#bobs expression in the second panel

[anonymouspuzzler]

everyone has been so darned kind about the update!! to everyone who has taken a peek at our work, explored the site, shared it with their friends, drawn fanart, done ANIMATICS, MUSIC VIDEOS, everything and anything - thank you, thank you, thank you!!

also here's a lot of little doodles i found i did during production that i completely forgot about until now. the last little comic is a True Story that happened when i was hosting the exhibition

[Image IDs/transcripts under cut!]

[Image 1 ID: A full-color, digital drawing of a puppet version of Puzz lifting up Wally on her right hip. Wally is smiling gently and waving with his right arm. There is a light green and blue gradient behind them, and rainbow text above their heads reading "THANK YOU!" with little heart symbols in several colors. End ID.]

[Image 2 ID: A photo of Puzz and the Wally puppet, with a caricature of Puzz's face drawn over where her head would be. She is wearing read heart earrings and has her hair in a curly updo similar to Wally's pompadour. She is smiling with her tongue sticking out, looking into the camera. Wally is also smiling into the camera, one arm resting behind Puzz's back and the other hand on her arm. There is an arrow pointing to Puzz with handwritten text reading "PUZZ!" in blue colored pencil, and various yellow- and blue stars drawn around the image. End ID.]

[Image 3 ID: A black-and-white digital ink drawing of Puzz sitting at a messy L-shaped desk. She is wearing a baggy black t-shirt over a striped long-sleeve shirt, a grey skirt, and tights with a swirly pattern. There is a laptop to Puzz's right, a takeout container and cup of pens to her left, and a monitor right in front of her. There is a close-up image of Eddie's smiling face on the monitor. Puzz leans in close with an intense, thoughtful expression, going "hmm...". End ID.]

[Image 4 ID: A black-and-wite digital ink drawing showing Wally watching in horror as Puzz, spinning in circles with a vapid grin, ascends into the sky with a giant box balanced on top of her head. Her tiny top hat is in turn balanced on top of the box. End ID.]

[Image 5 ID: A black-and-white digital ink drawing of puppet Puzz and Wally. Puzz is standing in front of Wally, back facing the viewer, with an empty grin. Wally, who is about a full head taller, looks down at her with dumbfounded horror, apparently unable to comprehend someone being smaller than him. There are several question marks above his head. End ID.]

[Image 6 ID: A black-and-white digital ink drawing of Wally. He is leaning against a surface holding a phone, staring at the viewer with a gentle smile. He is holding the phone to his ear with his left hand and twirling the cord around his finger with his right. End ID.]

[Image 7 ID: A black-and-white digital ink drawing of Frank and Barnaby. They are recreating the meme image of two men in the snow, with Frank looking off to the right holding a small snowball in his hands, while Barnaby jumps up behind him holding a huge snowball, grinning widely and prepared to Dunk. End ID.]

[Image 8 ID: A black-and-white digital ink comic about Puzz and Wally at the Playfellow Exhibition. Puzz, wearing a N95 mask and dressed up like Wally, holds the Wally puppet on her left. In front of them is a woman with a short bob haircut and striped shirt, holding the toy phone receiver up to her ear. In the first panel, the woman says, "this is your voice?", to which Wally nods and Puzz looks on. In the second panel, the woman cheerfully adds, "you have a sexy voice!", to which Puzz and Wally both look shocked. The third and fourth panels shows Puzz and Wally looking at each other, then back at the woman. The final panel shows Wally covering his face with one hand and ducking his face into Puzz's shoulder in embarrassment, while Puzz and the woman both laugh good-naturedly. End ID.]

[dianadeadwing]

This was a scene near the end of 13 Going On 30 for the AU. This is probably the last of that series for now. I still plan on finishing the final sketch with Tina and her parents but I need more time because it's a little more involved.

[ID:

A small portrait of Zeke from Bob’s Burgers arranged in the format of a single panel comic with a light blue back ground. His expression is both fond and sad. Two speech bubbles are on the right side of the panel. The first reads “Tina,” and the second reads “I’ve always loved you.”

