave out a sigh and crack too many joints as you stand up, folding up your easel, picking up the dreaded canvas, shoving your sketchbook into your purse. The drawing pencils you set out on the table are neatly lined back up into their metal tin, the kneadable eraser kneaded for a few frustrating seconds before it’s put back as well.
You zip your coat all the way up to your chin. It’s still freezing outside, and the walk from your studio to the subway, from the subway to the other studio, is always a cold one.
***
At least you can move on from the watercolors.
Oil pastels! Still not a very desirable medium, but for today, you’ll take it. At least it’s saturated, at least you don’t have to worry about the whole thing coming apart with a spare drop of water. The way it stains your fingers and blends unpredictably is kind of charming, too.
You run through your demonstrations. You gesture to where the paper is located. You make a few suggestions for what people could draw: trees, landscapes, birds. Then you remember a box of handheld mirrors the studio owner keeps in one of the storage closets, and run over to get it.
“You can use them for self portraits,” you say, and then a particular man in the back scowls, and then you add that it’s optional.
But Steve takes two mirrors.
You don’t have time to analyze all of that. You walk around, offer a few words of advice. Shonna lays the preliminary sketch for a heron, and you’ve never seen grey and yellow look so nice together. Your favorite couple, Marcie and Ahmed, draw each other, but neither of them can draw. They laugh at themselves as they misshape each other’s noses, miscalculate the distance between each other’s eyes.
It’s cute. You stop at them and laugh a little, before continuing your round to the back of the room, to Steve and Bucky.
“Everything working out okay?” You say, while Steve frowns into a mirror.
“I feel kind of stuck-up doing this,” Steve says, and brings the mirror even closer to his face, right up to his eyes.
You laugh a little. “Don’t worry,” you say, and peer down at his sketch, which is already looking uncannily like him. “It looks just like you! You even got the nose right.”
Steve nods, still bothered by the apparent narcissism of this activity. He pulls a peach pastel from the set. “I guess,” he says, unconvinced, and streaks the pastel over the side of his drawn face, and you quietly marvel over how well he understands shadow. “Are you okay?”
The question catches you off guard.
“What?”
Steve sets his mirror down.
Next to him, Bucky glowers at you, like he wasn’t smiling at your bad jokes in the cafe, like, two days ago. He’s so vehement- you’re starting to think that you dreamt up the entire encounter.
“You look kind of stressed,” Steve says, and then winces. “Sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”
“It’s okay,” you say quickly, and hesitate for a second, before thinking what the hell, and deciding to just let it out. “I am stressed. I’m so stressed- Steve, I’m, like, this close to losing it.”
Steve’s eyebrows knit together. “What’s wrong?”
He’s so sincere. Always so nice, and you don't even care that Bucky’s glare deepens when you pull out the seat and sit down in it, because you are dying to tell someone.
“I have this show in the summer,” you say, and clench your hands, because just the thought of the show makes you want to wring your own neck, “but I still have no idea what to do. I mean, I do, but it’s like, I have point A and point B, but I don’t have the line connecting it. Does that make sense?”
“What are the points?” Steve asks, and takes up the mirror again, to analyze the lower portion of his face.
“Okay,” you say, and lean back in your seat, and maybe it’s a little unprofessional, but you’re cool enough that it really isn’t, “Point A is that I want everything to be busy. Lots of patterns and fabric and plants. Like, I don’t want there to be any resting space for your eyes, because that’s boring. And point B is that I want to use people- and this is where the problem comes in, because I don’t know what people to use.”
You’re talking kind of fast, but Steve seems to still be understanding what you’re saying. “Why not?”
“Because I want it to be personal. For my previous stuff, I would just post ads on Instagram whenever I needed models, and take pictures of random people and paint them. But I don’t want to do that again, but I don’t know what I want to do. I want people to look at the people and say ‘wow, that’s personal,’ but I don't want them to be able to tell how personal it is. Like, personal at an arm’s length.
Steve stares at you like you have definitely lost it.
You pointedly don’t look at Bucky.
Then he reconsiders, and gives you a supportive little smile, and you can feel your stomach sinking further and further down.
“I don’t fully understand that,” he says, and reaches not for the orange or red pastel, but the pale blue one. “But I’m sure you’ll get it. Just give it some time.”
