#and grayscale and angles
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hootyhoowoo · 4 months ago
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A little 15 min doodle but first post of the year has to be Bingqiu!
#hoot art#ok its time to get mushy in the tags because I doubt anyone would read them too closely#I’ve had severe art block for YEARS before I got into danmei in 2024#and it wasn’t that my skill was gone it’s just that I thought nothing I did was good enough#I started reading danmei around the summer of last year and I got SO INSPIRED#I dived into the fandom side of things (I haven’t been in a live fandom in years) and was so excited about all the art people were making#and writing! and music! and animatics!#everything was so bright and colorful and beautiful#and everyone had such cool designs for these book characters that I’d grown to love#so I took a chance and doodled a little Luo Binghe and posted him on here#and I was so taken aback by how welcoming and sweet the fandom was#it made me wanna keep taking chances and posting my art— because I think that’s one of the hardest things I’ve come to accept#that even if it’s not good enough for me#someone else may enjoy it#and ain’t it crazy that ive come to enjoy drawing again too#sure the interaction has been fun but it’s been even more fun experimenting with my style and experimenting with colors and rendering#and grayscale and angles#and composition and expressions#ahh!! art is so fun!! I forgot how fun it was!!#I had forgotten how much I loved to draw!!#and the fandom— so many ideas are exchanged and I’ve met some of the loveliest people thru the sv fandom!#tgcf too but they’re a little less chill lmao#anyways#I’ve set up a little spot in the fandom and I plan to keep at it here it’s very nice and cozy and funny and warm#huge thanks to everyone for being so kind and welcoming#and an even bigger thanks to anyone who’s interacted with my art#I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that someone took the time out of their day to like/repost these silly little doodles I post#incredible. ok bye for now :)#svsss#bingqiu
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ikuudo · 7 months ago
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IKO’s MASTER STUDY SERIES #2
time limit: 1 hour, added one this time to see how fast i can do this
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muse-atelier · 1 year ago
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i imported some ps pencil brushes into clip studio! i've been trying to take my time on redoing my character sheet and i've also gotten back into doing some figure study sessions in between 🤧
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reyryz · 2 years ago
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this light and shadow duo shit is SERIOUS!!!
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mattydraws · 26 days ago
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Matts Free Messy Brush Pack + Texture Assets for Procreate is now available for download over on my Gumroad storefront: here
This Messy Brush Pack is listed as free/pay what you want - it's important to me that creative tools and resources are financially accessible to those who want to explore and play but can't feasibly do so - if you want to test the brushes out, you can always pay later (but it is not mandatory) if you do want to support my practice!!
What's Included?
x4 of Matts Messy Brushes:
Messy Inky Outline – a light and loose ink brush that can be used for linework, it emulates the build up of ink depending on the pen tilt angle.
Messy Ink Liner – designed to emulate a dry ink texture with grit, feels like your trusty ink pen is almost out of ink.
Messy Inker – great for blocking out shapes and forms, is slightly translucent - can be used as a quick & dirty fill brush.
Messy Pencil – emulates a soft pencil quality that builds up, you use the Inky Outline brush as an eraser to tidy up the rough edges after rendering to your hearts content.
x12 Texture Asset Files:
Texture Assets – a selection of 12 custom texture files, they are all in Grayscale, use them as clipping masks on fill layers or linework, play with the layer filter types and opacity (they're great fun the adjust, my favorite preference is the soft light layer filter at 60% opacity!!) you can erase parts of them using the brushes in this Messy Brush pack to better curate where you want texture to be in your piece, generally are very intuitive to work with!!
I am currently hard at work developing + revising what will be a larger brush pack for Procreate - currently at 60+ brushes in counting - custom brush stamp shapes, grains etc. This future brush pack will be appropriately priced and be released alongside a condensed version of the pack, so customers who are low-income can still partake and play with some fun brushes. Thank you for your support and enjoy these free tools + assets!! If you would like to stay updated with my work, you can find me over on: instagram | bluesky | twitter | patreon | linkedin *ੈ✩‧₊˚
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macfrog · 1 year ago
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psyche and cupid | one shot
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happy valentine's, beautiful people. i love you with all of my heart. xx shoutout to @familyvideostevie for putting joel's slutty little thigh holster into my head and, well. yeah. pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!reader summary: valentine's day with joel doesn't go to plan. warnings: part two never happened!!!!! abby who!!!, established relationship, cursing, half joel pov, unspecified age gap, hints to reader having a sliver of ptsd, jesse is alive and well because he is my prince and i said so, reader has dark pubic hair, masturbation, somnophilia (not discussed in this fic but she is a-ok with it) and therefore dubcon, sprinkle of praise kink, oral (f!receiving), someone comes in his underwear, these two goofballs are big in love word count: 5.5k
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It’s not in his nightstand.
Not hung over the newel post, either.
He said he left it on the kitchen counter yesterday, right after he got home; said he woke up this morning and it was gone. And then he muttered something of an accusation that someone had tidied it away and forgotten where, and that started a whole new argument.
You know what, Joel? You’re following his tall figure as it sways down the hallway, his strides longer and considerably smoother than your flurrying shadow in his wake. Maybe if you weren’t going out today, we wouldn’t be having this problem.
His chin tilts upward, salt and pepper scruff angled to the ceiling with a ha slung from his throat. Yeah, he tosses a glance over his shoulder, we’d just be havin’ it tomorrow, instead.
You scoff in response, stepping where his boots lift off from, following the heavy thud thud thud like a cat at his heels until he’s rounding the corner towards your bedroom.
You pass over the messy trail of your jeans and Joel’s pajama bottoms, your underwear and his leading in a trail to the unmade bed – sheets like a rippled wave painted golden by the dawn.
The two of you split off – Joel lifts the cotton and watches it float back down over the flat of your mattress. Nothing.
