Toxic Taicho

then we move on to just freehand like the next day

I was really struggling with the screencaps where Oscar has his hood up so I bullshit him a jaw and ears to make shit easier on myself

at this point I start checking my work by dragging the portrait over the screen cap and seeing if shit lines up. I'd properly eyeballed everything BUT the eyeballs and the height/narrowness of the jaw so I tried to make the eyes Smollr and now they look too small.

clearly what will help is more oscar refs

third day in the mines so we're back to tracing first then doing the portrait freehand, and we're still checking our work by draggin the sketch over the reference

we're getting really close! And then I got a fucking Marc screenshot with super short focal length and immediately crashed and burned

BOO. So I traced his face again, erased it so it was very faint and used that as the sketch base, basically strapping the training wheels back on

thankfully I did not need training wheels for anyone else

and then, inexplicably, I didn't even need to tweak anything for the below sketch which. That is a fuck ass angle how did I knock that out in 18 minutes????

and the last sketch had a case of Giant Eyes

and the rest were actual sketches of Victor!

So that's been my last week! Fuckin decrypting the Voynich manuscript of this dickhead's face. His face is so much more narrow than I was drawing before, I also didn't understand where the bridge of his nose Actually Was bc one of the most legible refs I had made it look too wide from the front.

just compare the really sharp edge of his bridge when turned to the side in both the screenshot and the 3/4th shot of the action figure to the nose of the action figure from the front. It looks like it's a completely different shape from the fucking front

similar example from Moon Knight;

shadows are hitting his nose in ways my brain didn't understand until I realized where the bridge of his nose Actually Is in the pic on the right

cuz on first glance it looks like this

which do not seem like the same nose. But really his bridge is HERE

and I GUESS the lighting is just such that it's spilling out around the sides making it look wider

saturday night live - s47e14

Heyyy yes I still do like Labubus!! I'm glad you still like them too! My gf still likes them too btw!

It's really a shame how the phenomenon became so hated because if we look at the canon story it's really cool, Labubu the character has an undead boyfriend of a different species, how cool is that!

I think that because it got launched worldwide as an accessory, not even a toy, and much less a fictional character, it became some kind of status symbol, something you "had" to have, instead of something to love.

My gf and I were debating the difference between Labubu and Hello Kitty or even Barbie, can Labubu become eternal like them? I feel like, to me at least, Hello Kitty was never "pushed" to the point of oversaturation, she stepped in slowly and became accepted. Barbie was also a status symbol, if you could even afford a fake Barbie-looking doll it meant your parents had money, an authentic one was like... *brain explodes*. But Barbie carried the implication that she is meant for children and they're meant to outgrow her. Labubu was marketed not as a toy but as a bag accessory and (young?) adult trends these days are short-lived.

I really do wish they made a Labubu cartoon, I think it would be so cute and funny! Another thing I'm thinking about is how Labubu themselves are adult creatures - there's that official ad where they put several straws together to make a very long straw and steal beer from a Labubu who is just trying to enjoy their time away from work, and people are in the comments are like "why are they drinking beer, children don't drink beer" and I'm like lol because Labubus are grown ups, they just happen to look adorable! But then! They made those songs that sound more like the sort of thing a three year old would love! So the marketing is kind of confusing.

But yeah!!!! Thank you for the train of thought, I still do love them very much, my girlies are hanging from nails on the left and right of my pinboard, and their cute smiles make me smile too! They're so zen, it's quite aspirational lol

What I love about Labubu is that it made bag charms more popular, everyone of any age knows it's fine to put something cute on your bag, it doesn't have to be the thing it came with that's basically a brand logo, it can be something cute and fun to brighten your day because not everything has to be so serious. It's more rare nowadays, at least where I live, to see a purse without some kind of charm.

What's hanging from my purse btw: bracelet from gf, sparkly tulip from Comic Con, flat fanmade Labubu (got a matching one for gf in her fav color!), tiny bunny charm from gf, all of them on a carabiner so I can move them around from one bag to another 🌷

I see them more like toys. I think people in west might not understand cuteness is for adults too in Asia. But yeah in my country also bag charms of all kinds are way more popular than they were before. Haven’t seen labubu in the wild in a while, but have seen other plushies. A K-pop photocards, beaded charms bought or DIY and such.