You watch him outline his chin, the left side of his nose, little strokes of his eyebrows. Blue and leaving little smears and flakes of color, and creating this swirling pattern with one of the streaks of peach, like ocean and sand upon each other, so pretty and bold.
“Thanks, Steve,” you say, and he grins into his mirror, still adding blue. It looks amazing. “Also, would you ever consider switching careers? The art world is missing out on you.”
He blushes.
“Use people you know.”
You and Steve turn fast to look at Bucky, still glaring. His red oil pastel, held tight in his gloved hand, looks ready to snap.
At least you’re sitting diagonally from him, instead of directly across. At least you don’t back down from looking him in the eye.
“For what?” you say, like you aren’t following, even though you are- you just have a feeling that he won’t tell you what he’s thinking unless you ask for it.
“For your painting thing,��� he says. “Because it’s personal. To you.”
You stare at him like he’s crazy for a second or two, and he looks into his own mirror, set flat on the tabletop, without peering at his face. You glance over at his paper, at half a page full of perfectly identical red boxes, and realize that he’s drawing the ceiling panels.
Okay- lame.
But also, like, funny.
Then it starts to click.
“Wait,” you say, and you feel bashful, because he’s been listening to you this whole time, and in his silence he must have been thinking of you, and the thought of that is just too satisfying for you to let go of. He’s been thinking of you.
Or maybe he just wants you to leave.
“That works,” you say, and then you suddenly have the connecting line. “That works perfectly. It’s, like, not personal, but…”
“Familiar,” Bucky says, and you are half a red box away from leaning over the table and throwing yourself into his arms.
That’s exactly it.
“Thank you,” you say, and your brain is running a mile a minute, and he’s just staring at you. “Thank you so much. That’s exactly it, oh my god.”
You don’t even realize how far you’ve leaned over, hands balanced on the table, craning your head towards him. And you don’t even care- pieces are shifting and everything makes sense, and the weather outside isn’t cold, it’s beautiful! And this class is wonderful. Bucky himself is wonderful.
You float through the rest of the class. The clarity of your thoughts is jarring, the way you understand what you’re trying to do now. Flowers, fabric, and then you have an idea with a pair of earrings. You ache for a pen and sheet of paper to write it all down, but if you started doing it now, you don’t think you would be able to get up once the class ends.
Once, you smile at Bucky. He doesn’t return it- and you’re too in over your head to care.
***
He’s not genuinely interested.
This is a precaution. Bucky takes lots of precautions- he sleeps with weapons at his bedside, goes out with knives strapped to his body, always sweeps unfamiliar rooms before sitting, doesn’t tell anyone anything. This is just another thing thrown on top of his already exhausted routine, necessary to his safety and sanity and-
To his basic peace of mind.
He’s not a very good typer, so he asks JARVIS to look it all up instead, and transfer it to his overpriced, Stark-issued laptop.
There’s relief in that action itself- he tells JARVIS the wrong name twice, because that’s how personally disinterested he is. So disinterested that even something as simple as a name eludes him.
He doesn’t care.
The information gets transferred to his laptop. Bucky takes his time, carefully scanning the screen, preparing to tuck away anything concerning, for future reference.
There is a lot of information.
Articles- too many articles. Editorials, interviews, reviews. And pictures, and even videos, and he wonders if Steve ever brought this up to him, this level of renown that apparently you possess, and Bucky just wasn’t paying attention. But no, that couldn’t have been true- he’s been genetically enhanced to always be paying attention.
He’s a slow reader, and whenever the fonts are too small it gives him a headache, so rather than reading an article, he goes to the pictures tab.
Your art shows up first. He clicks on the picture to enlarge it, and it takes a long while for him to fully comprehend what he’s seeing.
A woman dancing with a cow in the background, a woman with butterflies on her eyelashes. Two men wearing crowns of pearls, but when he zooms in closer, they’re birds. A figure in a dress, wearing sleeves that resemble fish, with a halo of koi fish circling her head. Everything has to do with animals, and there’s so much movement, and he doesn’t like art, but he does have to admit that it’s all so pretty.
And there’s lots of yellow.
And as he scrolls further down, there’s pictures of you. In some, you stand with people who look ridiculously pretentious, with weird hair and odd clothes and thick-framed glasses. Other artists, he guesses, who have to let everyone know that they’re artists before they even open their mouths.
