Unique Badass Hourglass Drawings Novels & Stories

I was maybe thirty minutes in when I looked down at the page and stopped. I had drawn a girl. She was tall. She had slim, long legs and a small waist and the kind of proportions that people described as willowy without making it sound like an insult. She was standing straight with her chin up and her arms loose at her sides like she was comfortable just existing in her own body. I stared at her for a while.

She looked at me, then slowly opened the sketchbook back up on the table. I leaned forward to look. On the open page was a full, detailed drawing of an athletic jacket and matching track pants. The lines were sharp, the shading was clean, and the style looked really impressive. "Whoa," I said, my eyes widening. "Can I flip through this?" She gave a small nod. I pulled the book toward me and turned the pages carefully. Every single page was filled with incredible designs. From Hoodies, to dresses, sneakers, and running shorts. Then girly dresses, random sketches and scribbles; Maya was even on a page; it's incredible.

Deep breath. I opened the drawer and pulled the test out. My eyes were screwed shut. Aw, hell. Where were my lady balls? Mind you, if I had balls, I wouldn’t be staring at a stick covered in my urine. 'Okay. Shit. Time to look.' I opened my eyes and looked at that motherfucking hourglass, which was flipping itself up and down, up and down. “You bitch,” I hissed. That had to had been three minutes! If not, it was sure as shit the longest two of my life.

With the tip of her index finger, slowly, deliberately, she began to draw on the glass. It wasn’t a recognizable shape. Not a heart, not a word. It was a curve. A single, long, sinuous, voluptuous curve. It started at the top, plunged into a deep, full loop, narrowed, then arched upward again, ending in a point that seemed suspended in mid-air. It was the antithesis of everything in the apartment. It was dirty, imperfect, temporary—condensation that would dry by dawn. It was deeply, undeniably sensual.

Elissa went through the person's request and decided to make it. She made her hair into a messy bun and went to get her sketchbook and pencils. Accumulating all the items required she started to draw. She got so immersed in the process that she didn't realize it was already very late. It was two in the morning but she didn't care. She would be done in half an hour as she thought but it took her an hour to complete the design. Once she was satisfied with the design, she sent the drawing to that person and let out a yawn. She was feeling extreme tiredness and so slept on the spot. Within a few minutes, she was asleep.

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

The morning sun slanted through the tall windows of Liana’s estate, painting the room in soft gold. Despite the early hour, she was already awake, sketchpad open on her lap, fingers stained with ink and pencil dust. Her mind buzzed with ideas for her next collection, each design more daring than the last, each silhouette bolder than anything she’d tried before.

No wonder Killian couldn’t look me in the eye this morning. I reach for the sketch pad Elara left by the nightstand. My fingers tremble, but I grip the pencil like it’s my lifeline. I don’t even think, I just draw. Symbols. Circles. Eyes with fire spilling from them. A wolf with a shattered spine. A crown that burns. A clock with no hands. My hand stops only when I notice the paper trembling beneath my touch. Not from me. From the floor. A low vibration hums through the wood. Like a warning. Something is coming.

At a boutique woodcrafter's stall, I spotted an intricately carved desktop hourglass with dark walnut framing—a small, thoughtful gift for Aster to replace the plain brass one in his study that had cracked during his recovery. As the shopkeeper wrapped the hourglass in paper, my gaze wandered to a velvet tray near the counter. Resting on the cloth was a sleek fountain pen carved from polished black obsidian, accented with a subtle band of hammered gold. It was understated, heavy, and striking. My mind immediately jumped to Asher. I could picture his large, scarred hand wrapped around it, the dark stone matching the stern, unyielding lines of his desk. I took a step toward it, my fingers almo

With a few quick, confident strokes, I sketched Alexander's sharp, stoic profile— gold-rimmed glasses, tailored suit, all restraint and cold elegance. And yet, he was holding me in his arms, my dress hitched up to reveal a sliver of pale, smooth leg wrapped around his waist. A string of sandalwood beads circled his fingers, and his head was bowed, his lips pressed to my collarbone. The drawing oozed with raw, unbridled desire. I finished it in minutes, the lines fluid and charged with tension. I nodded in satisfaction, then uploaded it to my long-forgotten account in one smooth motion.