Worst part is about OG Popmart stuff and the scarcity marketing, people fighting over it… but that’s not case of lafufus, everyone can have these. They’re just like any mass produced toy with all the negatives it has.

Idk if labubu becomes eternal, but there appeared lot of other plush toys with vinyl face, even Monchhichi came back bc of it’s similarity. Kawaii stuff is more popular in west and more accessible than it ever was. There’s even more of Sanrio stuff :3

I have one outdoor lafufu, that I slightly modified. It’s made from stinky plastic, that waned over the time a lot, but airing it more won’t hurt. Then I have 2 indoor lafufus and fake Baby Three cat, that hang from the shelf next by my bed surrounded by other plushes. Then there’s bald lafufu, where keyring tore off. I put it in the ita bag, it’s hanging on my wardrobe doors on display all the time. And then tiny Zimomo keyring, he’s like Sylvanian Families figures.

Whimsy is important and these haters should see how happy were kids I met in the shop when they were buying their lafufus.

I also put different stuff on my bags, depending on style, color.

summary: Every day, from dawn to dusk, the modernist artist Laurent Leclaire paints a young woman. With each new portrait, he notices more and more oddities. During the final session, he stops denying the obvious and understands why his lover leaves before moonrise.

pairing: Laurent Leclaire x vampire fem!oc

warnings: smut | 18+, blood, english is not my first language, head-canons, mirror sex, slight self-harm, rainbow kiss, oral (f & m receiving).

༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:· ·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:· ·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ o༻

1860. Paris, France

The early rays of a Parisian morning were filtering through the studio windows. Laurent Leclaire, an unrecognized modernist artist of his time, was still fast asleep in his bed.

A veiled woman was already standing at the studio threshold, hovering in place and hesitating to knock, even though she was already a frequent guest in his early mornings. A couple of minutes later, a sound rang out, loud enough to shatter Laurent's deep sleep.

Without haste, throwing on the first shirt and trousers he could find and muttering under his breath, he walked into the studio and opened the door. Before him stood his beloved Marguerite, dressed luxuriously as always. “Chic black*" in its purest form.

Her gown of blue, black and and deep violet satin and taffeta reflected the young morning rays. The blue was so dark that it seemed black in ordinary light. The crinoline frame disappeared beneath countless layers of somber fabric, which always drew his eyes. Chantilly lace covered her shoulders and arms, protecting her from the sun.

In her hands, Marguerite held a Paris Green** silk scarf, timidly bringing it to the corner of her mouth, wiping away phantom drops with a touch of paranoia. Despite the early morning and the light fabric of her dress, beneath her elegant headdress with its short veil and feathers, her hair remained untouched from the previous evening—Ariadne’s*** luxurious curls, already tousled by the night.

He adored her like this.

He loved transforming her melancholic nature into erotic images on his canvases. Marguerite was a true modernist’s muse. Laurent painted her both as a grieving Parisian wife beneath a dark veil and, in defiance of every canon of the age, as an ancient naked goddess wandering through the ruins of Rome.

After a few minutes of sleepy glances, Marguerite bit her lip and finally said,

"Good morning."

No matter how much he wanted to object, to say it was too early, that he was tired of her uninvited arrivals, he couldn't. Laurent was too captivated.

Exhaling, he merely nodded, without uttering a word. He stepped back so she could enter.But the girl stood rooted to the spot. With a soft smile, she repeated the unspoken question,

"May I come in?"

She no longer needed the invitation; it had simply become habit.

And Laurent finally spoke,

"Yes, yes, of course..."

After his words she smiled sheepishly. Marguerite looked down at her feet and stepped over the threshold, her heel clicking on the wooden floor. Nothing had changed since her last visit; everything was in its place.

Marguerite often came to Laurent. They spent an atypical time for lovers, from early morning until sunset. From the first rays of day to the last. Laurent had led a wild life, at least before her, but after she was leaving before every night, he only had energy to get to bed and be unconscious.

The woman froze in the middle, glancing questioningly at Laurent, who continued to stare at her without looking away, standing in place amazed as always.