Then there’s pictures of just yourself. You, unsmiling next to a half-finished canvas, in the middle of twirling a paintbrush between your fingers. You, unsmiling in a white-walled photography studio. You, smiling while wearing a ridiculous sequined dress, which confuses him until he reads the description, and learns that the dress itself is an art installation.
It makes his head hurt.
He looks some more, even though he’s not really learning anything. Or maybe he is learning, just nothing concerning like he was hoping for. Something that would justify this search in the first place, but all he’s found is that you have pretentious colleagues and wear ridiculous dresses and deserve Steve’s admiration the way you’ve been receiving it.
Eventually, he coaxes himself into clicking a link. An article with a big publication, too big for just an art instructor- but you’re not just an art instructor. you’re, like, good. The article is an interview, which could have just been recorded and uploaded, but for some reason, it was transcribed and written in article format anyway.
The twenty-first century is stupid like that.
When it was written, you had just had your first solo exhibition, and it was more successful than anybody ever anticipated. The interview is meant to be a little off-the-wall, charmingly eccentric, asking about favorite foods and then your future aspirations in the same sequence, and then debating different colors and some political situation within the same question.
Bucky stumbles through a paragraph or two, not really comprehending anything but getting the gist, and his head hurts more, but he’s blissfully relieved of it all when Steve barges into his room without knocking.
He shuts his laptop screen so hard that the screen nearly cracks.
“Woah,” Steve says, and puts a hand up, but doesn’t take any steps back. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” Bucky says, and stares at the laptop with fury, as if he’ll be able to close the tab that was still open through telekinesis alone.
“O-kay,” Steve says, totally unconvinced. He hoists the bag on his shoulder- his gear bag, with his supplies. He’s headed out for an indefinite period of time, anywhere between three days and two weeks. In the bag is his suit, in its patriotic spandex glory, his other supplies, bandages and a gun and a sketchbook.
To pass the time, if he gets bored on the flight.
“Are you leaving now?” Bucky asks.
Steve nods his head. “Yeah. Just came to say bye.”
“You mean see you later,” Bucky corrects, because those two things mean different things, and the difference is enough to matter to him.
“See you later,” Steve says, and he shifts, one massive wall of muscle leaning from one foot to the other. He’s uncertain of something- like Bucky can’t handle himself on his own.
He can handle himself.
Bucky lifts one silver hand and waves.
***
He doesn’t need to go.
Steve hasn’t returned, still somewhere in South America, away on a mission. It’s not like anyone is going to check, either, if he attends or not. It’s not like this is required, like he has some sort of moral or contractual obligation to show up.
Still, it’s become part of his routine, and deviating from routine makes his skin itch. As Monday strikes again, he slides into his seat in the art studio. At least he’s not too early; he doesn't know how he would be able to handle any pre-class conversation without Steve being there to do the actual conversating.
You start right on time. Always so prompt.
“We’re going to be working with oil pastels again,” you say, and make a big gesture with your hands. You wear chunky gold earrings that wink under the lights. “But I’m going to let you do whatever you want. Draw whatever. I’ve got out a few different types of paper, and some different tools for creating textures- I’ll show you all how to use them really quick.”
You scrape a sheet of paper hastily colored purple with something that looks like a plastic knife. Then you use something that looks like a plastic-toothed comb, and then some other pointy plastic objects to make lines and whirls on the paper. Texture. He watches the paper, some, but mostly you.
You look over at him two times. No more than you do at anyone else, but he still notices- as a precaution.
“Okay, I'm done. You all can get to work,” you say, and set the purple sheet down on your own table, at the front. “Have fun. Get crazy with it.”
Bucky looks down at the paper he’s set on the table, yellow-white and slightly textured. He looks at the oil pastels, sitting so dejectedly in their little cardboard dish, a product of low budget and disuse.
He takes the yellow one.
You come over to his table some time later, after getting to everyone else. He’s always last, he’s noticed- because he sits at the back, and because you like to take your time talking with Steve. But Steve isn’t here today, which means you won’t linger, which means he can continue on sitting in peace.
“How’s it going?” You ask. One of your hands comes to rest on top of the chair across from him.
“Your shoe is untied.”
Your smile falters as you look down, at your red sneaker- you wear hot red sneakers- but reaffirms itself a second later as you slide the chair out, and prop your foot up on it.