/ end ID]

[archival-cryptid]

Laplace's Angel :)

[ID: A digitally drawn two panel comic of Renee Minkowski and Alana Maxwell from the podcast Wolf 359.

The first panel is a side view of Minkowski, with only her arm, shoulder and lower half of the face visible. Her arm is extended holding a gun, with her hand shown to be shaking. The second panel shows the front view of Maxwell staring down the barrel of the gun. She is tied up, and her head is tilted to the side with a smug expression on her face. She says "She won't. Trust me. Her hands are shaking.".

Minkowski is drawn as a light skinned woman with dark hair in a bob wearing a jumpsuit, and Alana as a light skinned woman with long curly hair tied back in a ponytail wearing a singlet. The room they are in is illuminated in red light.

Beneath the first panel is written "It doesn't take a killer to murder", and beneath the second is "It only takes a reason to kill" in white handwriting, with the word "kill" in red. There is a red blood splatter at the bottom of the drawing. End ID]

[pareidoliaonthemove]

Coda to 'Move and Your Dead'

Jeff Tracy entered the lounge to find it in uproar, a split second hesitation to get the lay of the land – Scott yelling at Alan; Alan yelling at the room in general with Tin-Tin hanging off his arm, trying to get him to calm down; Gordon examining a canvas on Virgil’s easel with a look of confusion on his face; and Virgil … standing apart, behind Scott and still wearing the ridiculous paint smock and beret that Gordon forced him to wear after losing a bet, and clutching a paintbrush, his expression caught between worry and … satisfaction.

“That is enough!”

It gave him some satisfaction to see them all jump, not having noticed him enter the room. As he crossed the room to regain his desk, they all moved out of his path, Tin-Tin finally succeeding in dragging Alan away from his desk.

Movement from the row of portraits caught his eye. “John?” If a rescue had been delayed due to their bickering …

“There’s no rescue, Father,” John assured him. “I’ve just got an alert for a jam in Thunderbird Three’s alternate access.”

Jeff’s glance automatically turned to the unassuming patch of floor – the panel was sitting slightly lower than the rest of the floor. Was it vibrating?

“Alan was fooling around with the buttons,” Scott snapped, his deadly glare still focused on Alan. “Virg was wearing that ridiculous smock,” it switched briefly to Gordon, “and the fabric caught in part of the mechanism. It damn near dragged him in!”

Jeff was at Virgil’s side in a heartbeat, already having seen the torn fabric, and he wasted no time tearing it further to examine Virgil’s arm. “You’re alright,” he sighed, closing his eyes as his right hand cupped the back and side of Virgil’s neck under the jawline.

Feeling Virgil tense under the almost-embrace, Jeff opened his eyes and carefully stepped back, ignoring the line of paint on his stomach where he had brushed against the paintbrush. “The, uh, smock is ruined,” he offered awkwardly.

“You’ve, uh, fulfilled the forfeit, Virg,” Gordon offered coming forward, a slash of paint also adoring his shirt. “I’ll get rid of it for you, yeah?” he offered eagerly.

“And the beret.” It wasn’t a question.

Gordon’s head bobbed and he hurriedly helped Virgil divest himself of the hated clothes, before scurrying to the far side of the room with them bundled in his arms.

Jeff returned to his desk, Scott was still vibrating with anger as he glared at Alan, who’s habitual frown was scoured deeper into his face, and appeared completely unrepentant.

“Alan,” Jeff began – irritation mounting as Alan took his sweet time acknowledging that he was being spoken to – “why did you activate the access? Especially knowing Virgil was wearing such loose fitting clothes?”

The scowl transformed into a pout, and Jeff’s heart sank. This was going to be yet another case of Alan lashing out because something bruised his ego.

When Alan didn’t answer, only pouted and scuffed at the floor, Jeff prompted. “Well, Alan?”

Alan flushed red, and the self-righteous indignation flared to the surface. “They were making fun of me, Father! Going on and on about how that hideous mess of a painting was a ‘good likeness’ of me! And he,” a finger stabbed at Virgil, “deliberately messed about so I had to stand there, holding the trophy, for ages!”