"Give me a moment, I'll get everything ready,” he muttered and quickly started to search for the tools.

While Marguerite waited for him, she sat down on an ottoman, looking around. There were paintings on the walls, most of them of her. His love language was truly painting her. He worshiped Marguerite, and despite his grumpiness in the mornings, he never let her go.

Suddenly, her voice cut through the silence.

"Can you please close the curtains? As you already know, bright light gives me a migraine," she said with a slight pout.

He only grinned, nodding his head knowingly and heading toward the large windows. Drawing one of them, he replied,

"I'm tired of capturing you only in the dark, my love. Let me at least enjoy this rare sunny day and add some variety to our collection,"

But the girl was insistent.

"My dear Laurent, I've made it clear: I don't want to see paintings of myself in the sunlight. I'll squint, and you won't be able to capture my face," she said with false drama in her tone.

He just smirked and obediently closed the curtains of the remaining windows.

When he had prepared a new canvas and paints, he stood in front of her, looking at her delicate silhouette and undressing her with his eyes. He was truly sexual. Too passionate. It was hard for Laurent to paint ladies clothed, especially his lover.

A few moments later, he had already dropped his brushes and approached her, hovering over her and beginning to remove all her clothes. Piece by piece, garments fell to the floor. His fingers were already trained by her thick and numerous layers of clothing. When she stood there bared, Laurent leaned back slightly as he took a moment to admire the finished work of art before him.

The satisfied smile spread across his face, as he bit his lip and returned to his place at the easel. He was very focused; without breakfast or a long sleep, Laurent tried to make his lover happy, even if it was just simple sketches or full-fledged paintings. He would do everything to make his precious bird happy, it doesn't matter whether it's her form among the velvet blankets, or a caricature portrait of her enemy according to the descriptions.

In the studio, all they could hear was the scraping of a pencil on a canvas—a quick sketch, he was making sure to capture all her features right, even though he could draw Marguerite with his eyes closed by memory. Despite how much they loved to listen to each other, gossip, and discuss, every morning work was quiet.

From the silence, the girl's eyes were already darting, her gaze fell on his bare neck, a vein which was pulsing violently for her keen vision. Focusing, she could hear his blood, his heartbeat, the red blood cells rushing through his veins and capillaries. It was overwhelming. Her teeth started to ache, while fangs started to itch gums and treacherously began to ask to be exposed.

With every stroke, time stretched out and became viscous. Noticing her raging emotions and how tense she was, he only took a quick glance at her distressed face, raising an eyebrow and returning back to work.

"Tired already? So impatient...we just started, and you're already fidgeting,” he mumbled with a smile in his voice, without any scold.

Marguerite just smiled nervously, trying to look away while the corners of her lips trembled.

Hastily, Laurent took a canif and began sharpening the pencil lead. He was in a hurry, wanting to finish as soon as possible, just to get his hands on his precious lady. Unfortunately the blade slipped and slashed across the back of his hand. The thin line of blood run down his tanned skin.

He hissed from the sudden pain and muttered something close to,

"Devil…"

he sat down on a stool with a groan full of displeasure, no longer from pain, he was very tolerant of it, but from the fact that another worry had fallen on his head, delaying man’s time from carnal pleasures. With a sight he pulled out a handkerchief out of his pocket.

Marguerite, sitting and mentally drooling just from the pulse on his neck, jumped to her feet — naked — rushing to him and dropping to her knees before Laurent.

"Don't move," she breathed, her voice strangely low.

"No need," Laurent said hoarsely, noticing her gaze. "It's nothing."

But he didn't have time to finish his thought.

She bit her lip and gathered the crimson drops of blood with her lips before a handkerchief could do it. Her gentle, cold hand wrapped around his wrist with a steely grip. After that, apologetically, almost timidly, she ran her fingers over the wound, looking up at him. Noticing his confusion, she stepped back and averted her gaze.

"I'm sorry," she said barely audibly. "I shouldn't have."

Something in her cold skin, in the lifeless glint of her eyes, always fascinated him and alarmed him at the same time. He was secretly enjoying it.

"What was that for?" he asked, finding the strength to grin as he shook his head and looked at her.