You take the closet – the squeal of metal on metal harsh in your sleepy ears as you shove the hanging clothes aside, swiping around at the floor. Also, unsurprisingly, nothing.
Deflated, you straighten, stars peppering your vision and a tatty sleepshirt pinched in your fingers. Led Zeppelin – some band Joel was into before everything went to shit. You’ve listened to him out on the porch before, plucking strings in time with the record wobbling on the turntable inside.
The collar torn, sleeves pecked with holes, print lost to the years and the dryer – but each time you drape it over your shoulders, he smiles and hums some song from a world you’ll never know.
It’s sweet, when you’re in the mood to be wooed.
Which, incidentally, is not right fucking now.
His eyes flit down to the peeling, grayscale image – and that same smile attempts to bloom on his lips. That’s cute, but it ain’t my holster, pretty bird.
His smirk dampens quickly when he looks back up, snuffed by your stony expression.
You whip the tee down to the foot of the bed. You are a piece of fuckin’ work sometimes, do you know that? you growl, storming by him for the en suite.
Joel’s rough hand slips around your wrist, tugging gently but letting you drag him through to the bathroom.
Just go, Joel, you groan, the chill of the room prickling goosebumps on your naked legs. Give  me some peace and quiet. ‘s not like I’m gonna be seein’ much of you today, anyways.
Is that what this is about? His voice echoes in the morning blue, round in your ears as you hang your head over the sink. Pickin’ a fight ‘cause you’re pissed I’m goin’ out?
I didn’t start the fight, you protest. You’re the one who lost his holster.
Didn’t lose it… he mumbles, lips closing around the sentence when he catches your glare in the mirror. He crosses one ankle over the other, toe of his dusty boot on the cracked tile, and sighs. What do you want me to do, baby? I gotta do my job.
On Valentine’s Day? When I worked extra to get it off, and you can’t even get your brother to swap one shift?
Joel’s expression seems to stiffen, tense with a realization that you know, and now he knows, too – he should’ve had days ago. A weighty breath falls from his nostrils, admitting some kind of defeat, and then he’s wandering carefully over to you, two hands curved over your shoulders.
He lowers his forehead onto the nape of your neck, a slow breath which flutters the loose collar of the flannel you’re wearing and sweeps down your spine. I’m sorry, pretty bird. I didn’t know it meant that much to ya.
It doesn’t, you admit, adding, usually. I just thought we could have a day to ourselves, for once.
He’s nodding, sweep of his fringe tickling the slope of your skin. It’d be a lot more romantic than spendin’ it with Jesse, that’s for sure.
Your bodies fall together with a shared laugh, a bright and charming thing in the dull bathroom light. Joel kisses the soft cushion of your shoulder and hooks his chin over, beard grazing your skin.
I’ll be back before you know it. ‘n then we can do whatever the hell you got planned for us, hm?
He’s steady behind you when you lean back, turning to place a damp kiss to the hinge of his jaw. A reply, a plea – a promise.
In the echoing dripdripdrip from the faucet, Joel pulls apart from you, two fingers pinching the hem of your shirt to pull you back into the bedroom.
You wanna walk me to the gate? he asks, pulling the zipper on his jacket.
What about your holster?
He smiles. I’m sure I’ll survive without it. C’mon. Put some pants on.
February is bitter even by Jackson’s standards – a bite of ice in the air which numbs the tip of your nose and stings the helix of your ears. The chill slips a long, sharp finger down the collar of your – Joel’s jacket, and you wrap the baggy canvas tighter around yourself.
Told you to wear som’ thicker. Joel sighs, grip light around the strap of his shotgun. His elbow nudges into yours, a wide arm wraps around your shoulder and draws you flush against his side. Head on back if you’re cold, he says, rubbing until the friction warms your upper arm.
I’m fine, you lie, eyeing the line of horses up ahead. The eager crunch of their hooves in the frozen ground, the pinkish light on their backs from the sky flooded crimson overhead – a warning from the horizon, you think.
It seems to agitate the animals as much as it does you, their heavy heads tossing nervously, ears flicking and inky eyes blinking.
Jesse meets you by the paddock, slipping Joel the reins of his horse with a curt nod, before hoisting himself atop his own.
It bleats from your lips before you can hold it back. Be careful.
Your frozen fingers claw around the zipper of his coat, tugging it upwards until it brushes against his bottom lip. The weather gets bad, you turn back. Okay?
He’s nodding, paying half his attention to your words, the other half to the little crease between your brows. Sure could use my holster against the cold, baby, he mutters, smirk lifting his cheeks and folding similar creases at the corners of his eyes.
Your eyes narrow, palms landing flat against his strong chest. Home soon?
He hums a little laugh, lips ghosting across your temple as he shifts by. Home soon, he mutters, breath steaming against your cold skin, and he leads the mare off towards the gate.
There’s a lot about Joel you admire.
Each part of him like a pebble stolen on a hike; some more jagged, a little more weathered than others, some well-rounded and smooth to the touch. Each one turned and turned and turned between your fingers until you’re fluent in every pore and vein, then dropped into your pocket alongside the others you’ve collected.
Clacking against one another until you arrive home, coat heavier with the happy burden of how much you love him. The same weight you feel behind your ribcage when you think too much about it.
He takes good care of you – has done since you first happened across one another. As if hanging his hunting jacket over your frail body was a wing over your shoulders; as if, from then on, you would never make a single move again without your grizzly bear of a man making it first.
Quiet about it, sure. Subtle. Opens the crook of his elbow for you to hook your wrist around as you wander through town together, and waits until you’re under the cover of nightfall or behind the close of your front door to do much else.
Asks with little more than a fleeting glance if you’re okay; a squeeze of your knee under the table in the dining hall. A conversation shared between closed lips and the meeting of his honey-flecked gaze, and yours. A language which lives and dies with the pair of you.