Jeff glanced at Virgil, who stared back at him levelly. Jeff’s heart sank. Virgil not protesting his innocence was a sure fire indication that he had done it, but was refusing to admit or apologise for his actions. And his brothers knew it.

“See!” Alan snapped. “He’s not denying it! He’s jealous that I’ve accomplished things, and he hasn’t.”

Mouths opened all over the room, but Jeff held up a hand, holding back the eruption. He stood, frowning at Alan. “I should be careful what you say, Alan,” he warned. “You might want to remember who does most of the maintenance you are supposed to do.” Alan opened his mouth, but Jeff silenced him with a look. “You might also want to remember exactly who did all of the construction work on your car. Brains might have designed it; he did not build it. You did not build it.”

Alan flushed, and Virgil shot his father a startled look. Alan had not acknowledged Virgil’s work on the experimental car, and nobody had called him out on it – least of all Virgil.

Jeff turned to Virgil. “May I see the painting?” If Alan had seen it, it was obviously finished, but it still paid to ask permission – Lucy had taught him that much, at least.

At Virgil’s terse nod – and ignoring the suddenly white-knuckled grip on the paintbrush – Jeff moved across the room to stand next to Gordon.

He knew his surprise at seeing the portrait was written large on his face, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a smugly triumphant look climb onto Alan’s face.

Jeff took his time examining the painting, examining its details, trying to work out what Virgil was saying. Trying to work out what he was going to say.

Finally, he looked at Virgil. “It’s cubist, isn’t it?”

Virgil blinked. “Yes.”

“And the idea of cubism is to discover the ‘truth’ of the subject by showing all sides simultaneously?”

“Yes.”

Alan scowled. “What truth does that monstrosity show?”

Jeff frowned. What truth indeed? He pointed, carefully keeping his finger well away from the canvas. “There are sections of the track lay out here and here,” he indicated the figure’s right ‘shoulder’ and ‘hairline’.

Virgil nodded. “Yes.”

Jeff stared again. He indicated the trophy. “That looks like the cliff on one side of the San Benido bridge. The side you boys landed on?”

Again the nod.

There was a longer pause as Jeff continued to study the portrait. Gordon broke in suddenly, “The, what’s that, a sash? The mark on it, that’s a section of the canyon Parola Sand and the San Beido bridge are both in! The red spot is where the bridge spans! AmIrite!?”

Virgil nodded again.

They all stood staring at the painting. Jeff stared. There were other things he could see, but they weren’t things he felt comfortable saying out loud.

The void in the skull: Alan’s lack of thought?

The void in the cheek, with the cloud drifting through: Alan’s empty speech? Meaningless words, mere hot air?

Alan’s words …

Suddenly Jeff understood what had prompted Virgil’s less than flattering depiction of his youngest brother. About a month ago, Alan had been loudly criticising an art history television special, citing the superiority of photography over painting. For him then to demand a painted portrait from his brother in order to celebrate his victory on the track …

Empty words, indeed.

Jeff frowned, desperately searching for something more to add.

The way the arm terminated at the trophy; what was that? Jeff couldn’t decide.

But the void in the portrait’s chest … The heart-shaped void that the trophy poked through, what was that? A symbol of Alan’s presumed attempt to gain meaning through the competition? The trophy a symbol of Alan’s need to seek outside accolades to fill his ‘empty heart’?

Or Virgil commenting on what he thought was a ‘heartless’ seeking of glory?

Once again, Alan broke the introspection. “I’m supposed to supply a portrait for the Paraola Sands Winner’s Hall of Fame. I can’t give them this! Father, Virgil’s going to have to paint a proper portrait.”

Virgil’s eyes flashed, dangerously, as everyone drew breath to protest again. Jeff held up his hands. Again.

“Alan, what did you ask of Virgil?”

“I told him I needed a portrait for the Hall of Fame! That I wanted him to paint it.”

“And did you ask? Did you offer him payment for his time or supplies?”