Bucky suddenly feels off. Your knee rests slightly above his head, and your head is tucked down but still looming high over him, cast in shadow. He’s beneath- under. And you’re double-knotting the laces of your shoe.
“Thanks,” you say, and it’s awkward to thank someone for something so little, but you don’t say it like it’s awkward. “I probably would’ve tripped on the laces. Anyways, again, how’s it going?”
He considers the question. “Fine.”
“Fine,” you repeat. You take your foot off the chair and tuck it back in, and then lean- loom even more- over him, looking over at his piece of paper.
He glares at you, even though you’re not looking at him.
“Wow,” you say, and your eyebrows are creasing, and he thinks that you’re struggling to come up with something to say, and after seeing those paintings online, he can’t even take offense at it. “Those lines are so… straight. How are they so straight?”
Because his metal hand has an internal stabilizer.
“They just are,” he says.
You look at him. Everything suddenly feels stuttered and slow, drenched in honey. He’s expecting some type of joke, and praying for the ground to open and swallow him up, bury him under six feet of tile. Has silence always been this unbearable?
“Awesome,” you say.
Then you look away and he’s able to breathe again, and you’re turning away, ready to flounce back over to someone else. He looks back down at his paper and picks up the pastel again, fingers pressing over the paper wrapper, so that he doesn’t get anything on his glove. He draws another straight line.
“Wait, one more thing.”
You turn around and his head snaps up, fully alarmed.
You take in his expression and look like you’re about to laugh. But you stifle it back, bite on your lip as you pull the chair back out again and sit down, across from him. Steve isn’t even here- Steve isn’t even your motivation for being here, today, and all he’s thinking about is you in that ridiculous art installation of a dress.
Floor-length. V-neck.
“So,” you say, and Bucky can’t look at you. In his peripheral vision he sees you curl your hands together, resting on top of the table. The glass on the watch flashes. “So, you know the idea that you gave me last week? With painting people I know? I started this painting of my mom- and all of these ideas in my head make sense to me now- wait. Let me show you, first.”
He keeps his eyes dutifully trained on his paper. Still, he can hear the smile in your voice as you pull your phone out of your back pocket, tapping away at something before turning the screen around for him to see.
Your arm is stretched all the way across the table. Bucky leans in a little bit, to see the picture you’ve pulled up.
A partially painted image of a woman that looks like you but not you, with almost the same face as you, but with hands mottled with age and a mouth starting to droop at the corners. Your mom, apparently, sitting with her hands clasped the way you’re clasping yours. She wears earrings that look like huge flowers, lilies, or something, and in a white dress that looks halfway like a swirled illusion.
“Nice,” he says, grudgingly, and you keep your hand outstretched. He wonders if you want him to take the phone from you, if you’re waiting for him to say more. “I like the dress.”
You beam at him. He’s been looking at you without realizing. “Thank you. I actually got the idea or the pattern from Steve- I’m just stealing ideas, aren’t I- but did you see the thing he did with his self-portrait last week? The swirls? It was so pretty- I couldn’t help myself. Anyways, where is he today?”
“Out of town.”
Dread curls at the pit of his stomach.
Bucky doesn’t know why, but he has the heavy, stone-cold realization that he does not want to be talking about Steve right now.
It must show, because you’re in the middle of opening your mouth to say something, and then abruptly close it.
“Oh,” you say, and you shift. He realizes that he doesn’t want you to leave yet, either. “Nice.”
You’re getting out of your seat. You must be feeling it too, the heaviness, the atmosphere so overwrought with polite dislike, because he still doesn’t like you, even though he knows your name now, but-
“What’s your next painting going to be?” he asks, so quickly that it comes off as a little frantic.
Your eyes widen and you’re carried back down, drifting back into your seat.
“I’m so glad you asked that,” you say, as you settle in. For a second, you’re frighteningly put together, shoulders straight, hands neatly folded, earrings glinting. “I’ve been wanting to tell someone about it so bad.”
You want your next painting to be of your dad. A portrait of just his face, close enough to add little, inconsequential details. You have this idea where you create patterns that look like flowers out of his wrinkles. He has teeth that are always yellow, because he drinks so much coffee, you say, a habit you’ve picked up, but you want to paint them almost neon, bring as much attention to it as you can. His hair is thinning and you want to make it all blue, like a receding tide.