"I can't stand the sight of blood," she replied too quickly, as if the answer had been prepared in advance.

"You can't stand it?"

"It makes me sick," she continued more calmly. "Forgive me... it happened unintentionally."

He wanted to object, but stopped himself.

There was such tension in her voice, such remorse, that suspicion suddenly seemed almost cruel.

And yet, the strange feeling lingered.

He recalled all her disappearances — how she vanished before nightfall, when she could wander the empty streets without a care. How she avoided crowded places. How, the first time he touched her hands, he'd been startled by their icy coldness and lifeless pallor. How she went out for a walk with him only in the evenings, although he wanted to assure the whole world that they were together, and Marguerite was his.

Now it all came flooding back.

She stood motionless beside the still life composition in the corner, her head bowed in embarrassment, her fingers visibly trembling.

"You must think I'm crazy," she said after a long silence.

“Absolutely,” he answered quietly. “unbearable, crazy, reckless and completely insane,” he continued with a smirk.

Despite how she always made him wary, he loved this courage, he liked the situation and the position he was in, he always loved her danger.

“Oh Laurent, you are unbearable yourself.”

At that, the corner of her mouth curved faintly, as she covered her mouth and eyes with her slender hand, letting out a single giggle, though sadness still lingered in her eyes.

“Would you still be so passionate if you knew what hid beneath this mystery?” she finnaly letted out.

“I paint people. Face their honest comments about my twisted art. You are the only one who seem to truly admire it,” he said. “I have never been frightened by simple melancholy or…unusual preferences,” he added, referencing to what happened earlier.

“You should be, at least concerned about so-called “preferences”. You always twist things into something perverted.”

For an instant her face seemed almost unreal in its pale beauty. Her nude form, which was wrapped in a silk cloth by now, away from his greedy gaze.

Laurent gently lifted the abandoned handkerchief from the floor and crossed the remaining distance between them. He stopped right in front of her. He wanted to reach out his hand, to touch, to finally feel her skin against his, but this time, something felt truly wrong.

“Then perhaps we are equally twisted. I've always said that. Both of us are cursed by fate,” he sighed, shifting his weight onto one leg and placing his hand, which was still holding a delicate handkerchief on a hip.

For the first time that morning, she truly smiled, baring her delicate and small fangs.

"You don't understand," she said, shaking her head. "You never truly did,” she laughed again, quieter this time.

Despite the laughter and the evenness in her voice, it hurt Laurent much deeper than she could have imagined. He should have stepped away. He never noticed anything wrong, or at least, pretended not to notice.

Suddenly, he started to speak quite low even for him, trying to convey that it is he, like no one else, who understands her in a way Marguerite can't even imagine.

“You disappear from me every evening,” he said at last. “You speak as if every affection were a sin. But actually who are we to talk about sins?” he proclaimed, throwing up his hands. “And whenever I come too close, you do not resist, do not step back, but look at me with the terror in your eyes,” his voice became lower.

Her breath caught, she remained speechless for once.

“Tell me what frightens you so much,” he continued his monologue. “Is it me? My passion? My intense love? You are acting, as if between us both, I am the one who is monstrous,” Laurent pointed at her with his finger.

Silence from her followed, she just wrapped herself tighter in the cloth and took a tiny step back, to shield herself from unwanted conversation.

He exhaled and shook his head, stepping back as well and leaning against the wall, understanding that this monologue is pointless. He didn't even understand why he was so worried about an argument that was pulled out of thin air.

After a long silence he added.

“And if such monstrous creature existed,” he said, “perhaps I would be the last one to be scared to death.”

When there was still no answer, he slammed his palm against the wall and finally the mask of calm disappeared.

"Why do you even come to me? Day after day, as if painting is the only thing we do in the world. All we do is fuck and paint. And as soon as we cross the threshold, the world doesn't even know we're connected,” he snapped, which made Marguerite to flinch. She clutched the fabric that covered her in her fists.

He ran his fingers through his curly hair, looking at her more calmly this time.

"Why do you even want to be captured so many times if your ethereal beauty will never fade?” he finally approached her fully, cradling her cheeks in his palms, noticing her tremor. The corners of his eyebrows were raised as he whispered.

