Jul 16
I tried a different way of coloring my drawings
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I tried a different way of coloring my drawings
aisha rolled over in her bed, groggily opening her eyes and feeling a warm presence next to her. she was met with the sight of her sleeping boyfriend. his messy bangs that normally covered his eye were swept to the side, letting her see his full face. she took a few seconds to just admire him.
she cupped his cheek, then moved his hand up to his jet black hair. she ran her fingers through it, while thinking about something. ray stirred as his eyes fluttered, looking at her pensive expression. he took her in, and noticed what she was doing. he leaned into her hand slightly, not saying a word.
deciding to finally break the silence, she whispered, “you should grow your hair out, i think it’d look nice.”
he blinked at her, before he moved closer to her and rested his head on her shoulder, “..i might.”
that’s how he realized he liked when she played with his hair.
(this is just a dumb drabble I wrote to help me out of my writer’s block)
Redraw
next doodle paaaaaggggeeeeee of my fav characters of the animes I've watcheddddddd
close ups and yapping session undercut:
Ray from The Promised Neverland
Would they accept Kyubey's contract?
Yes
Yes, reluctantly
No, reluctantly
No
See results
I can’t put my finger on it yet but tpn ray is NOT cisgender…
Ohhh Norman and Ray drawings, going back to my roots 🙂↕️
(imagine Norman talking about genocidal plans and Ray going:)
The Fox of Grace Field
— Full Score Trio x ENTP!Reader (Pre-Escape)
Summary: Before the truth shattered their world, Grace Field House was home to laughter, games, and a certain mischievous sibling who kept everyone on their toes. Headcanons for Emma, Ray, and Norman with a gender-neutral reader who is talkative, persuasive, charismatic, and full of playful tricks—yet possesses a razor-sharp mind that is far too often underestimated. No secret knowledge, just daily life with a human fox.
requested by my darling reader @kyoumli !!
EMMA
Emma adores you. Absolutely, wholeheartedly, with every fiber of her being. You are her favorite playmate, her partner in chaos, and the only person who can match her seemingly infinite energy. From the moment the morning bell rings to the second Mama calls for lights out, you and Emma are a whirlwind of noise and laughter that echoes through the halls. She never understands why some of the older kids sigh when the two of you get together—to her, your constant chatter is the soundtrack of a perfect day.
Your mischievous streak delights her. You have a gift for persuasion that borders on magical, and Emma is your most willing accomplice. When you decide it would be hilarious to convince the younger children that a friendly monster lives in the supply closet, Emma is right there beside you, nodding earnestly and adding her own embellishments until half the house is gathered around, wide-eyed and hanging on your every word. She never questions your schemes; she simply trusts that whatever you are planning will be fun. And it always is.
What Emma does not fully realize—at least not consciously—is that your playful exterior hides a brilliant strategic mind. She is no fool, and she notices that you win games of tag more often than anyone else, that you talk your way out of trouble with an ease she envies, that you seem to read people like open books. But she attributes it to your charm, your quick wit, your "special magic." She does not see the cold logic running beneath the surface because you are always smiling when you deploy it.
There are moments, though, when even Emma pauses. During study sessions, when you grow bored and start entertaining the table with a joke, Norman might gently scold you to focus. You will sigh, roll your eyes, and then answer the question he was puzzling over so casually that the whole room goes quiet. Emma will blink, then burst out laughing. "See? You're a genius when you want to be!" she will say, utterly delighted. She never feels threatened by your intelligence, only proud.
Emma treasures your talkative nature because it fills the silence she cannot stand. You listen to her wild dreams of adventure and exploration, and instead of tempering them with realism, you build on them. You spin tales of the outside world so vivid and ridiculous that she begs for more. When she declares that one day she will ride a giraffe, you immediately launch into a detailed plan of how to befriend one, complete with sound effects. She loves you for it.
She is, perhaps, the only person who can out-talk you—but even then, it is not a competition. It is a collaboration. The two of you together can convince anyone of anything, and you often gang up on Ray and Norman with coordinated puppy-dog eyes until they cave. Emma thinks you are the funniest, cleverest, most wonderful person in the house, and she tells you so often, with the unfiltered sincerity that makes her so beloved.
She does not know the truth of the house. Neither do you. In this golden, ignorant time, Emma is simply your best friend, and the sound of your combined laughter is the most natural thing in the world.
RAY
Ray pretends you are exhausting. He sighs when you bound up to him, groans when you steal his book, and makes cutting remarks about your inability to sit still for more than thirty seconds. Anyone watching might think he finds you annoying. Anyone watching closely, however, would notice that he never actually tells you to leave.
You are one of the few people who can consistently surprise him, and Ray has not quite decided if he loves or hates that. He prides himself on predicting outcomes, reading people, staying three steps ahead. But you—with your constant chatter and mischievous grin and seemingly chaotic energy—manage to be unpredictable in a way that is not random. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to figure out why. The chaos is a mask. Underneath, you are as calculating as he is. Maybe more.
The realization comes one afternoon during a game of chess. You have been talking nonstop for twenty minutes, hopping from topic to topic with dizzying speed, and Ray is only half-paying attention to the board because he assumes you are not paying attention at all. Then you say, "Checkmate in three moves, by the way," and he looks down and sees it. You were setting up the trap the entire time, all while describing in exhaustive detail a hypothetical argument between two squirrels.