It devolves, and his grip on the pastel loosens as you fall into something more and more jumbled, divulging other ideas you have, about things that aren’t directly related. You want to go big- much larger than life. A canvas as big as your body, just to paint a head. You make your own canvases, too, and you show him your palms, skin beneath your fingers raised and bumpy, with a ropy pink scar on your right hand. It’s from an incident with a saw, you say, even though you know your way around a saw. He almost wants to touch it.
Bucky thinks of his own right hand, with as many scars as it has lines. What does that mean, in terms of fate? He knows his way around a saw, too, and many other bigger, dangerous things, but you don’t know or don’t care about it. It devolves further, you sink lower in your seat, shoulders curving forward, and you’re telling him something else about nothing, and you aren’t minding that he’s mostly focused on just listening.
*
You’re laughing when someone behind you clears their throat.
You turn back, to see Shonna, looking uncomfortable as she fiddles with the strap of her purse.
“I’ve got to go,” she says, and, for whatever reason, gives you a look. “I finished my drawing, so I’m taking it with me. See you next week.”
“Have a good night!” You say, and cast a spare glance at your watch, to see how early she’s leaving.
She’s not leaving early.
You’re running nearly twelve minutes over.
“Oh my god,” you say, quietly, and pull away from Bucky. You have to pull this back together, quickly, you stand up and clear your throat.
“Hey, everybody,” you say, and so many people older than you turn to look at you, but the situation you’ve put yourself in doesn’t let you appreciate the thrill of it. “I wasn’t paying attention- we’re running past time. You all can go ahead and head out. I’ll clean up today. I’m sorry.”
Bucky is ignored, and it’s funny how quickly you’re able to slip away from him, him and unrelenting blue eyes and a stoic silence to bounce all of your thoughts off of. You keep your back to him and head back to the front of the room, standing and exchanging pleasantries as everyone heads out, apologizing with smiles and chastising yourself for being so careless.
Nobody berates you, though. You keep on expecting them to. There’s a sudden, sharp pain in the back of your neck. They all leave, and then it’s just you, standing by the entrance and staring at all the tables you have to clean, all the unfinished art projects you have to slide on the art racks, alongside the sticky poster-painted houses and clouds and corner-suns drawn by the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes.
All by yourself.
Or not.
Bucky lingers, putting his pastels back in the tray. He’s so silent that you missed him the first time, even though he was standing right there. Isn’t he some type of spy?
“Bucky, I got it,” you call. Without anyone in the room, it's like everything you just said to him didn’t happen. There’s no buffer and it’s just you and just him, and it's so empty. “You don’t have to clean up.”
Something in his gorgeous face shifts. You wish he was a little more expressive. His eyes hang dark underneath the brim of his dorky hat.
“I can help you,” he says, and adds, after an impossibly long second of hesitation, “I’ll make sure you don’t break any jars.”
You laugh out loud, but you’re confused. First listening to you talk on and on, now offering to help you and trying to make a joke- he doesn’t like you enough to be doing any of it.
You know you like him, or at least find him intriguing enough to disregard his douchiness, but, like, still. Something’s off.
But then again, how do you deny him after that joke?
“Thank you,” you say, so formally, and you want to grimace. “That’s really nice of you.”
He blinks slowly, and you think that he’s going to smile, catch a ghost of it in his eyes.
It vanishes too fast, as he slides the cover back on the tray of sad oil pastels. You’re about to make some cynical comment about the lack of funding for the arts, just so there’s something to occupy all this new space between you and him, so you don’t accidentally lessen the space by doing something dumb, like moving closer to him.
“Where do I put these?” He asks, holding the sad tray up.
***
Steve returns for the seventh Monday class! You’re so happy when he walks in through the doors, abandoning your stacks of paper and speed-walking toward with a smile and a bouquet of paintbrushes.
“Hey, Steve!” you say, and he spooks, a little, but relaxes when he sees it’s you. No Rina today- she’s been leaving early lately. Maybe there’s some residual fear in her, just from that stare she was subjected to, all those weeks ago. “It’s good to see you.”
You get those stares every week, multiple times an hour, are getting one right this second- she needs to get over it.
He smiles and comes further into the classroom, meeting you over one of the tables. “It’s good to see you, too. Sorry I missed class last week.”
You wave him off. “Don’t worry about it. Here, take these for a second.”
