travelingmadness:

pugletto:

prrb:

How I pratice drawing things, now in a tutorial form.
The shrimp photo I used is here
Show me your shrimps if you do this uvu 

PS: lots of engrish because foreign 

This is the best art advice ever and you should all listen to it because it’s basically what I’ve been telling people for years.

i was not expecting that to actually work

58712 Notes   prrbSource   shakeitlikeaparsnipReblogged  

gkazul:

arandadill:

Shoulder Tips

Needed this for about twenty years

30351 Notes   arandadillSource   pureblo0dbitchReblogged  

pepsie:

fummel:

jeeeel:

villainoustyrrany:

teamtrashcan:

“Hands Tutorials for Those Who Hates Drawing Them” 

Original can be found on Pixiv, I just translated it. I figured it can be helpful to some.

Here’s a combined version for those who prefer one giant tutorial.

O_O

omg this is wonderful

 reblogging for reference

I reblogged this so many times I finally found the translated version 

52508 Notes   pixiv.netSource   arya2arReblogged  

dramatis-echo:

feyuca:

 there’s no remedy for memory

COEY + feyuca sketch collab

DE - This picture is too angsty to ignore… I have to write a sad ficlet.

- - - - -

[John’s Lament]

It was the only piece of him he had left.

He’d cherished it, unconditionally prizing it above nearly all of his other possessions. He kept it close, even wearing it on a few occasions in the winter; tucked beneath the safety of his coat, resting against his chest. Over his heart. If those that had known the pair - Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, or Mycroft - caught sight of the familiar blue fabric peeking out from beneath the front of John’s coat – they didn’t speak on it.

He remembered dog-sitting for Harry one day. Few months ago, now. He’d come up from doing laundry to find her ill-mannered pet shaking and gnawing on Sherlock’s scarf like it was a toy. John had nearly flown off the handle, and had struggled (as if his life depended on it) to get the scarf free from the dog’s mouth. When Harry picked up her stupid mutt, he’d given her an earful about it. He could still hear her words fluttering about in the back of his head…

“It’s just a scarf, John…”

She’s said it with such disdain; as if he were pathetic for treasuring it so. John had spent the rest of the evening hand washing the scarf to remove the dog’s saliva and hair, and then sewed up a couple small canine-shaped holes that had resulted from the tug of war. John held it close afterward. He’d pressed the fabric up against his nose and lips and inhaled for a few minutes. But Sherlock’s scent had long since faded away. Only in certain spots could John detect a hint of his companion…

He’d ended up crying again.

Six months should have been enough time to start getting over Sherlock Holmes. But for John, the wound still felt as fresh as it did the day his friend jumped.

The day he lost him.

“Well, it’s a bit different from my day…”

He would stare at the beam more and more with each passing day. A simple piece of wood, part of the structure of their flat; right at the junction between the kitchen and the sitting room. He could recall Sherlock hanging a dummy from it by a noose. It should be strong enough to support his weight. He’d lost quite a bit.

“Mike can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

John stood up from the couch and made his way into the kitchen to retrieve the step stool. The scarf was draped around his neck.

“Ah… here. Use mine.”

He set the stood down beneath the support beam he’d been eyeing for the past three weeks. This was not an idle or snap decision. Suicide never really was, despite what people might say. There was a great deal of debate, of internal suffering; of pure endurance. Trying to live day to day, trying to present yourself to everyone as just another hard-working citizen. As someone with a balanced life. As someone who could cope. As someone who didn’t feel like crawling right out of his skin every five minutes with the realization, and constant reminder, that he would never be as happy as he’d been when Sherlock Holmes was alive.

“Oh. Thank you.”

But he wasn’t coming back. And after months of trying to get on with his life… John was simply exhausted. He didn’t- no, couldn’t do this anymore. He stood on the stool, just barely able to loop the scarf around the beam, and tie it into a secure knot. He tugged and pulled on it as hard as he could. John even held onto it and hung in the air for a moment; lifting his body weight off the step stool so he could be sure it would support him.

“This is an old friend of mine. John Watson.”

His fingers trembled as he tied the other end of the scarf off into his ‘noose’.

He was so bloody tired. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night. Each dream always ended the same; regardless of setting, regardless of mood, regardless of those involved… he would always see Sherlock jump. It would replay, over and over in his head like a skipping record – rendering John incapable of getting a full night’s sleep.

What was even worse was when it had started happening in the day, two months ago. A quick flash behind his eyes; there was Sherlock, lying motionless on the pavement; blood stark in it’s contrast against his pale skin and icy blue eyes. Dark hair matted and wet…

John would always gasp, and jump back as if the image were real… and he would shake his head, and attempt to continue on with the interrupted activity. Blinking to erase his waking nightmare.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The question. The question… that had initially sparked his obsessive infatuation with all that Sherlock Holmes was. He’d had John’s number from the moment they met. John was entranced, and didn’t see a ‘freak’, but a misunderstood genius. A great man. And the best friend he’d ever had.

He was trembling now, but it didn’t seem to matter much. He was on the stool, the makeshift scarf-noose was in place and around his neck, and the flat was quiet. How he hated the quiet.

John closed his eyes and tried to ignore how itchy his face felt from the tears that had streamed down - that he hadn’t even bothered to wipe away. With his head low and his shoulders slumped forward in defeat… John took one final breath, and leaned forward, and then back on the stool – so it would lurch out from under him.

But just as the stool tumbled forward, he heard the familiar chirp of his mobile. A new message.

John’s eyes snapped open, surprised at the sound, just as his feet lost their support.

He began to suffocate.

Eventually… he stopped struggling.

Eventually… his body stopped swaying back and forth.

[1] New Message, Unread
August 15th 2013, 2:21am

I’m home. SH

13111 Notes   feyucaSource   hermit-revelations-deactivated2Reblogged  

yamino:

jeyl:

ibelievethesecondpart:

hiphoplaboratory:

thismymargeyo

jesus christ in heaven look at this gorgeous example of pure pixel art mastery

PIXELS????

<3

Holy crap there’s more of them on the site, they are all so gorgeous @_@

113666 Notes   createthefuckingchaosSource   godtieroswinReblogged  

jamjars:

i7oda:

You only see what they want you to see, remember that.

what a powerful image 

423603 Notes   comeonandachewithmeSource   lunarwandererReblogged  

marauders4evr:

This is a turtle duck.

Reblog the turtle duck.

…

Why?

Because it’s a turtle duck.

Make the turtle duck tumblr famous.

For no reasons other than the fact that it’s a turtle duck.

63196 Notes   marauders4evrSource   potential-flatmatesReblogged