He’s guarded – and for all that he’s been through, you figure you can allow him that. Allow him his private peace. For all that he says without saying, all he does without making some big song and dance of it – there hasn’t been a second since you arrived here on the back of his horse, that you haven’t known he loves you.
It’s in him like it’s in you. A fever which broke at the first touch of his hand and yours, the first meeting of his warmth and your chill. Two opposites – cooling the painful sear in his heart, warming the barren frost in yours. Something sewn deep into your flesh, carved right through to the hollow of your bones.
And Jesus, if it doesn’t drive you fucking insane.
The front yard needs tidied up after winter, you notice, as you scuff your way up the path towards the porch. Once the last of the snow dries up, you two can get to repairing the damage done by the blizzards and the gales: fitting new shutters, planting new bulbs.
A cycle you’re still getting used to: the upkeep of a place called home. The strange feeling of having someone you call the same thing.
Your extra shifts at the stables and Joel’s long mornings out on the trails mean your home has gone neglected for a few days. Dishes and cutlery left in the sink, a pile of laundry slowly sprouting to new heights like a wild plant each time you cast a wary glance at it.
It’s not like you’ve much else to do, given Joel won’t be home for at least another couple hours. So you shuck off your jeans, letting the tail of his shirt dangle from your behind, and pick your way around each room �� wiping counters and dusting corners, humming along to the crooning old records as they spin in the background.
Playing house at the end of the world. Pretending to listen for the tired exhale of a yellow school bus, mimicking the electrified babble of radio presenters between each track.
The bedroom is arguably the worst offender. Bedsheets used a few days too long, clothes strung across the floor – the relics of a late one at the Tipsy Bison. It’s no wonder you’re so fucking tired.
Echoes of stumbling footsteps and hushed, drunken giggles loop your ears, the groaning bedsprings and blunt thud of the headboard. You pluck the underwear and socks one by one, your body wincing around a satisfied ache still lingering, and shuffle over to the laundry hamper, lifting the lid to –
The dopey smile on your lips dissolves instantly. You gotta be fucking…
The buckle glints in the light, silver blinking up at you from its bed of dirty laundry. The tan strap coiled and neatly slung through its fastener; the pouch empty. Awkward and ashamed, lying there in front of you. Apologetic, almost.
Your eyes roll closed; a short, hot breath seeping past your lips. A silent promise embedding beneath your tongue to take him by the sleeve as soon as he crosses the threshold, force him to lift the lid himself. An I told you so already brewing in the pit of your stomach.
The holster’s actually pretty heavy when you lift it up in the light. Leather a little worn, stitching frayed where it should clip around his belt.
It’s the size and width of him: a thick, toned thigh slotted inside the loop of leather, fixed by fingers long void of feeling when he’s been riding to the outpost, chasing infected, plunging his knife deep into their necks.
Patrol was never your thing. Joel took you out just once – but there are cracks in your past which threaten to split you in two, it seems, the longer you spend outside the settlement walls. Phantoms which follow close behind in the form of snapping twigs, of the wind rustling in the trees overhead. Shadows living in your periphery with curled sneers and spits of filth.
You lasted twenty minutes, that first and only day, before Joel had your horses tied together and your body shelled in his own, taking you straight back home.
But the thought of this around his thigh, the thought of him adjusting it to the waistband of his jeans; his hand floating down to settle gently atop it when he’s listening for danger approaching, two fingers slipping into the trigger guard.
It…stirs something.
You pad over to the bathroom, hopping as you step into the strap. He wears it on his right leg, right? You pull it past your ankle, ball of your foot slamming clumsily back down on the tile.
Adjusting it to fit your thigh, you bunch the hem of his shirt in one fist and stare back at your reflection. Her nervous stance, hips swaying left to right as she peruses the figure opposite.
Who is she, this mirage – naked thigh decorated with her man’s leather, fingernails tracing the messy stitching and imagining the weight of his gun, keen in the pouch?
A strange aura of possession about it, like a part of him locked firm around a part of you, from however many miles away. You swear you can feel the ghost of his warmth on the inside of the strap, wrapped around your sensitive skin.
Yeah.
Stirs something, alright.
Joel’s been gone little over an hour. He’s probably at the outpost by now, logging All clear and pretending to let Jesse take the lead. Wide shoulders swaying as he wanders from room to room, a careful scope of the valley from each window, tongue tracing the bottom of his teeth.
Ridges of his knuckles white around the grip of his shotgun, squinting down the barrel. Lines drawn between his brows and at the corners of his eyes like scores on parchment, focus and concentration tight on his face.
You sink back into the cradle of your bed, that divot where his body and yours meet each night. Each part of you intertwining with a part of him: the place where you become one. His smell and your touch, your giggle and his teeth.
A sudden, powerful thing which hammers through your veins and jumps your body for a few seconds – you pull the first orgasm from between your legs within a matter of minutes. The sight of his shirt disturbed over your stomach, the feeling of blood squeezing past taut leather enough to throw you under by itself, never mind the fast snap of your fingers deep inside your body.
Another – slower, lazier, still vibrating from the first – then almost a third, but the crinkle of sheets at your ears, the pillow-soft landscape beneath your heavy body, begins to sweep you off somewhere.
And in as little time as it took to entice you into the water in the first place, you slip beneath the waves.
The house is quiet when he finally makes it home.
Jesus, Joel thinks, what a shift.
Not one infected the entire run, he can’t quite believe – but Jesse caught his palm on some warped sheet of chain link fence, then almost passed out when he looked down and saw the scarlet seeping from his shredded skin.
The pair sat for half an hour, unsheltered in the unforgiving wind, waiting for the kid’s head to stop spinning and the cold to rob the feeling from his hand.
All Joel wanted was to get home to you. You, and your hips swaying as you stand by the stove, and his hands kneading into the velvet plush of your waist, and the smell of burnt sausages and spatter of angry oil from the pan.