In his massive hands, the paintbrushes look silly. Like dandelion stems, but it’s Steve, so he holds them gingerly, at a distance, like the wood might snap if he applies even the tiniest bit of pressure.
It’s not a good thought that you have next- it’s a deplorable thought- but you wonder if all super-soldiers have hands like that.
Behind Steve, there’s Bucky, standing in his usual black ensemble and glower. You know, now, that if you asked him to help, he would, but your mouth suddenly goes gummy and you trail off to the shelves instead, talking yourself up as you try to find a container for the brushes.
There, on the top shelf. How did it get all the way up there? You swipe it off and turn around, cheery and hopefully composed enough to not let any of your deplorable thoughts slip, and-
He’s there.
Not there, not all up in your face the way you would not want him to be, but closer, next to Steve instead of behind. His cheeks are rosy. You look out the window, to see if it looks cold. His face is pink, but he looks cold. Winter Soldier. You’re running hot, hot, hot.
“Hey,” You say, and politely smile, like while cleaning up last week, you didn’t spend an extra twenty minutes just talking to him.
“Hey,” he says, and does nothing, like the impassive brick he always is.
God.
You can’t be like this. This isn’t… it’s not cute. It’s embarrassing.
“Help me find the palettes,” you tell him, and place the container on the table for Steve. “I’ve been looking for them, for, like, ten minutes, and I can’t find them. And we’re painting today, so we need palettes.”
Steve dumps the brushes into the container. Bucky nods. He understands the importance of the palettes.
“Okay,” he says, and in the time it takes you to turn back to the shelves, he’s already standing behind you, surveying the shelves with you. Steve is probably giving you a look- he and Bucky seem like the kind of friends that tell each other all of their feelings, paint each other’s nails and read each other's diaries- he probably knows what’s going on.
If he does, you would like for him to tell you. All you know is that you’re really liking this.
Bucky finds the box of palettes wedged in the back of one of the shelves, in between thick pads of watercolor paper and glass cases of craft knives.
“Thank you,” you say, as he hands the box to you, as his fingertips just barely brush against yours. “Thank you so much.”
You catch another ghost-smile. “You’re so welcome,” he says.
Behind Bucky’s back, Steve gawks at you in disbelief.
*
Acrylic paint- the love of your life.
“It’s best for me to just let you guys loose,” you say, in your spot at the front of the room. Even now, your hands are itching, humming with energy, humming for a paintbrush. “If you need help, ask me, of course, but it’s more fun to just try and see what you can do.”
That’s part of why you love it- for its ease. Quick-drying, not water-soluble once dried, saturated. What is there even to explain? That you apply it with a brush? That you can blend with it? All of that is, like, obvious. All of it can be learned from trial, and any error can just be painted over.
Expression is so simple, with acrylic paint.
It’s messier, too, but nobody’s perfect.
You walk around. Shonna sketches out more birds- finches, yellow and mid-flight. Marcie and Ahmed start by painting without sketching first- one going for a sunset, the other palm trees. Classic. You catch a few others, silhouettes, some flowers, some abstract paint splatters.
Then, of course, you head to the back.
Steve is something out. You can’t tell what it is, yet, but you know that it's going to be beautiful. It’s already beautiful. He looks up and gives you a wordless smile, then gets right back to work. One of his hands is splayed over the sheet of chipboard, the other drawing quick, light lines with his pencil.
You wish that you could give them canvas. But canvas is expensive, and again- funding is bad, and you want to save the few you’ve scrounged up for one of the later classes, when everyone is more confident in their abilities.
Bucky mixes paint on his palette. Red and… black.
“That’s a pretty color,” you say, nodding down at the sad maroon. He looks up at you and you ball your hands into fists, placing them on your hips, not because you put your hands on your hips, but because you feel like you should be doing that right now, with how he’s looking at you. Gutting you.
He acknowledges you with a nod, and goes back to mixing the colors.
Good grief, how much more is he going to mix?
You’re suddenly searching your mind for something interesting to say.
It’s awkward, and you’re even more mad at yourself- how can you be awkward in your own class? You’re so off today. Even Steve is solely focused on his canvas, and you’re happy for it- he’s drawing and really getting into it, but now you have no reason to linger!
You stay, for another awkward, insufferable second, before moving on to somewhere else.