“Just tell me what's wrong...I'm tired of being tormented by doubts," his voice was quiet.

Finally, after several minutes of silence, she parted her lips.

Closing her eyes and pressing her cheek against his palm, she whispered, "We can never be what you want us to be. My heart doesn't beat anymore. The devil took that from me when he chose me as his own."

Her voice was strangely devoid of emotion. It was easier to speak in half-truths than to tell him outright what she really was.

"My thirst for you is too strong."

A soft whine escaped him. Smiling, he pulled her even closer. "Mine is for you too... you know that. So what's the problem?" he replied.

She opened her eyes. With every word, her voice grew firmer, more desperate, as she tried to make him understand.

"Your perverted understanding of thirst and what I mean are two completely different things. I would drain you dry. And when the time came, I wouldn't be able to stop."

She lifted her hand to his cheek as well, gently stroking his skin as though trying to memorize its warmth, which she was deprived of.

"I’d kill you”

For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.

“Then do that. Drain me dry," he whispered with a faint smile. "I'd rather perish by your cold lips than live without them."

With a trembling smile, her eyes closed, she once again found solace in his gentle lips. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she lost herself in the forbidden sweetness, receiving his approval and feeling herself slipping off a leash.

He held her tightly, his hands on her back, not letting go. They didn't stay like that for long; he picked her up and dragged her, wrapped in cloth, to the bed in the next room, while simultaneously freeing Marguerite from unnecessary layers. He loved foreplay. All that nauseating romance. But this time, he couldn't hold back.

As soon as she settled on the bed, he hovered over her and began kissing her neck. Unlike hers, his teeth weren't sharp, so he could indulge in the bites and hickeys. Dimples from his teeth and itchy spots from his kisses began to appear on her pale neck.

Her eyes were rolled back, her lip clenched between her teeth, trying to keep from moaning, but it was clenched so tightly that it began to bleed. Even his kisses simply drove her crazy and left her breathless. Reaching her collarbone, and later her breasts, continuing to nip, he himself began to growl softly, enjoying the contrasting coolness and softness of her skin.

Putting his hands behind her back and lifting her slightly, angling her as he pleased, he leaned her against the headboard, spreading her thighs with his other hand. His cock was already throbbing traitorously in his pants, rubbing against the mattress.

She cried out in surprise at this sudden contact, "Laurent!" but her voice broke into another moan as he leaned down and wrapped his lips around her clit, tasting and teasing at first.

He groaned, hearing her whimpers, which caused the warmth in his belly to spread even more. But he had to wait, had to control himself, so he could get what he craved later, feel her insides pulsing around him from her previous orgasm.

Every now and then he would glance up at her from between her legs, and with his usual smile, he would continue to eat her out, circling and stimulating.

A smirk appeared on his face as her arm wrapped around his, her body moving toward him on autopilot, rubbing against his filthy mouth and bringing them both pleasure.

He pulled away only for a second, "Come on, I know you're almost there..." he whispered quickly and slightly impatiently before returning to work.

As soon as her legs began to close and trying to wrap around his head, he forced them roughly apart with his hands, but before he could even slip his tongue inside her, her juices were already splattered across his mouth and face. Satisfaction ran down her spine, causing her to arch her back and let out a near-scream.

Before she could even recover from her orgasm, he had already released himself, not wanting to wait more. Without bothering to take off all his clothes, he simply unbuttoned and pulled down his pants, grabbing her hips and changing positions.

Now she was on top, her warmth pressing against his swelling member. Placing his hands on her waist, he pushed into her hole, which was still clenching and unclenching around him.

Squeezing his lips together, only her relieved moan could be heard as he entered all the way, beginning to move his hips up and down. His lips, after so much effort, finally parted in ecstasy, and he bent his head back against the headboard, relaxing and guiding her hips in rhythm with his.

They were always so lost in passion that they never noticed the surroundings. When Marguerite leaned down towards him, she placed her hands on his shoulders, burying her face in his neck, seeking salvation and hope in the warmth of his body. He peered behind her head, his gaze falling on the large mirror in the corner.