He stares at you. You grin. "What? I can multitask."
After that, he watches you differently. He notices the patterns behind your playfulness—the way you use humor to disarm, the way your constant talking serves as camouflage for a mind that is always observing, cataloguing, analyzing. He realizes that you are never as distracted as you seem, and he feels a grudging respect that he would never admit out loud.
Ray still pretends to be exasperated by you. He calls you "noisy," steals your snacks as petty revenge for interrupting his reading, and engages in sarcastic verbal sparring matches that the younger kids find baffling. But he also starts saving you a seat in the library. He brings you books he thinks you will like, even if he wraps them in complaints about your "terrible taste." When you are uncharacteristically quiet, he is the first to notice and the most persistent in prying out what is wrong.
Your persuasiveness is a source of endless amusement to him, mainly because it never works on him—or so he claims. The truth is that it works, but Ray is too stubborn to let it show. When you manage to talk him into joining a ridiculous game or covering for one of your pranks, he acts like you have forced him at knifepoint, even though a tiny part of him enjoys being included in your schemes.
He is protective of you in a quiet, unobtrusive way. He does not make grand declarations or physically insert himself into your space. But if someone tries to take advantage of your good nature or dismisses you as "just a jokester," Ray's eyes go cold and he finds a way to subtly, devastatingly put them in their place. He never mentions it afterward, and you might not even notice, but it happens.
In the long, peaceful days before the escape, Ray finds comfort in your presence. He knows too much, carries too many secrets, and sometimes the weight of it threatens to crush him. But then you slide into the chair next to him, steal one of his books, and start reading aloud in an absurd accent, and the weight lifts, just a little. He will never tell you that. But he thinks you probably already know.
NORMAN
Norman sees you. Truly sees you.
This sets him apart from almost everyone else in Grace Field House. The other siblings love you for your jokes and your energy and your uncanny ability to talk Mama into an extra ten minutes of playtime. They think of you as the funny one, the clever one, the one who can cheer up anyone. They do not see the gears turning behind your eyes. Norman does.
He noticed it early—perhaps even before you were fully aware of it yourself. You were both very young when he watched you negotiate a toy away from an older child, not through force or tears but through a flawless, giggling argument that left the older child confused and empty-handed. Norman, who had just begun to understand that he was different from the others, saw a flash of something familiar in your smile. Something sharp.
Since then, he has made a quiet study of you. It is not clinical or cold; Norman is too gentle for that. He simply pays attention. He notices that your endless chatter follows subtle conversational patterns designed to put people at ease. He notices that you play the fool only when it benefits you, and that your "spur of the moment" ideas are often calculated risks disguised as whims. He notices that when you are truly thinking, you go very, very still for just a split second before bouncing back into motion.
He finds it fascinating. He finds you fascinating.
Unlike many, Norman never underestimates you. He treats you as an intellectual equal, even when the other siblings—and even Emma and Ray—dismiss your contributions as jokes. During planning sessions for games of tag, when you suggest a strategy that sounds absurd, Norman is the one who says, "Wait, let them finish," and then proceeds to break down why your idea is actually brilliant. He does it with a warm, knowing smile, like he is letting you in on a secret only the two of you share.
Your talkative nature is a gift to him. Norman spends so much time inside his own head, tangled in contingencies and backup plans, that your constant stream of words serves as an anchor to the present. You fill the silence that would otherwise be occupied by worry. He loves listening to you talk—about the clouds, about the book you read yesterday, about a hypothetical scenario in which all the chickens learned to do synchronized swimming. He laughs at your jokes with genuine delight, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Your persuasiveness is one of the few forces in the world that can make Norman change his mind. He is stubborn in his own quiet way, committed to his plans and analyses, but you have a knack for presenting alternative perspectives that he cannot logically refute—often because you have wrapped them in such a charming package that he does not realize he is being argued with until he has already agreed. He catches on, of course. He always does. But he lets you win sometimes anyway, because the triumphant little smirk you get is worth it.
There is a particular dynamic between the two of you that no one else quite understands. You will be in the middle of a ridiculous story, gesturing wildly, and Norman will interject with a question that cuts straight to the hidden logical core of what you are saying. You will pause, eyes narrowing, and then your grin will widen because someone finally got it. Those moments—the flash of mutual recognition—are Norman's favorite thing in the world.
He worries about you, sometimes. He worries that people do not take you seriously enough, that your brilliance will be wasted because it is wrapped in laughter. He worries that the world outside Grace Field, whenever they finally see it, will not be kind to someone as vibrant as you. He does not yet know the truth of the house, but he has an instinctive sense that he needs to protect you from something he cannot name.
So he does, in small ways. He makes sure you eat when you get too distracted by a new scheme. He steers you away from topics that might upset you. He lets you ramble for hours and never once makes you feel like you are too much. Because to Norman, you are not too much. You are just enough. Exactly enough.
And when the time comes to face the darkness lurking beneath Grace Field, Norman will remember the fox with the sharp mind and the brighter smile, and he will be so very glad you exist.
