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Description
Just a random Cris drawing, I'm still not 100% satisfied with how I color/finish my pictures, I wish everything could be as fun as lineart~

Anyway I was just trying to practice anatomy as usual but... I ended up drawing him more buff than intended;;;; (this happens to me a lot, sob)

Cris is from my story Angel Dust ; I kinda intend this to go with this piece of writing...
AD - Swan Song Part 3Cris hits the ground in a crouch, palm biting into asphalt with the impact of the fall.  He pushes himself up and wipes grit off his hand as the helicopter descends behind him, slowly easing down to land.
He pulls the gun out with his right hand, thumbs off the safety of the Jericho as he steps through the shattered glass and twisted beams of the blast site, more glass still tinkling down from above.  It smells of ozone and smoked asphalt, with that taste of acid rain on the edge of the tongue.  He steps around a mess of rubble, metal and concrete, through the ruin of a near-empty floor.  It's dim inside, but he doesn't bother waiting for his eyes to adjust--he can hear it, knows just where the angel is, loud-ass fucker that it is.
A scream, a screech, a keen, a curse--whatever the fuck you want to call it, Cris doesn't care.  He just wants it to shut the fuck up.
He hears a different kind of screech,

Description
Just a random Cris drawing, I'm still not 100% satisfied with how I color/finish my pictures, I wish everything could be as fun as lineart~

Anyway I was just trying to practice anatomy as usual but... I ended up drawing him more buff than intended;;;; (this happens to me a lot, sob)

Cris is from my story Angel Dust ; I kinda intend this to go with this piece of writing...
AD - Swan Song Part 3Cris hits the ground in a crouch, palm biting into asphalt with the impact of the fall.  He pushes himself up and wipes grit off his hand as the helicopter descends behind him, slowly easing down to land.
He pulls the gun out with his right hand, thumbs off the safety of the Jericho as he steps through the shattered glass and twisted beams of the blast site, more glass still tinkling down from above.  It smells of ozone and smoked asphalt, with that taste of acid rain on the edge of the tongue.  He steps around a mess of rubble, metal and concrete, through the ruin of a near-empty floor.  It's dim inside, but he doesn't bother waiting for his eyes to adjust--he can hear it, knows just where the angel is, loud-ass fucker that it is.
A scream, a screech, a keen, a curse--whatever the fuck you want to call it, Cris doesn't care.  He just wants it to shut the fuck up.
He hears a different kind of screech,