He’s so late. He said he’d be as quick as he could, said you’d barely know he was gone, and he’s so fucking late.
But he’s here now, at least.
He’s home.
As he kicks off his boots, snow sprinkling from the soles onto the doormat, he notices the absence of your arms around his waist. The missing weight at the back of him, no ear flat against his spine and hands interlocked above his belt. No relieved, I missed you, no nuzzle of your head under his arm.
The house is still and dim. The turntable spins in the corner, a dead crackle playing nothing for no one. Joel sniffs, eyeing the room and its new, orderly form: the books slotted neatly on their shelves, the rings of coffee wiped clean from the table.
Lifting the needle from the record, Joel calls out, Baby?
Maybe you’re in town somewhere. Maybe you’ve gone to spend the morning with the horses. But then, you would’ve been watching for his arrival. Would’ve skipped out from the stables and swung around his body, a gleeful smile and an outstretched hand. Take me home, cowboy.
And you wouldn’t have left the lights still burning, the player still turning. Your coat is still on its hook, smaller and brighter and where it belongs on the right of Joel’s. The cushions on the couch are fluffed and smooth, perched contentedly in place; the curtains draped in their tie backs.
You’re home. You’ve been home all morning.
So where the fuck are you?
Joel crosses over to the bottom of the stairs, blinking up at the painted cowboys and horses staring down from the landing. Calls your name, a faint singsong as he slowly ascends the stairs. You up there?
Down the wintery dull hallway to the bedroom door, figuring he knows the answer. And he’s right, isn’t he, when he nudges the door open and peers inside, spots the tiny lump of you in your double bed. Sunk deep into the mattress – covers you’d come in here to change, swallowing you whole.
A crooked, exhausted smile pulls across his lips; his thumb hooks around a belt loop, knee cocking.
You’re so…perfect. So heavenly, so still like this – stretched out on your front, breathing in the scent of his pillow and breathing out little puffs of air.
Joel leans over you, a heavy hand pushing into the mattress above your shoulder, and runs a featherlight knuckle over your cheek.
Pretty bird? he whispers, lighter than the long breaths from your sleep-swollen lips.
You don’t stir. No movement, save for the rise and fall of your shoulders wrapped up in his flannel.
Joel feels a pang of guilt, numbed only by the chill still through his body: he woke you this morning, before even the sun had lifted her head. Had you hunting all over the house with him, for some dumb holster that he wound up not even n–
His eyes trail down the shape of your body, draped in the sheets like white marble carved into the round shape of something beautiful, hands following the curve of your thigh. His wrist freezes when it meets the odd bulge of something, an awkward bump beneath the cotton.
He peels the sheet back, lifting it from your shoulders, your waist, your hips – until your angled thigh lies on full display for his feasting eyes.
His fucking holster…wrapped tight around your fucking thigh.
A disbelieving laugh at first – a She told me so, before he notices the indents in your skin, the stretched leather snug around your leg, riding higher than it should at the doing of your slumber.
Christ, baby, he breathes, stare glued to the folds of plaid hooked around the belt loop. Following the tatty hem down past your hip, along the underside of your ass – riding up some, right where your legs part.
And between them, all sheer and thin, twisted around itself and slipping between: your underwear. The threading of pubic hair peeking over the frilled hem of it; the sight filling Joel’s mouth with saliva.
A heavy heat forms in his jeans, an irritable weight which aches when he moves; which hardens when he pictures the image of you in his bed, his shirt, his holster wrapped around your thigh – playing with yourself while he’s been gone.
Fuck. Fuckin’…shit.
He lowers, running lips he knows are freezing cold along the burning surface of your skin, tongue slipping past his teeth to drag a wet trail along your thigh.
Your leg shifts under his touch, the startle of his chilled fingertips behind your knee, nuzzling of his nose where the holster sits smugly on your thigh. Smelling like leather and salt, the sticky sheen of sweat still glowing on your skin.
Joel takes your waist in two hands – he can’t fucking help himself, can he? – and turns you, patiently, watching as you roll onto your back so he can drag you further down the bed. Tongue flicking at the corners of his lips, thirsty for something he only wants you to feed him.
Slow, slowly. Every effort put into not waking you, to keeping you in this peachy haze between asleep and awake; your movements long and staggered, held firm against the mattress by the weight of your doze.
With a sigh, your jaw turns to one side. Joel pulls you in, kneeling at the edge of the bed with your socked feet resting on his shoulders. His shirt gathers around your waist; your hips and the thin twine of your underwear spotlighted by stripes of weakened sunlight spilling in through the blinds.
Oh, pretty bird, he groans, slipping his open palms under your ass, rough and squeezing the pillows of flesh in his hands. This all for me?
A moan wrapped in a hefty breath twists from your lips. Your knees fall limp; legs open almost eagerly, like your body inviting him in. And he accepts, takes it with eyes blown black and hungry lips parted – leans in and nestles his nose against the thrumming heartbeat pounding through your clit.
Such a good girl, he whispers, closing his lips in a kiss over your clothed mound, and your hips jolt.
You’re so fucking warm. So wet; sticky and so ready for him. He kisses your folds, suckling gently and letting his tongue dart along the inseam of your lips in flicking movements – collecting the taste of salt and feeling his cock throb against rough denim.
Off? he asks – you and the room and himself – fingers hooking around the underwear rolled on your hips.
When your back arches, body feeling the loss of his tender kiss, rolling like a wave seeking to crash against the steady rock form of his – he smirks to himself.
Joel nods. Off.
He takes his time peeling them from your body, watching as more and more of his paradise is revealed. The waves of your folds, the sheer glisten of arousal along them; the dark hair peppering either side as damp and slick as the skin beneath it.
Your panties drop from a hooked finger without a sound and he turns back, hovering over your waiting cunt with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Out front, voices call back and forth to one another – some neighborly greeting and affable conversation – but Joel doesn’t hear. Deafened to anything but the sound of your sighs and his own blood hammering through his ears.
