Anime Fangs Drawing Novels & Stories

Or I had already fallen, it was no longer a question. But he had never even said if he liked me. Not even for once. The sudden thought was like a bucket of water, poured over my head, downing my excitement, doubts and traces of sadness slowly taking its place. The pencil dully slipped out of my fingers and landed on the sheets. Mom's voice sounded from downstairs and I straightened to my feet. My gaze fell on the simple sketch of Son Goku, my favorite anime character, It turned out even greater than I expected.

Wren's whole body goes still. The spoon stops halfway to the pot, water hissing against the burner behind her, and for one full second she forgets to breathe at all. "What pictures, baby?" Fern doesn't answer right away. She opens the sketchbook instead, flips past pages of careful, precise drawings, houses and dogs and one recurring sketch of three stick figures holding hands under a tree, until she lands on a page near the back. It's a face. A rough, five-year-old attempt at a face, dark hair, a hard line for a jaw, done in the same grey pencil Fern uses for everything she isn't sure how to name yet.

Because after I was done, I looked down. I saw Angelstar, my wolf, and a beautiful wolf has a midnight color on his tail and under his chest with a shape of a paw on his chest. I knew it was a bigger guy than her and me because they were on the mountain top watching the sky. Then something came to my mind. So I started drawing on the other pad. I was underlining the picture and coloring and shadowy the part of the picture. Once I was done. I gasped and hid my flush face because I had drawn a girl with beautiful platinum blonde hair and purple eyes, but I kept my eyes on her. Oh, my God! The drawing looks just like-

"You drew this before you met me?" He just smiles. "And this is you," he says to Fulvio. And sure enough, there's a giant wolf fighting another giant wolf. He has drawn the one's fur in orange and the other's a blue-black.

Then I reached the drawings. Someone had sat with a living thing and drawn it the way the old human anatomists drew, every line put down to be true rather than pretty. A figure, standing, filling the page. Not a man. It stood on two legs and had two arms, but the arms hung to the knees, longer than any arm I'd ever shaken. The jaw ran out too far and hung too heavy, built to hold more teeth than a face has room for. In its own panel beside it, the hands: longer in the palm than mine, the bone at the last joint of each finger hooked, a claw drawn back into the shape of a nail and not quite hidden there.

He leans in, breath foul. “I’m going to start with your fingers. One knuckle at a time. Slowly. So you can count them as they come off. Then your wrists. Then I’ll peel the skin from your arms in perfect strips, like the way you peel off the petals from a flower. You’ll sing for me long before I reach your shoulders.” He paints every atrocity in exquisite detail—flaying, branding, breaking bones and letting them knit wrong just to break them again. He laughs at the pitch my screams will reach when the silver finally kisses marrow.

With his free hand, he violently pulls me in about the waist before quickly wrapping the collar around my neck and securing it. My throat feels heavy with the leather, as though his fingers are pressing it. My father is approvingly watching as I hear the other wolves laughing. The wild animal inside of me begs me to pull out my claws and die a warrior rather than a lamb. Jack's expression, though, escapes me, which causes me to halt. He doesn't simply appear angry, either. He exudes disgust.

Their sharp overgrown nails were out on display. I subconsciously started trembling at their dark auras. Something didn’t feel right. I looked back at the bartender who had a murderous glare in his eyes. Something was wrong. The men started destroying everything and everyone that got in their way. There was no escape. They were blocking the doorway. It was terrible. I didn’t want to see the sliced necked or severed body parts. I wanted to leave, but I was paralyzed in fear. They would destroy me just like the rest of them. But I didn’t want to see people die for no reason. I had never even fought before, but I watched enough anime to have an idea of how it would turn out.”

Never quite this personal. Ronan landed a solid hit with his fist to Elias’s jaw, feeling the satisfying crack of bone. Elias laughed, actually laughed, blood on his teeth, and drove his elbow into Ronan’s ribs hard enough to crack armor. They grappled, tumbled down the small hill, weapons lost somewhere in the mud. Claws and fangs came out. Ronan’s wolf surged under his skin, desperate to rip this thing apart. Elias’s eyes burned brighter, veins standing out black under pale skin as he tried to sink fangs into Ronan’s throat.

But it seemed her pencil had a mind of its own and what she’d drawn was not and could not in any way be construed as anime. She couldn’t really blame herself, though. Jack was all the things! His sharp jawline and those heavy eyebrows. The strong blade of his nose and the way his hair framed his face. He was an angel—or a devil, depending on where you stood on the evil vs. beauty debate. Seriously, Michelangelo would have wept to chisel Jack’s likeness from marble. Dianna couldn’t help drawing him how she saw him, and she already had ideas of how to incorporate his dragon into the portrait. No one else would even know the dragon was there except her…she didn’t think so, anyway.