He saw his reflection, how miserable he was now, how completely he gave himself to her, allowing her to do whatever she wanted with him. But she herself wasn't in the reflection. He saw his erect, pulsating cock, thrusting in and out, stretching, and the marks of her sharp nails were already visible on his shoulders, which only aroused him even more.

Her moans became even more aggressive and animalistic as she dug her claws into his skin. Her grip was so tight and deep that the thinnest streams of red fluid flowed across his soft skin. The movements of her hips became even more violent, pinning him to the bed each time with more force. Laurent's eyes rolled back in satisfaction and pain. His hands moved from her hips to his neck, pressing her wrists even harder, further injuring himself.

Feeling his heart beating faster, she cried out through moans and ragged breathing,

"Oh, Laurent! What are you doing!"

She tried to shift her hands away, noticing how she was hurting him, but he only continued to press her fingers, not looking at her, but looking in the mirror, seeing the spreading marks, his pupils blown wide.

“Doing what I have to,” he breathed, whispering hoarsely and leaning closer into her touch until the tips of her claws pressed against his skin once more. A shudder ran through him, an excitement.

He guided her hand higher, pressing her wrist right at his pulse point, letting her claws prick just enough to draw another line, much deeper this time, enough to whet her appetite.

“You don’t have to, not at all..” she corrected him. Marguerite was worried for the first time. She was afraid, even paranoid that she could hurt him so much that there would be no turning back.

But he insisted, still looking straight in the mirror. "Just try me, take a piece of me, find out my real taste," Laurent said it so confidently and pleadingly that she tacitly agreed.

Lauren was already nearing his limit; he'd waited too long today to get the pleasure he wanted. Marguerite wrapped her arms around his neck and shoulder, tilting his head slightly to the side and holding his hair firmly in place, still moving her hips against his, but not as hard as before.

Suddenly, her teeth sank into his neck, drawing a little blood. His vision blurred, the world was no longer so clear, and his vision began to fade. Marguerite stopped abruptly, pulled away from his neck, not to get carried away so much, and her hips stopped grinding as he let out a disappointed whimper, close to a cry.

Opening his mouth to speak, Marguerite, blood in her mouth, lifted her hips so that his aroused and itching member could be released from her cunt. Smiling slightly, she lowered herself to the level of his hips, seeing how droplets of semen had begun to run down his swollen cock. Arching her back and kneeling on the bed, she took him into her mouth, drenching it with his own blood.

Laurent couldn't utter a word, only a loud groan of despair as his hand settled over her disheveled hair, clutching strands of it into a fist. She tried not to hurt him with her fangs this time, but feeling his grip tighten, Marguerite relaxed her mouth slightly, so that the next time his cock entered her throat, it would feel slight pain.

Laurent, seeing in the reflection how the blood and natural lubrication went down his twitching member, not even a moment passed before his release spread in her mouth. His breath had long since ceased, and his heart seemed to have stopped beating.

"Marguerite," he wanted to whisper, but before he could make a sound, his Marguerite had already straightened her back and, without swallowing, straddled him again. Her lips pressed against his, mixing blood, semen, and saliva in their mouths, holding Laurent tightly close.

When Marguerite finally pulled away from his lips, spending an eternity devouring every weak breath and every heartbeat her lover had left, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, finding the strength to voice the desire that had been growing inside him from the beginning, he brushed his forehead against hers and whispered hoarsely,

"Make me undead. Undead like you."

A faint smile touched her lips. The mixed liquids still lingered there, a few white-red drops trailing down her pale chin. She gazed into his eyes, whispering and nodding to the mirror.

"You are already like me."

His gaze obediently followed her eyes. Laurent’s eyes half closed, but he could clearly see that their reflections were gone. Now, both of them had vanished from the dusty glass.

༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:· ·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:· ·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ o༻

*Chic black – a fashionable black style that symbolized elegance, sophistication, and modern Parisian taste in the 19th century.

**Paris Green – A bright, vivid green color used in fashion and decoration, but containing toxic arsenic.

***Ariadne's Curls – Hairstyle inspired by the classical Greek figure Ariadne. Long, soft, loose curls that fall naturally around the face and shoulders, creating a romantic and slightly tousled look.

frankenstein version the musical of notre dame de paris

buggy the cat clown (i love cats)