It’s a little rushed, a tad rough, the way he presses his lips back to yours. The way his beard grazes against your most sensitive spot, and the gasp he swears he hears lift from your tongue.
But fuck, he’s missed this, the way he always does – without knowing, without actively thinking about it, without knowing it was even at home waiting for him. If his mind weren’t on an entirely different planet right now, he’d curse that goddamn chain link for holding him up, for keeping him away longer than thirty seconds from the sweet little angel resting in his bed, and the sweet little pussy between her legs.
He parts your thighs wider, tongue dipping lower and deeper as he laps at your core, almost fucking panting against it.
You squirm lazily beneath him, shoulders tensing and untensing, a half-limp wrist lifting to pet his hair and an attempt at his name between your lips. Joel, you whimper, thick with sleep and something more dangerous.
I know, baby, he’s telling you, I know, and his tongue slips inside again. His hips grind into the mattress, cock an agonizing stiff against the sturdy edge. He can feel the wet in his boxers, the precome sticking to the inside of the cotton.
Fuck, he wants to be inside you so badly, so desperately.
Another gasp sputters across your lips, cut short in your throat when his teeth bump against your clit.
Too hungry, too brash, he thinks. You’re too soft, too open for him to let it go to waste. Not like this.
He pulls back, a filthy thread of arousal and saliva between his open lips and yours, and places a sodden kiss to the inside of your thigh.
But you whine, you poor little thing – your head twisting to the other side, a second hand now blindly surfing across his shoulder, past the brush of his beard and sifting through his still-chilly hair. The loss of attention to your pussy aching between your legs; your hips lifting weakly to meet the scratch of his chin again.
And that same sound – that same Jo-oel – a sound like song, like saccharine dripping over his shoulders.
So, he lifts a hand – two middle fingers coming together to push open your cunt, instantly sliding in knuckle-deep. Sucked in by the wet mess left behind by his lips, stretching you out with slow, round movements.
You’re slowly stirring, blossoming from your sleep and turning slowly back into this world. The cold edges seeping in, the warm flush of pleasure sharpening at their meeting. He’d do anything, he thinks, to keep you here; keep you teetering on the edge, tangled up between your world and his.
J– oh, fu-uck, you whine, and he can tell you’re still blinkered by sleep. But you grind on him again – a long, languid movement which seems to spatter out at its end when the coarse hair of his beard catches against your clit.
The breath stops in your throat, punching out in a shuddered moan. Joel could come just from the sound of it.
You gonna give me one, baby girl? he pleads, forearms clamping down on the underside of your thighs. Desperate – desperate to feel you, hear you, taste you as you come undone. Just one.
You’re writhing around beneath him, as needy as he is. A winding which matches his, coiling at the bottom of your stomach; a feeling which pulls at the corners of your lips and shocks them into a smutty, half-conscious smile. Your eyes roll back, fluttering open and then snapping shut when the light floods in.
There, you say, clearest so far, movements the strongest he’s felt. Your fingers root in his hair, rough over his scalp. Keep – keep doin’ that.
Joel smiles against your mound; a cocky thing, emboldened by the sound of that little Texan twang, the curl of an accent which doesn’t belong to you. Rather, a result of your years spent with him, watching the way his mouth shapes the words, learning the low swing and swirling melody of his tongue.
As if he’s as alive within you as he is within himself; every little thing Joel knows is him, injected into your bloodstream – his dry wit, his blunt honesty, his thick fingers and his insatiable tongue.
He slips in a third, flicking them perfectly inside of you. Beckoning your release; tongue sitting in wait, a resting point for you to grind your clit against.
And he wants it as much as you do: wants to feel the clamping of your body around him, wants to taste the flood of your orgasm as it shocks through every bone in your body.
Wants to pull three soaked, pruned fingers from your pussy and slip them over your tongue, letting you clasp your fingers around his wrist; watching the half-dozing flutter of your eyelashes as you suckle on them and make those pretty little sounds for him.
Your hand knots tighter in his hair, pelvis circling steady against his suckling lips. He can smell it on you: smell the need seeping from your pores. The sleep spilling from the corners of your mouth, the happy whimpers and quiet cries for more, more, Joel, more.
And – Shit, he breathes against you, feeling a sudden rush of electricity he knows all too well between his hips. Not now, not now not before he’s been inside – Shit, baby, gotta let me go.
You whine in refusal – a petulant sound, all stubborn and greedy. ‘m so close, I –
Pretty bird, he groans, lifting his jaw. He places a messy kiss to the crease between your core and your thigh, wrist stammering with his sudden movements. You gotta – you gotta let go, you’re gonna make me come –
You’re echoing him, mumbling the words gonna, gonna come – fuck, Joel, ‘m gonna –
Shit.
Not – Fuck – not right n– Christ, baby girl, you’re gonna – you’re –
Your walls spasm, clamping and relaxing, squeezing around his huge fingers. But it’s not that – it’s not the gush of warm fluid which seeps from between your legs, coating his knuckles and dripping into his palm.
It’s not the arch of your back, the way your breasts lift to the ceiling and his shirt slips below one nipple. Not the way your head rolls back against the mattress, a broken moan tearing in shards from your throat.
No.
It’s the way your hands leave his hair in an instant, and grip around the leather on your thigh. Skin stretching thin over your knuckles, thumbs between the strap and your sticky skin; hips still riding out your high as you ground yourself, holding onto his holster.
And it makes Joel come. Hard.
Harder than he knew possible, grinding against a mattress and the inside of his fucking jeans.
He falls forward, breathing a guttural moan into the soft swell of your stomach below your navel, fingers hooking into the baggy shirt around your arms.
Shitshitshit, he pants, feeling the warm ejaculate spurt from his cock and all over the inside of his boxers. Oh, fuck, baby. Fuck me.