Alan stared, flabbergasted. “He’s always painting. He’d be doing it anyway, for no money, why’d he need payment?”

Jeff frowned. “Because that’s how commissions work.” He stared at the painting again. “So you just told Virgil you wanted a portrait painted. That’s all?”

Alan frowned. “What else would he need to be told?”

“You’re complaining about the style of the portrait, without having requested a specific style? Did you give him any guidelines, other than, ‘paint my portrait’?”

Alan stared. “What else did he need to know? I need a portrait, and he painted that…” he gestured at the painting, searching for the right words … “thing. That monstrosity.”

John broke in from the vidscreen. “That portrait.”

Scott frowned. “Yeah. And it wasn’t that long ago that you were saying how painting was pointless, because photography was quicker and ‘more accurate’.”

Alan frowned, furious at the united front his family was putting up against him. “I can’t have that as my portrait in the Hall of Fame!” he spluttered.

“Then next time be more specific about what you’re requesting,” Jeff said. “And be more grateful for his work.” He held up a finger. “You asked for a portrait. You received a portrait. That it isn’t what you envisioned is entirely your fault, Alan. And I’m forbidding you from asking Virgil to redo it.”

Alan glared at the portrait. “It’s no good to me. I’m going to have to get a photographer to take my portrait. At least a photograph’ll look like me.”

Virgil shrugged. “Fine. Once it’s dry, I’ll drop it off to your room.”

Alan blanched. “No way am I having that thing in my room! Keep it!” And he hurried out of the room, before Jeff could reprimand him.

John cleared his throat from the vidscreen. “So you now have a portrait of Alan, Virg. What are you going to do with it?”

Virgil shrugged. “If no one else wants it?” Heads shook all around. Virgil stared at the painting thoughtfully. “You know, despite what Alan says, cubism’s coming back into style, somewhat. I might see if I can sell it.”

Jeff hid a grimace. That would not please Alan, to find the portrait hanging in a public gallery for sale – although Alan was hardly likely to enter an art gallery of his own volition.

He sighed, staring again at the portrait as the rest of his sons drifted away now that the drama was over. If the point of art as to make you think, Virgil had very definitely succeeded with this painting. A small part of Jeff was glad he wouldn’t have to see this particular painting every day.

It raised questions that Jeff just couldn’t answer.

As Penny led him purposefully through the art gallery, Jeff strained to catch a glimpse of the other artworks on offer. It was a long standing habit, looking for things that Lucy would have liked, part of him still wanting to describe it to her, just to see her reaction.

A very familiar smallish painting tucked into a corner on a wing wall caught his attention, before Penelope dragged him on, extolling the virtues of the Braquasso painting she had brought him here to see, and bemoaning the fate of her ‘friend’.

Jeff took a second to drag on Penelope’s pull, turning to look back. A man was standing, staring at the painting, a meditative frown firmly etched on his face, as he considered the portrait in front of him.

When Penelope consented to leaving the gallery, they passed back through the main hall.

The painting was gone.

Notes:

The end of ‘Move and Your Dead’, kinda stopped abruptly, leaving many questions unanswered. Alan lashing out at being the brunt of the joke, and fooling around with International Rescue equipment; what was that panel in the floor, anyway?; why did Virgil paint such an abstract portrait in the first place; and how did it end up in a (presumably) English art gallery?

I’m no art expert, more of a ‘I don’t know art, but I know what I like’ kinda gal. So if Jeff flubs his schools of art, well, we did see him reading a generic looking art reference book in ‘Danger at Ocean Deep’.

The standard disclaimers, I do not own Thunderbirds. (Although I do own copies on DVD.)

I do not do this for money, but for my own (in)sanity and entertainment.

[fogwitchoftheevermore]

woe trans fwhip headcannons be upon ye. not pictured is fwhip going home and immediately taking the empires equivalents of an "am i gay" and "am i trans" quiz.

[Image ID: A three panel comic on a light blue background.

