art junkyard

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He’s pretty sure Hiei wants him to kiss him. Not one hundred percent, but he’s giving him The Eyes, and what the heck is he supposed to do? Ignore The Eyes?

“You’re…you’re askin’ for a kiss, right?”

The Eyes narrow. Just a fraction. “If I have to ask for it, you fool— ”

“No, no, I’m! I got this!” Kazuma rasps, and ducks his head.

So he was totally right.

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your honor, i love her

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“Sure,” Kazuma crows. “I sent him back to his den with his tail between his legs!”

“I’m sure,” he drawls, brushing a stray leaf from his sweater. “With no little amount of sheer luck.”

Kazuma barks with laughter and swings down to kiss the upside of his head, a mindless gesture Hiei has eagerly accepted for some time now, yet cannot get used to. He hopes he doesn’t. Every kiss feels like a new breath, a new day, a new vein of fire lancing beneath his skin.

“You’re cold,” he murmurs, tucking a little closer beneath his arm.

“Not really.”

“I feel you shivering, you gargantuan oaf.”

Kazuma’s grin is all teeth, like a mischievous dog demon Hiei once knew. Kazuma is far handsomer, of course. “Guess that means I gotta get a little closer to my own personal heater.”

“Oh, look,” Hiei hums, slipping away before his arms can clamp round him like a vice. “There’s the cart.”

Yusuke waves jovially to them and pulls out two more bowls. His little cart is crowded, but he and Keiko seem ridiculously content to sling noodles in the crisp autumn air. A few paces back, Kazuma whines and trots to catch up, latching onto Hiei’s back like a limpet.

No one sees Hiei grin, ridiculously content himself.

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Guess who got a new tablet (finally) but hasn’t drawn jack in a million years, especially digitally, and thinks that Inktober is a good time to get back into the swing of thingssss? AHAHAHAHAHA-

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He is as indestructible as she is, but sometimes she forgets. It’s quite easy to.

He's standing there, babbling on about the new data he's collected for this particular project, but all she can see is the fresh hurt on his face, his lab coat burning away in a corner of the still smoldering lab.

"Stop," she mumbles, but he doesn't, he barrels through with his damn hypothesis and—"Stop!"

He pauses, brow furrowing. "My dear?"

"Why do you always…" She can't find the words. Instead, she grips the tattered remains of his singed cravat in one hand, while the other reaches up to brush the cut on his cheek. Reckless fool. It will undoubtedly heal in a few days, so long as she or Andrew, or the doctors, or even the molepeople remind him to put some salve on it, but surely their bodies can only be stitched up so many times, right? They can't survive such battering and bruising forever, because all she could see when she raced down here at the behest of the alarms was a massive fireball, and all she could remember was the drill, so long ago, and the silence over the headset, silence save for the vicious crackle of fire and the deafening crash of metal, and no response, there was no response—

Her hands are clasped in unnatural warmth, and she meets warm, dark eyes, their excitement tempered by gentle understanding. "My dear. I assure you, I am quite alright."

"Are—are you sure? You're—all this, it's…stable?"

He squeezes her hands. "I promise. I'm alright."

She holds his gaze sternly. Then she huffs and stretches up to kiss his tender mouth—gently, of course. Surely he's still sore from being flung back by his latest untimely explosion. Apparently, he doesn't mind the pain too much; he presses back firmly, a clear reminder that he's still here, toting his madness around with him as happily as he pleases.

"Oh, Herbert," she sighs softly, barely pulling back. "I love you."

"And I, you," he replies, eyes crinkling in the corners as he gives her a tired smile - he must be more worn out than she thought.

The comm on the wall crackles to life with Andrew's hesitance. "Hey, Dad—uh, I mean Doct—I mean, Herbert? Is Mom down there? Did you guys put out the fires? Dinner's ready, and Dr. Caligari is getting, uh. Tetchy."

Herbert hums and presses a button on the wall to allow their response. "All's well down here, son. We'll be right up."

Elizabeth laughs as Andrew splutters and signs off. She can just picture his freckled face, a pleasant red, much like the alarm lights that coaxed her down here. Poor dear.

Herbert turns a toothy grin her way and slings an arm over her shoulders, more a request for physical support than a gesture of comfort. "Well, our boy has summoned us for dinner. Shall we ascend?"

"I suppose so," she replies fondly. Really, though, they should definitely head up, lest Caligari march down here and drag them out. She's done it before.

They shuffle into the lift, soaking up what warmth they can from each other. As they rise, Herbert clears his throat delicately and murmurs, "Perhaps I could implement some, er, safety protocols later."

She lifts her eyes. "Really?"

He blows a strand of hair from his face and nuzzles her temple drowsily. He should definitely eat something. "If it will bring you even a modicum of peace, then of course."

She twists under him to kiss him carefully again, again, again. "Thank you, dear. That would be just lovely."

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The Cube = Angst. Right.

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NO CHILL MAN.

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Maybe brown hair instead...

I have a problem.

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Listen. Listen. I love them.

I still have head canons about how I think Herbert looks. Like the sorcerer from Ponyo. Let me live in my own world.

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Drawing style, yo

So I was digging through my archives to find a sketchbook I could use for Inktober, and I found some drawings from a decade ago.

Let's just say I've come a long way since then. Wowza.

The funny thing was, as I got stuck flipping through the pages, reminiscing, like ya do when you dig through old boxes, I discovered something.

I had no specific drawing style back then (still don't, I think), and I was constantly tearing through different manga series. Always looking to learn, always inspired by new stuff, I'd try to draw in the style of the mangaka, and it's just frickin hilarious because it's so blatantly obvious which mangas I'd be reading at the time, holy crap.

Air Gear, Dazzle, Inuyasha, Hana Kimi, Wallflower, Ghost Hunter – that's just the tip of the iceberg. I read a lot of manga, and observed a lot of artists on DeviantART. But the amazing thing was, as I kept finding more recent drawings, the improvement became very recognizable. I learned anatomy and shading and expression from these people. (Not backgrounds though, because I'm a coward!)

When I finally broke away from imitation, I felt that my art style (sure, let's pretend I have a consistent one) was strong enough to stand on it's own. Or rather, I could recognize areas I could improve in, but was also content enough that even if I didn't improve, I still felt pretty good about it over all.

Tl;dr I always learn a lot by observing other artists, and I hope that one day, someone will look back and remember even a scrap of my work, and think, My art improved by some small measure because I saw this person's art.

It was a nice trip down memory lane, and hey! Found a sketchbook!

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