this is kind of a self portrait and kind of not. i started going in the self portrait direction after i’d mostly done the face, so maybe i mean self’s hair/chin portrait.
if anyone has any critique i’d really appreciate it? (if snail specifically has a moment. but if you don’t that’s fine i know today is a big day. O___O)
i’m reasonably happy with it, considering what i’ve been managing lately, but i’m nervous about doing anything else to it.
i’m futzing about with something quite silly.
god sam stop with the manpain
can’t you just enjoy the damn priest costume for once in your life
HOLY SHIIIIT
Glorious.
this is the kind of thing i want to put in the compilation. fyi.
(Source: diversushumanis, via ianishollywood)
Emlan just showed me this awesome lighting assistance tool! If you can get past the creepy stare, it’s really great reference for drawing faces in different lighting!
i want to cry he’s so creepy
but seriously it’s a handy tool
this is so incredible.
(via holy-bazinga)
Ben Braeden
Son of Lisa Braeden
Raised by a Hunter whose existence he forgot
Age :: 17
Occupation :: College freshman
// After the car accident neither Ben or his mother felt quite right. The first few days after his mom got out of the ICU, she would lock the door every night, each deadbolt and chain put in place carefully, the alarm keyed in and secured. He couldn’t remember why they lived in perpetual lock down, and when he asked his mother just looked worried.
As for Ben, his days and nights continued like they always had. Soccer practice and school, homework and tv. His mother dated from time to time, but Ben didn’t take well to any of the men she chose and somehow her heart didn’t seem in it. A few years after the accident, Lisa Braeden closed the door behind the fifth man she had dated and subsequently dumped, and went upstairs to her room and locked the door.
Ben started to wonder where his habits had come from. So many of them didn’t make any sense. Like his mother’s unquestioning, instinctive throwing of the locks, he found himself tracing strange shapes in the condensation on the bathroom mirror after his morning shower. He could throw a plastic picnic knife with alarming precision in the school cafeteria, which got him a week suspension. When he heard the rumble of an old muscle car passing by on the street, there was a strange twist in his gut, a longing that he couldn’t place.
Ben and his mother never talked about it. It was a topic that was off-limits, unlike everything else in their lives — unlike most young adults, Ben had no qualms about coming out to his mother, and her response was just a broad grin and a bowl of ice cream. (And condoms, but Ben tried not to think about it.)
These days things were calmer. Ben still surprised himself from time to time (he disassembled, cleaned, and re-assembled his first boyfriend’s small hand gun in 15 minutes, with no instruction and the practiced manner of an old soldier) but mostly he was just himself.
With college to look forward to, Ben Braeden had a lot on his mind.
I know original characters aren’t very interesting, but I doodled this anyway. Ellery is the short one and Dev is the tall one. Ellery is a Navajo two-spirit private detective who was raised in the foster system, Dev is a half East Indian/half White doctor of anthropology raised by a single father who is currently living in hospice care and so Dev is in charge of the family bookshop. They met in high school and now mostly just run around trying not to get straight-up murdered by an insane skinwalker.
Um. They’re both sassy assholes. Ellery is showing at least three wounds here, which occur one by one over the course of several hundred thousand words. Dev doesn’t have any wounds because he can’t actually get hurt, per se. Physically. By normal means. It’s a secret, shh.
I had previously braincast Dev as Dev Patel, but after watching Community Danny Pudi has replaced him in my head. /unimportant information!!!!
i’m still thinking about this. partly i really like it, in a surprising sort of way, and partly i’m annoyed with myself.