His hips shudder a few more times, pressing hard into the edge of the mattress before he’s coming down, slowing to a stop – still a leaden weight on your stomach. His cock almost painful, overstimulated and oversensitive.
But then – something gently tittering. A bird singing, cooing above his head. The ground beneath his temple shakes, tremors with laughter. The dust twinkles in the sunlight, now brighter, golden, streaming through the window.
You’re awake.
Joel drags his gaze upwards, bleary and glazed with sex, and catches your eye.
Feel good? you ask, sifting hair away from his damp forehead. When was the last time that happened? Fourteen?
I don’t wanna talk about it, he mumbles into your belly.
Your chest jumps, a laugh which echoes into Joel’s ear. Tastes that good, huh?
It takes a mighty effort for him to push up on his palms, slowly crawling up the length of your body until his elbows plant firm into the mattress either side of your head. He groans as he lowers his lips, parting them to let you slip your tongue inside.
The kiss is slow, tender. Your bodies melding together, teeth clacking and jaws moving in sync. A sharp taste, sweet with a singe of bitterness to it. Perfect, you think, smirking against Joel’s cool lips.
He pulls away, lips tickling the tip of your nose deliberately.
With a giggle, you push on his chest. You should shower. You smell like patrol.
Joel cocks an eyebrow. You comin’ in with me?
Nope. I got even more laundry to do now, old man.
He entertains the quip with a subtle smile, a thing which softens the creases on his face and lights a twinkle in his eyes. Quietly, genuinely, in a way which makes your heart ache a little, he whispers, Sorry I was workin’, pretty bird.
You shrug. ‘s okay. You made up for it. And – I found your holster. You lift your knee, letting the buckle shine in the sunlight.
You did that, Joel agrees, nodding and glancing down at the thing. He hooks a finger around the strap, giving it a little shake. Maybe I oughta lose it more often.
Hm, you shrug, or I can just keep it safe for ya. Looks good, don’t it?
He feigns a disappointed smile, a resigned sigh before he looks back up.
Better ‘n when I wear it, he admits, and his lips crash down to yours again.
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torchtour · 4 months ago
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I know it's been a while since you posted it but can we see youd process for making the Michael Afton Mirror painting???
glad you asked anon cuz i have a LOT of wips for this trainwreck lal
ok so to get this
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we have to start with this
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which is the intial right-before-bed sketch i usually make so i don't forget the idea overnight. it usually looks very funny
from there it's slightly amended sketch, color mapping, and rough lighting draft from another angle (in this case above angle because it's a mirror shot and that's scary)
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i make a refined sketch and mush all of the colors to fit the new lines and start some rendering to fix the nonsense. then it occurs to me that the lighting is crap and i use a bunch of multiply layers to darken everything + begin actual backlighting
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this sorta brings us to the halfway point because i get super frustrated, flatten the file, and mutilate/crush a grayscale version to fix the composition and anatomy a lil bit. crush + glow + corner blacks + rendering and it's starting to look like..something
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i reapply the og colors and add the graffiti + stickers because it looks BORING
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finally some little touchups and then BOOM you just beat fnaf. idk.
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bob-artist · 2 months ago
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I'm gonna nerd out about comic process for a second!
That screenshot was from about a month ago, when I was coloring the first two episodes of Into the Smoke chapter 2. My coloring process is a little unhinged. First, I set up palettes, do base shading, and color basic backgrounds kind of simultaneously across an entire scene. So I'm actively working on 4-6 600dpi files with 60-200 final layers at a time. I also usually have a few references open from previous episodes.
(My iMac has beefy specs, and I never have any lag or performance issues, but I'm probably still driving it into the ground, lol.)
I do this stage on a non-screen tablet because I like being able to see everything at a straight angle on a very nice screen. (Mac screens are nicer than Wacom screens.)
After that, I fire up the Cintiq and do the actual serious work of shading.
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I do most character shading in ITS with Kyle's lasso fill in PS. Almost all my shading on all my pages is done with two grayscale swatches (incidentally, #c2c2c2 an #e0e0e0) with different layer effects, and I just hit x to toggle between the swatches. I'll sometimes use white or a pale color for highlights, but my shading work is much more extensive than my highlights, and the shading colors are handled with gradient maps.
Backgrounds, highlights/lighting, and most of my other projects outside ITS are painted with brushes instead of lasso-filled. In addition to organizing my brushes by category, I have brush folders for specific projects, and I organize them so I can use keyboard shortcuts to sequence through the ones I use the most.
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The first two episodes of ITS chapter 2 were really difficult to color because I hadn't colored an episode in like 8 months, so I had to re-learn how to do it. My natural style is more painted, so I kept accidentally over-rendering. It really took me until episode 3 to get the hang of it again.
I'm also much more comfortable with warm color palettes and warm lighting, so the sorta grungy cool palette for the interrogation room was a challenge. I need to do more cool palette and cool lighting studies. Episode 3 is back to warm, though! :D
Anyway, here you can see the in-progress color vs the final color!
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And a few warmer palette panels with more typical shading for good measure. :)
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cookiesandcantarella-art · 10 months ago
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My fav shots from my PMV (link), on tumblr so you can see them for more than 2 seconds.
[ID: 6 still shots of Princess Tutu characters.
Image 1: a swan with Duck's pendant flaps her wings on a starry lake.
Image 2: Princess Tutu dressed up as an aerial hoop performer, complete with a feathery tail. She hangs in a loose, almost fetal position.
Image 3: A focus on Mytho's eye as the hands of Rue, Fakir, and Duck touch his face.
Image 4: Duck and Rue on the ground together. Duck is sitting up while Rue lays down. Both are nude with their eyes closed.
Image 5: Rue in a shot styled after one of the movie posters for Chicago. Rue (as herself) stands in a black space filled with mirrors and reflections, looking into many different reflections of Kraehe.
