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Description
Been a while since I drew a proper thing for Angel Dust!

I, uh, I really just wanted to do a nice drawing of Cris but a moody Ian snuck in there somehow hahaha, so be it~

Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh yeah that's all; I fiddled with the colors a lot on this, I still don't know how best to color my dang lineart hahahahaaaaaaaa;;;;;;;; :')))))

Cris and Ian are from my story Angel Dust :
AD - RiseIt's in the oncoming dusk that the angels begin to show.
Ian watches them, the trails they carve through the sky, slick as quicksilver, erratic as skipping stones with ripples more felt than seen. Nothing but light and that static song, beautiful even as casual calamities, slashing through the sky in every direction. If only they weren't so bright.
A thousand shooting stars, but all anyone wishes is that they'll never be struck by one.
Ian closes his eyes, lets the afterimage map itself onto the backs of his eyelids, searches the lines for some kind of pattern or route, but he's never had a sense of direction, only the vaguest inkling of up, not North.
He rubs the battery acid on his hands, feels the skin of his fingertips peel and roll into slivers. He feels grit and rust crumbled inbetween, from an afternoon of digging through another scrap heap. He dusts his hands off on his jeans and shifts the backpack strap on his shoulder.

Description
Been a while since I drew a proper thing for Angel Dust!

I, uh, I really just wanted to do a nice drawing of Cris but a moody Ian snuck in there somehow hahaha, so be it~

Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh yeah that's all; I fiddled with the colors a lot on this, I still don't know how best to color my dang lineart hahahahaaaaaaaa;;;;;;;; :')))))

Cris and Ian are from my story Angel Dust :
AD - RiseIt's in the oncoming dusk that the angels begin to show.
Ian watches them, the trails they carve through the sky, slick as quicksilver, erratic as skipping stones with ripples more felt than seen. Nothing but light and that static song, beautiful even as casual calamities, slashing through the sky in every direction. If only they weren't so bright.
A thousand shooting stars, but all anyone wishes is that they'll never be struck by one.
Ian closes his eyes, lets the afterimage map itself onto the backs of his eyelids, searches the lines for some kind of pattern or route, but he's never had a sense of direction, only the vaguest inkling of up, not North.
He rubs the battery acid on his hands, feels the skin of his fingertips peel and roll into slivers. He feels grit and rust crumbled inbetween, from an afternoon of digging through another scrap heap. He dusts his hands off on his jeans and shifts the backpack strap on his shoulder.