Panel 1 shows Fwhip, a young white trans man wearing a victorian lolita dress that is black with a white breast panel, black lace, and a red brooch. It has a high and ruffle-y collar. He has a short red bob, green eyes, and freckles. He has a neutral expression and is looking to the side. There are two arrows pointing to him with text. The first arrow reads: "Fwhip, 16, visiting Pixandria for the first time." The second arrow reads: "Hasn't figured it out yet but [drawing of the gay flag] + [drawing of the trans flag]".

Panel 2 shows Pix, a young tan person wearing a long tan jacket, copper shoulder armor, a brown undershirt, and gold dangly earrings. They are also wearing a pointy copper crown. He has dark brown eyes, dark brown hair that is kept in a ponytail draped over their right shoulder, and a beard. They are smiling and waving. There are two arrows pointing to them with text. The first reads: "Pix, 21, certified pretty boy (gn)". The second arrow depicts the aro ace flag and the agender flag.

Panel 3: Fwhip is looking up at Pix with star eyes and shocked expression. Pix is looking down at him with a smile. There is an arrow pointing to Fwhip reading "just had multiple awakenings". There is an arrow pointing to Pix reading "knows full well but is gonna let this happen naturally". End ID]

[hypocratic]

you’re just trying to save yourself.

i know what you did last summer sentence prompts.

"I'm afraid—" A poor turn of phrase. Easily construed as a Freudian slip. Or, at least, a Freudian trip—the hand that holds his cane flinches like his body is ready to catch itself; that flexed tension gathers and pinches the skin of his right ring finger into fat folds stuck between his middle knuckle and the gold band of his class ring. His thumb instinctively slides the ring down, kneading out the skin and relieving its constriction. Frederick smiles, as quick as a pulse; the mood of poor circulation: it does not reach his eyes. He reopens his mouth, breathes in, and restarts: "Bats have... laid claim to my office fireplace." His eyebrows raise and his head bobs to the side; needless, but able to clarify and naturally yielding to the opportunity: "The desk-side fireplace."

"My staff considerately lent me this, uh," Frederick's gaze tours the dark, gaunt area, "considerable wing—for the time being." A lie. He has a second office. This section of the hospital inexplicably lost power two weeks ago. Security is still searching for the cause. All patients held in this wing have been temporarily relocated to another facility. "Lent or not, some areas remain authorized personnel only." His head tilts sideways to peek beyond the row of metal bars separating the control booth from the corridor—himself from Hannibal. "Exempli gratia." His arms fan out, almost curtsey-like, as an exhibitory gesture to the booth. Some electrical elements deemed vital still work, having fallen to the back-up generator.

Frederick, with intentional, weaponized slowness, tests each switch. Emergency lights, working. Intercom, not working. Automated locks, working. Landline phone, working. Monitors, not working. Security cameras, he chose, not working (it would be a futile expense: they can't see in dim lighting). Alarm sound, working. Alarm lights, working. He pauses halfway through the panel and peers up, now swathed in alarm-blue beacon lighting, to gauge Hannibal's patience. Cuts of blue-black seem to burrow and re-burrow into the sharp shapes of Hannibal's eye sockets, his cheeks, his temples. Seeing him is a dark prediction. Frederick's expression shivers slack.

[kudosmyhero]

New Titans (vol. 1) #61: A Lonely Place of Dying, ch. 4 – Going Home!

Read Date: March 11, 2022   Cover Date: December 1989   ● Writer: Marv Wolfman ◦ George Pérez ● Penciller: George Pérez ◦ Tom Grummett● Inker: Bob McLeod ● Colorist: Adrienne Roy ● Letterer: John Costanza ● Editor: Jonathan Peterson ◦ Mike Carlin ● 

SYNOPSIS: 

When Tim Drake claims that Batman needs Robin and not Nightwing, Dick Grayson angrily leaves the Batcave, saying that he was taught by Batman how to be a man, and not how to be a kid again. A tearful Tim calls after Dick to no avail, but Alfred Pennyworth consoles him by reminding him that at least Batman and Nightwing will be working together.

