Pencil Nezuko Drawing Novelas e Histórias

I need a drink and some coffee, no, tea and toast. The symbol from the dagger is what won't let me go, I can see it so clearly. I have to draw it. Tilting my whole body to the edge of the bed, I fumble around my bedside table looking for… got it, my sketchpad. It falls open to the next empty page, because I tuck my pencil in the centre. The lead feels like an extension of my hand, guiding me, not the other way around.

He had found a pad of paper and a dull pencil in a kitchen drawer. He was drawing. I stood in the doorway, my breath catching in my throat. I didn't want to disturb him. I watched the way his hand moved—it was fluid, confident, but with that slight, human tremor he had inherited from the resonance. He finished the sketch and turned the paper toward the light. It wasn't a blueprint. It wasn't a map. It was a drawing of a single, wild iris growing out of a crack in a rock. It was messy. The lines were unoptimized. It was, in every sense of the word, imperfect.

MEEKA’S POV ~~ A WEEK LATER The pencil in my hand pauses mid-stroke. I stare down at the half-finished sketch on my tablet like I’m searching for something invisible. The lines are clean, deliberate, and wrong. Not because the design is bad, but because I’ve redrawn the same curve three times already and still don’t like it. God, what’s wrong with my head? I sigh and lean back in my chair, rubbing my temple tiredly.

And he is always drawing. Tonight is no different. His sketchbook is open on his knee. It is black with a spiral edge. His pencil moves in quick little strokes. I watch his hand more than I watch him. It is a nice hand. Long fingers. A small bump on the side of his thumb from holding a pencil too many hours. I noticed that three weeks ago.

I order and watch the boys run back towards the building as fast as they can. I watch with concern as the young boy they were picking on sniffs and works to pick up pieces of his sketchbook. I bend down and help him pick up the remaining pieces before they’re carried off by the wind. I look at one of the pieces of paper and can’t contain the awe on my face as I take in the amazing sketch before me. It’s this incredible real-life style drawing of a sirna with a vibrant red tail surrounded by all the elements. It takes me a second to recognise the likeness, but this is a sketch of the God Ezillus as a sirna! This might be the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. “You drew this?” I ask in astonishment

Exiting the school I went straight towards the school bus. As I did, I heard a loud vrooming sound of a motorbike. I turned towards the sound to see Connor sitting on his motorbike; both of his hands were on the handlebars, and he was wearing his helmet. His head faced me, and though he wore his dark helmet, I could feel his powerful gaze all over my skin, indicating that he was looking at me. The sound of the bike was his way of gaining my attention.

Jade screamed angrily, tearing out and crumpling up a sheet of paper from her sketchbook. She threw it across the room and it landed on the floor close to the door, increasing the litter of crumpled paper and broken pencils in the room. She took a new pencil from behind her ears, her fingers shaky as she began to draw lines and curves, in readiness for another sketch. Closing her eyes, she tried to picture a face, Tiger's face - that was what they called him but she knew his name began with the letter H.

Alex had taken a drawing board and a pencil without me noticing. I stared at it blankly, then subconsciously reached out and took it. He laid the sketch on a relatively clear part of the table and then picked up a pencil, starting to draw quickly. His fingers were long and powerful, his grip steady and professional. It felt as if particles of creativity were floating in the air, lightly jumping as the pencil tip moved. The lines belonging to the greenhouse dome began to grow, transform, and spread under his hand, eventually evolving into something more dynamic and powerful, a butterfly wing form.

The air smelled of charcoal, oil paint, and the faint metallic tang of her own frustration. She held a pencil in one hand—loose, uncommitted—staring at the blank page in her lap. The last sketch of Nico lay beside her: him in boxers, arms crossed, scars on full display. The one she’d drawn after the 3 a.m. intervention. Every line captured—rough ridges, puckered burns, the way his lean muscle pulled tight over bone like he was always braced for the next hit. She’d drawn him a dozen times since.

The soft, muted light from the single window cast shadows that danced across the walls, highlighting the subtle imperfections in the paint. A wooden desk sat opposite his bed, its surface polished to a shine, but it was empty, save for a few scattered pencils. As I scanned the room, I felt an unexpected chill, a whisper of the secrets it held. My gaze fell on a drawer beneath the desk. I opened it slowly, the creak of the old wood echoing in the silence. Inside, sketches and notes lay haphazardly, their edges curling slightly. The first one I picked up depicted intricate patterns of the moon jade, the drawings capturing light in a way that made them shimmer faintly. Anakiyus’s handwriting wa