lights and lines

anonymous asked:

Just wondering, how long does it usually take to make a comic? Love your art btw, so cute!! ^^

hours (it’s fun tho)

If I were to break down the process timewise

  • Sketch (40%)
  • lineart (20%)
  • colouring (10%)
  • shading (10%)
  • lighting (possibly) (5%)
  • bg colour/lines (10-20% depends on detail)
  • effects/writing (5%)

the sketch always takes the longest because I fiddle so much making sure it looks right (well.. as right as I can make it look).. I usually work on it over the course of a few days though lol, and of course depends on the number of panels as well.

Also thank you! <:

Lone digger by Caravan Palace fits Sabriel so much.. *WARNING* *WARNING* THIS HC HAS CONTENT SOME PEOPLE MAY NOT LIKE. BUT OKAY HERE I GO. 

Imagine this, Sam walking into a strip club. All the lights are dimmed and the only light is coming from candles and the lights lining the stage. Sam took a seat at a empty table and looked down at his phone to check the time. 1 am. Dean was probably doing something he rather not think about, so he directed his gaze to the stage. Where he saw, a rather handsome man Dancing. The man’s golden hair caught the light as he spun around the pole. The movements catching Sam’s attention, he got out of his chair and wandered to the stage. Leaning against it in content, looking up, eyes full of wonder. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out a ten dollar bill and held it up, The man smirked and took it, their hands brushing together ever so slightly, causing a shiver to run up Sam’s spine. Oh boy, was Sam gonna stay here all night.

James Potter: seventeen, hair got struck by lightning at age four and hasn’t sat down since, knuckles that jut out, holds his wand between his teeth to impress girls- to impress the girl, doesn’t own one pair of matching socks, the kind of attractive that fills the ribs, fills the shoulder blades, fills the heart, Sirius painted his nails once and he kept the polish on all week, sees the girl before registering anyone else in the room, young organs pumping young blood, wired to himself, to his boys, to the girl, can tell what you’re about to say before you say it, he’s just sort of like that, has a habit of leaning arms on peoples shoulders, starts the trust fall before anyone realises they’re  meant to be catching him

Sirius Black: seventeen, eats whipped cream by the fork full, rolls up the sleeves of his robes, begins most conversations with: you absolute fuck, column of his throat running down the neck like water, leaves his text books all over school, made of gut feeling, of instinct, of starting before you know how to finish, a part of him still stuck in that house, with the door slamming, with his mother yelling, with the world ending,  he is the bomb going off in the swimming pool, he has probably made a bomb go off in the swimming pool, smoking just outside the door- look- you can see the smoke, you can see the shaking hands.

Remus Lupin: seventeen,  jumpy, long eyelashes, the sullen quiet of fog in winter, scars up the arms, round the neck, across the chest, eyes that stare as if they are waiting for permission, plays the same records until he’s mouthing the words in his sleep, gives out flowers for gifts, sarcasm that could stop the heart, soft, like the skin above your collar bone, like stained glass windows with light through them, like seeing a star in a textbook, knowing that  something that good is out there even if it is far away, often has wind billowing through his baggy t-shirts, pulls out his bottom lip when thinking, at night wakes up sweating, dreaming of blood in his mouth, the kind you get when you rip an arm off, when you lick the bone clean.


Peter Pettigrew: seventeen, socks right to the knee, eating an ice cream, has a sore neck from always looking up, raw fingernails- bitten to the cuticles, full of fear, oozing fear, could fill cathedrals with this fear, burns books for no reason, unmade bed, the flush of a cheek that is bloated, a mound of blood, sits on the floor because there is no room at the table, counts on his fingers, pulled a muscle when walking up the fourth staircase, shuts his eyes, opens them, realises he is still in his own skin, pale, a stick of white, unassuming, like flowers, or the moment the ground gives way, all at once, as if it was going to all along

“Ethereal Explosion”

An explosion of pastel colours paints the sky, as the sun sets over the frozen and snow dusted Little Cranberry Lake.
I made this time stack by combining 242 photos into one image.

don’t talk to me about even meeting isak in that locker room after taking the courage to break up with his four year girlfriend for this boy and then having to hear from that same boy that he decided his life would be better off without mentally ill people around him,,, dont fucking talk to me about even realizing what that meant. about him having to make a decision right there, for both his and isak’s sake. don’t talk to me about even looking isak in the eyes and saying “i think they would love you” while knowing that might be the last time they ever spoke to each other

Chant for Motivation

Swift are my feet and focused is my mind.

So fast I am that time falls behind.

Ready be my hands to do tasks that must be done

And steady be my feet to walk me through each and every one.

May I be driven by desire to complete

Whatever task is given to me.

oh boy i can finally post the illustration i did for menons-la-danse