It’s whatever. You want to think about it, but you push it out because there’s so many more important things to consider- like the painting of your mom nearly finished in your studio, the sketched-out canvas of your father, the dozens of other little ideas pushing up through the cracks in your thoughts, like delightful weeds.
You want to paint Rina. If her hair is still red when you see her, you’ll draw her upside down with poppies, wearing whatever crazy outfit she wants. You want to paint another friend, who’s constantly travelling but might be in New York next month, draped in gold jewelry and marigolds. You might even- you might even draw a few people you don’t talk to anymore, or people you don’t talk to enough, draw them with pansies and chrysanthemums.
Flowers. First, you were fixated on animals, but now it’s flowers- but it’s wholly unsymbolic, because symbolism gets trite, and you just want to make something that looks pretty.
Nobody asks you for help. Acrylic is fun like that- it’s a medium where you can help yourself. The class gets loud- lively, even, and you just sit in your chair at your table and take it all in.
Bucky, in the far back, works on his painting with concentration that rivals Steve’s. You look for too long.
He can probably feel your eyes on him. You wonder if you should look him up, but that’s weird. Really weird, and what would you even search for? A Wikipedia article? Pictures? An interview?
Maybe you should, but you like the hot-and-cold mystery just how it is.
*
The class ends on time. You’re extra vigilant today, showing people how to lay their paintings on the drying racks, showing them where to dump their paint water.
You say that you’ll wash the brushes. Bucky can tell that you don’t trust anyone else to do it properly. You say that you’ll wipe down the tables, too, and you’ll move all the supplies back to the shelves. All you want is for everyone to put their paintings away and wash their palettes.
The work is done, and everyone files out, spurred by you wishing them all a good week. Steve lingers, as usual, and Bucky follows behind him.
You didn’t talk to him that much, today.
“Did you figure out your painting yet?” Steve asks.
“I did,” you say, and tell him exactly what you told Bucky, but more clearly, more well-articulated.
And less… elaborate. No talking about the idea for the second painting, no mentions of the canvases you make yourself. You don’t show him your palm.
Steve chats with you for a few minutes, until the conversation fizzles out. He shifts his shoulders and tells you he’s going to go.
“Have a good week,” you say, smiling, looking back at Bucky.
Steve gets to the doorway, and Bucky stays right where he is, and his stomach does a flip, because he can’t believe that he’s really going to be doing this.
“You coming, Buck?” Steve says.
“I’m going to stay back for a minute,” Bucky says, while looking at you.
He’s not a confident person, but he’s also not not confident. He just does what he has to do, without thinking, without sitting on it long enough for it to morph into anxiety, because when you've been impassive for seventy years, it’s hard to turn the faucet back on.
Right now, though, he might be getting what they call butterflies.
“Why, is there something you-”
Steve cuts himself off. He understands.
“Nevermind,” he says, backtracking. “Okay. See you later.”
He leaves.
“What’s up?” You ask, as you head over to the sink. You’re so nonchalant, and he doesn’t know if he’s resenting it or grateful for it, so he just watches you pull cleaning supplies from the cabinet underneath. “Are you here to help me clean up?”
No, but he’ll do it, if...
“Yeah.”
You reach out and rip a wad of paper towels from the dispenser.
“Great,” you say, and he’s just thinking, No, this is not great. You hand him a spray bottle and the paper towels. “Wipe down the tables, please. I’m going to get started with these brushes.”
He starts to wipe down the tables.
You get the sink running.
The streaks of paint on the tables haven't dried yet, so it all comes off with no effort. He gets through it all pretty quickly, one table after another.
Then he’s at your shoulder, tossing the wad of paper towels in the trash, setting the spray bottle precariously on the sink’s edge, since your legs are in front of the cabinet.
What else could he do? Sweep? Turn off the lights? He doesn’t know if you would trust him to do either of those things. He could close the blinds, but the sky is in transition, from grey to blue to ink, and he likes the way the dark seeps into the room.
It sets up the atmosphere.
You give him a quick smile, rub your thumb over the bristles of another brush. “That was fast.”
He shrugs.
It’s a dead conversation- he’s not used to this. Maybe he should be chatting you up, but he doesn’t chat people up, ever. You’re supposed to be the one that talks first, says something for him to go off of. He’s not good at this, but he suddenly wishes that he was.