Image 6: Grayscale image of Mytho and Fakir in a tango pose. Fakir stands upright, holding Mytho in place, while Mytho falls backwards, leg around Fakir's waist. Both are nude with eyes closed and the Prince's sword pierces both their chests, angled from behind Mytho.
End ID]
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tempest-midnight · 4 months ago
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art summary for last year
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Full images and stuff:
January:
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This was a (kind of pathetic) attempt at a Joy Ang style, featuring Albatross. February:
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This was when my shading style was a bit more silly. Character is Queen Rhinestone for my AU. March:
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The icon for one of my short stories, featuring Mourning Dove (left) and Strawberry (right). Strawberry’s snout is a bit off but it was one of my earlier attempts at that angle.
April:
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This was my strange attempt at drawing a BeetleWing, specifically the unnamed lavender dragonet from The Lost Continent. May:
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I forgot why I wanted to draw this, but I still do like it a lot nonetheless. Featuring my OC Wavesplash. June:
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Another attempt at a canon artstyle, this time much more successful. Featuring my OC Aurora Borealis in the graphic novel/Mike Holmes style. July:
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This was a redraw of something, I assumed in making the redraw that the character was meant to be Tsunami, but to be honest, I have no idea. August:
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Just the drawing I did of my OC Bramble for ArtFight. September:
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A drawing I did of Hvitur nabbing the SkyWing egg. October:
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A redraw of the first part of the “One Lost SeaWing” series I started and never finished a few years ago. Note that the dragon herself was colored in grayscale (minus the eyes). November:
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A drawing I did of Moonpaw and her sister (who I’m still calling Sunpaw) on the moonpool. December:
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A drawing I spent a weirdly long time detailing for a dumb joke of Winter getting hit by a snowball.
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beautifulmars · 1 year ago
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HiPOD: Ridges in Tempe Terra
The objective of this observation is to determine the nature of a network of ridges. The ridges are very regular in height and width and seem to be associated with a certain layer. The layer above the ridges has a darker-tone. Many of the ridges are joined to other ridges, some at close to right angles. (Grayscale cutout is less than 5 km across; enhanced color is less than 1 km.)
ID: ESP_074906_2160 date: 20 July 2022 altitude: 293 km
NASA/JPL-Caltech/UArizona
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wifiwuxians · 1 year ago
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i haven't forgotten about the revival AU!
more instalments: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
[ID: a four panel grayscale comic featuring xue yang, wen chao, and an unnamed seamstress simply referred to as 'miss tailor.' they cross paths while walking in opposite directions, and the seamstress, recognizing wen chao, calls out to him by saying 'young sir!'. wen chao replies with a surprised 'miss tailor!', and is then immediately shocked and embarrassed as she asks 'how did your girlfriend like the glove? did it work out?' xue yang beside him looks at the floor in humorous disbelief, the word 'GIRLFRIEND' hovering over his head at an angle. then, as they continue walking, he throws an arm around a blushing wen chao and pokes his cheek, declaring 'she loved it' with a playful smile. the seamstress replies with an 'oh, how nice'!. /end ID]
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adventuretimetournament · 3 months ago
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Broke His Crown: On a purple background with white circuit lines, Bubblegum and Marceline are shown from the chest up in profile, each staring seriously ahead. The title is at the top at a slight angle. Each letter is hollow and outlined in white, and each letter has hot pink streaks behind it as if it is flying forward.
Don't Look: Finn is shown standing in a cave in grayscale, looking at himself in a mirror slightly taller than him with a treasure box next to it. He is lit by a spotlight and holding a pair of sunglasses. The title is in a light blue, thin serif font on the left in the shadows. From a distance, the combination of Finn and the items create the illusion of a skull image.
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ask-team-misfit · 6 months ago
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(Notices Rue's current reaction.)
Rue... J-just take easy, okay?...
There's... No... W-way to prove that was.. what it was...
Anonymous asked: Wait... What is that black stuff doing?
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[ ID: A grayscale bust drawing of Rue slightly angled away from the viewer towards the left. She appears fairly nervous, looking off to the right. Rue's appearance is as described here. End ID ]
Rue: “That’s what happens when you touch it. You get drawn in. Unless you’re very strong or very lucky…”
Again, she trailed off. Some weak sniffles could be heard from her as tears freely fell from her drooped head.
Rue: “She… she has to be gone. She has to be…”
Pikavee: “Rue…”
Anonymous asked: @Rue She isn't gone! There's no way to prove that! That had to be some sort of fucked up trick! A FLUKE! I mean... Wouldn't there be signs of a struggle? Scratch marks? Burn marks? BLOOD? Wouldn't we have heard something? Screaming, or something? ANYTHING? Look, there has to be some other way way to explain what we just saw, you hear me? FENNINKOU CANNOT BE DEAD!
Rue shook her head and clutched it. She was trembling a bit, and she quietly sniffled some more.
Rue: “L-let me grieve. Please… let me grieve.”
She sounded so certain of something Pikavee found so awful. Clearly, it really bothered her.
She understood little of what was happening as is. From Rue’s reaction to the whole thing, to the void shadow looking like Fenninkou and then falling apart, to what she currently assumed to have been a vision–the vision where she very well watched her own death.
But she did realize this current path was no good.
Anonymous asked: @Pikavee I-I think we should go, like now!- 𝙉𝙊𝙒 !
And at any rate, they were in no shape to fight multiple opponents.
Pikavee stepped away from the encroaching void shadows with a gulp.
Pikavee: “W-we’ll have to find another way around.”
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[ ID: A grayscale bust drawing of Pikavee oriented similarly to the previous image. She appears somewhat concerned or timid, and her eyes are downcast. Her ears are drooped down. Pikavee's appearance is as described here. End ID ]
Pikavee: “But, Rue. I-I think there’s still a chance. We’ll find her.”
