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I’m so excited to share this with you all - I have a lovely friend in Sweden who paints these absolutely fantastic pictures using coffee, and it doesn’t take much to see how much she captures the characters. This one of the Tenth Doctor was done especially for me, and she gave it to me on my trip to London when we met up after watching Richard II. I have the original sitting on my fireplace, securely framed. The time and the effort put into these are beyond brilliant - thank you so much, Kotte. 

I urge you all to check out her work, which you can find on DeviantArt here and on her Facebook page ‘Kotte-Konst’ here.

Stories

Summary: Three years after Levana’s death, Cinder can’t sleep. Parts of her story doesn’t seem to fit, and now and then the dark chapters catch up to her before the good ones can save her. Luckily, that’s what Kai is for—to remind her of where she’s come, and who she has, and who she loves. 

Find On: DeviantArt | FanFiction | Wattpad 


The clock in the corner of her eyes read 3am. Cinder wished she could turn it off, but it stayed there, a blue overlay that didn’t leave her sight even when she closed her eyes. Instead of being helpful as it usually was, it instead accented the fact that, instead of sleeping, she was lying awake on her back, staring up at a ceiling filled with nothing but darkness.

Kai shifted next to her, asleep. Maybe without cyborg wiring in his brain, he didn’t remember the exact date. But she did. Even when she wanted nothing more but to put it behind her, she remembered.

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anonymous asked:

you dont have to respond to this, just some thought things- as the anon you last answered, the only final point of consideration i can bring up is out of every pic shown, i could only see few areas where lines lined up close (pic 2's legs) and the man's face in 4 if you squint has similar nose+lips. even these arent exact. tiny things like these, where you must look closely, is why people are defensive. +the way she draws hair, facial features, clothes, armor? it cant be accounted for by tracing

okay, it’s too hard to explain this in text, so here’s a visual representation:

A standard drawing, right? Whatever.

Then look at this

Looks familiar, right? This image is from pyjama-cake at deviantart. You can find the original here.

As you can probably guess, I traced it. Here’s the proof:

As you can see, not all the lines align, and there are details (lol) not accounted for in the photo. BUT I STILL FUCKING TRACED IT.

This is a really quick sketch so I just drew on whatever, but imagine if you spend long enough time on this to add armor, hair, jewellery, you name it. The details aren’t the hard part to draw, the base structure is. Just because an artist knows how to draw doesn’t mean they can’t be tracing.

This is the last thing I’m going to say on this subject. I’m not trying to be smart about it, I just hope this can shed some light on the whole tracing issue so that you’ll remain critical even if it’s an artist you like.

Illustration by @mf-islands with crappy edits by me! 

Repairs

Summary: This is sorta a follow up of my fic Masquerade, where Cinder is an assassin sent to kill Kai (her first mission!) but refuses to when she realizes how human he is. The day after, Cinder saves Kai from her master, who had tried to take things into her own hands, but Kai is unconscious, so he doesn’t know it was her. (This is what the illustration is of.) 

Pretty much, this is five years later when Cinder has become a well known mechanic, and all Kai still knows about her is that she once tried to kill him.

Enjoy! 

Find on: DeviantArt | FanFiction | Wattpad


   Cinder leaned over with wood polish in hand, rubbing it into her leg’s calf with a ratty cloth, cursing when she nearly got a splinter. She’d need a replacement leg altogether soon, but the money—or lack thereof—from blacksmithing would never cover it. The leftover gold she’d taken from her first master’s dead body only covered the first leg and some food, and ran out faster than she would have wished.

   THUD.

   Cinder jerked, dropping the rag and hitting her non-prosthetic leg on a heavy metal box.

   Looked up, her eyes first met a large, double handed sword resting on the table before her, and then the cloaked man behind it, only the expression of shock on his face visible beneath the hood.

   “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was back there.” His voice was low, but carried—a voice that any citizen of the realm would recognize instantly.

   Newly coronated King Kaito, who, like her, had lost his left leg and, unlike her, had no place somewhere as dirty as here.

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