“Cleaning brushes is such a painful process,” you say eventually, trying to sound exasperated, even though you’re clearly not. “Takes forever- oh, wait. Not painful, paint-ful. Get it? ”
He gets it.
“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s not much, but it’s something. He wants to laugh but doesn't.
You add another brush to the growing pile of clean ones, laying on a bed of paper towels. The sink water drains slowly, dirty grey-brown.
“I know,” you say. “But anyways, I have a question.”
“What is it?”
“Is Bucky your real name?”
The fuck?
You’re genuinely asking, brows drawn close together. He wants to reach out and smoothen it. And also tug the strings of your apron loose, and hook a finger inside the hoop of your earring. He’s wanting to do lots of things- all crazy, irrational things.
“No,” he says, and he sounds weird saying it, when all that’s weird is you having asked in the first place. Your frame of reference for him is so poor- which is better for him, better for everything. It’s almost flattering. “It’s a nickname.”
You open your mouth for the next question, but he beats you to it.
“My real name is James.”
You abruptly look over at him in disbelief. “No way. Really?”
“Really.”
You’re on the last brush. You run it under the tap and the bristles send streams of purplish paint water over your fingers, and turn your head, looking over at him. He meets you back, glare icy, even though inside, he’s burning up.
“You don’t look like a James,” you say, and grin at him, and keep yourself looking at him as you finally shut off the sink.
He knows he doesn’t- that’s why he doesn’t go by it. But he’s going to indulge you, because he wants to.
“Don’t look much like a Bucky, either.”
“It’s a cute nickname, though,” you say suddenly.
His heart leaps to his throat.
“You think it’s cute,” he says, and he shifts over and leans, against the wall, crossing his arms. He’s been standing too close, feels so unnaturally light. He can’t even pretend to dislike you anymore, not when you use the word cute to describe him, not when he likes it. Not when your name is rattling through his head over and over, a mile a minute.
“It’s so cute” you start, nodding along to yourself, “It’s like… nevermind. I don’t even remember what I was about to tell you. Can I get your number?”
That was not smooth.
At all.
But it still works, doesn’t it? You’re not trying too hard, so he doesn’t have to try too hard, either.
“Yeah,” he says, and smiles at you- and takes extra satisfaction in the way you light up. Yellow and radiant.
“Okay.” You wipe your hands down on your apron before pulling out your phone. Its case is glittery pink. The tips of your fingers have pruned.
Before, this would have all been so easy. Bucky could have you beside him the day he met you, turned you over in a whirlwind, in a flurry of milkshakes and dancing to music nobody listens to anymore. He wonders if he should miss you- and then tries to imagine you in a red lip, peroxided curls and a modest day dress, and gets the answer for himself.
He doesn’t miss it.
“Here,” you say, and hand him your phone, and he takes it immediately, he’s so over in his head.
He types his number in with his right hand. When he hands the phone back, the question is already burning in his mind.
“When will I hear from you?”
He shouldn't ask. But he needs to know, always needs to know things. Things can only be so irrational, it has to start making sense sometime- and anyways, it doesn’t seem to bother you. You stare at his number, type something in and put your phone away, and the whole time you’re grinning, and he realizes.
You’re pretty.
“Sometime.” you say, and you reach behind your back to untie the strings of your apron. As you bring the neck of it over your head, you wink.
Sometimes, parts of him still feel frozen, trapped in ice, like he wants to smile but can’t remember how, like he’s forever moving too slow, falling too far behind and below.
Right now, he’s all thawed out.
“You’re gonna keep me waiting like that?” He says, and he takes a daunting step forward, cocks his head to the side. He’s on autopilot, reacting on muscle memory alone- this is flirting, this is charming like it’s ‘38.
You nod, adopt a mock seriousness. “I am,” you say. “I like to keep a little bit of mystery.”
“Mystery girl.”
“You know it.”
His heartstrings loop over themselves, tying into in a double-knotted bow.
#oh my god why is this so long#someone take my typing rights away#i beg you#hope yall like this one!#like this or i'll eat ur toes#NO i am just kidding ... i would appreciate the likes doe it is very validating ...#ok now back to regular tags#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes imagine#reader insert#imagine#bucky barnes fic#avengers#captain america#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes x you#fem! reader#artist!reader#bucky barnes x reader fluff#fluff#marvel#bucky barnes fan fiction
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