Rue’s expression didn’t change. She slowly moved to grip onto Pikavee a little bit tighter, bracing for a retreat, and said nothing else.
Pikavee: “H-hang in there…”
She would turn tail and flee a moment after.
Meanwhile, Hazel still held Fenninkou in her arms.
Fenninkou: “You know, you can let go of me–”
Hazel: “Shh!”
Hazel had started glancing about again, more attentively. Both ears were perked up.
It was that noise from just before–a low rumbling of some kind. Fenninkou, however, didn’t hear it. She certainly didn’t see anything, either.
Fenninkou: “I’m fine, really.”
Hazel: “On that leg? No, you’re not. If we need to get away fast and you fall behind… y-you’re staying right here. I am not losing you again.”
Fenninkou: “Hmph.”
Fenninkou sulked in her arms. The rumbling was at a distance, already faint and growing ever fainter. It stopped moments later.
Hazel sighed, and her ears slacken. Her expression softened upon glancing at Fenninkou–though she didn’t completely relax.
Hazel: “Speaking of. Let me see your leg again.”
Fenninkou: “Ow! Easy…”
Hazel repositioned Fenninkou in her arms somewhat, just to better scrutinize the wound on her hind leg. Her eyes would further furrow with concern, even though the injury itself didn’t look any worse.
Hazel: “Right. You need an oran berry. Oran berry, oran berry…”
She slowly looked around for said oran berry bush. In doing so, she became progressively distracted and disturbed.
Moments of silence passed with Hazel leerily eyeing her surroundings.
Hazel: “I swear, it’s following us.”
Fenninkou: “What?”
Hazel: “It’s big, whatever it is. I can feel it in its aura.”
More moments of silence. Fenninkou again took a quick glimpse around, before looking up at Hazel with confusion.
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[ ID: A grayscale bust drawing of Fenninkou oriented similarly to the previous image. Her eyes are somewhat wide with confusion, and her mouth is agape in a manner that implies she doesn't know what to say. There’s a question mark to the left of her face. Fenninkou's appearance is as described here. End ID ]
Fenninkou: “What are you talking about?”
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plein-air-on-gorkhon · 2 months ago
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@akfhakfnsk you're in luck! i've still got all the layers to reconstruct (deconstruct?) the process of this one- well up to the point where i gave up, so, post-mortem time because there's always something to be learned especially from failed projects
planning: must have been intended to be a screenshot study? but with additional elements (the menacing storm cloud is definitely referenced from a photo), and a completely different color palette. so not really a study at all. you know how some people just have to make things harder for themselves xD
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2. blocking in the values underneath the sketch: honestly i'm still struggling to see values in fully colored images, so some kind of thumbnail is a must. this is the stage where you can still make large compositional changes, after this it only gets trickier. the cloud had the most reference to draw from, all the other values could be made up just to compliment it. looks like there was some thought to atmospheric perspective at this stage (the in game haze providing both some atmospheric perspective and…haze) but the change in value between the distant buildings isn't a lot sooo ikd
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3. color pt. 1: all done with one squarish brush (a little angled?) at varying sizes on a new layer over the grayscale. and the addition of the abattoir and graveyard that surely wouldn't come back to bite me?? also the color choices are a mystery. from the workshop to the abattoir makes sense, orange red transitioning to a cooler purpley hue and less saturated, but the stacks farther back going from orange to yellow green? the cool greens getting more yellow as they recede? lord what is happening here??? yes, different atmospheric conditions (fog, pollution, ash, pollen, PLAGUE etc.) could be exaggerated with different color shifts, but idk idk, the choices here…very verdant and summery
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4. color pt. 2: variations on a theme. small dabs, with the same previous brush, to break up large blocks of color with colors that are approximately of the same value and saturation, but different hues. the more the hue shifts, the more noticeable it is. differing the amount of variation could also be used to draw the eye, rather than have a uniform amount of variation across the whole image. also, adding color dynamics to a brush would help randomize this effect more
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5. blending: and that's where it fell apart. look i like the control that having to manually blend colors gives you BUT I ALSO HATE IT. pressure sensitive brush settings? that's for people with fine motor control! no brush dynamics just low opacity/ low flow scribbling. 'blotting' does kind of describe it. sometimes it works, sometimes it does not. best to have some clue of the techniques you'll use when still in the planning stages instead of winging it
_________
2025 is going to be the year of better brushwork but here were some techniques used in 2024:
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lynxgriffin · 1 year ago
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Sorry to bother you again but do you have any tips on improving my art?
I always imagine stories that I can't animate or draw because I'm not skilled enough and I always feel discouraged.
Thanks!
There's a couple of different things you can do, depending on what angle you think suits you best! Although the truth behind all of them is that the way to improve your art is to do it, and just to keep doing it. Time and practice will always get you closer to where you want to be!
If there's something specific that you feel needs improving, spend a few weeks focusing just on that. Whether it's something like faces, hands, expressions, backgrounds, values/grayscale, or what have you, actually buckling down and studying just that thing for awhile can help you take a big step forward with it. The downside is that it can become tedious, and requires a lot of actual study and focus, which can be hard to maintain on your own.
If there's not anything in particular you want to improve, honestly just doing a completed comic or animation project (especially a short one) from beginning to end will help a lot. Doing any kind of sequential art forces you to tackle a lot of different things at once, but also teaches you how to handle them all, and to do so coherently. Even finishing a five-page comic or a 10-second animation can do wonders for the next thing you do!
If what you're worried about is how people will perceive your art, especially online or with social media, remove that aspect from it and just make something you don't plan on sharing. It can be very freeing to make something for just yourself, and can help lessen any discouragement you may feel.
When in doubt, you can always go back to the well...see comics or animation that inspire you, since for me that's often a good kick in the pants to want to try and create myself. Instead of comparing yourself, see it as a sort of thing where you go, "That looks really fun! I want to have fun, too!"
Hope that helps, and good luck!
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