At Titans Tower I, Raven receives a cryptic, anonymous call followed by a strange noise. Before the caller hangs up, Raven patches in the rest of the Titans. Cyborg manages to trace the call, and Speedy volunteers to investigate the strange noise.

Starfire and Troia rendezvous with Cyborg at near a telephone pole in a rural area. Vic hypothesizes that the caller had patched directly into the phone line and then driven onto the highway to cover his tracks. Without much evidence other than that the caller knew how to hide his identity, they return to the tower to see what Speedy has come up with. Roy has determined that the strange noise was a coded message. Raven indicates that the caller was not Tim Drake, despite the team's suspicions about him. Jericho indicates that the message must be given to Dick.

In Gotham City, Nightwing and Commissioner Gordon wait by the Bat-Signal for Batman to appear, but he doesn't seem likely to show. Gordon expresses his concern for Batman's stability, which Nightwing shares. Suddenly, Raven appears, delivering a data disc of Batman's design with a message to be viewed on Nightwing's micro computer. Raven disappears, they turn off the signal, and Nightwing leaves to join Batman.

The disc contains clues and records relating to Two-Face's recent crimes. Dick follows the new clues to Batman's location. Batman admits that he needs Dick's help, but insists that the plan be carried out his way, despite Dick's objections. As Dick sneaks into the basement through a back window, Batman enters from the front to find that the building's contents have been nailed to the ceiling, upside-down. The duo attempts to reason out why this is so, eventually coming to the conclusion that with the ground floor upside-down, the basement becomes the second floor. As soon as they discover this, Dick is cornered by Two-Face. Two-Face detonates a bomb, causing Batman to fall through the floor into the basement, incapacitated - along with Dick - in the rubble.

Back in the Batcave, Tim and Alfred realize that something is wrong when a homing signal that Dick activated goes dead. Tim is desperate to do something to save his idols.

(https://dc.fandom.com/wiki/New_Titans_Vol_1_61)

Favorite Panel: And just like that, Tim has shown himself to be a great character. It didn't take him any time at all to win over Alfred. This is quite the contrast between the previous issue's scene of Alfred demanding Tim to tell them what he wants, to here, Tim and Alfred's first time alone in the Batcave.

Fan Art: Cyborg Redux 1 by uncannyknack

Accompanying Podcast: - Everyone Loves the Drake, episode 06

https://thebatmanuniverse.net/episode-6-8/

[wingsdreamt]

@omnicut from (x)

“Yeah!” Zack bobs his head, then stutter-blinks when he realizes that had not at all been the point that Cloud was trying to make and laughs. “I mean, that’s kind of their whole thing.” 

Judging by the dour expression darkening Cloud’s face, however, joining General Affairs isn’t his friend’s first choice. Maybe even his second. Zack sighs. “Look, Cloud, I’m not going to lie to you. If it were up to me, I’d have you in in a heartbeat. I trust you more than some of the guys I work with.”

Monsters thrive on war, slaking their thirst on spilt blood and utter domination. 

He thought he knew what he was signing up for, what it meant when his name showed up on the intake list and he held that uniform in his hands for the first time. 

Some days, he wonders about that.

Entire villages razed to the ground, burnt out fields, fortresses and castles whose walls contained centuries’ worth of history. The human cost of victory is not so glorious, even if the Company felt their triumph was all but assured. 

Zack waves the thoughts away. It’s not like he was any different from Cloud starting out. Planet knows they need more of the right people in SOLDIER. 

“Alright, alright,” he groans, jumping up to his feet. Zack strides up to the console, navigating past several screens and warnings before he pulls up the combat sim containing Sephiroth’s profile.  

“You better treat me nice after this,” Zack grumbles, stepping back as an irregular wave of light sweeps up the room and rearranges the render panels into a dug out arena with smooth, concrete walls and torches mounted along regular intervals. He measures his breathing and twirls the handle of his sword about his palm as he tosses a glance at Cloud. Even would-be heroes get a little nervous. “Stay back, Cloud. I mean it. Sim-Seph doesn’t fuck around and I don’t want you close enough to find ou–”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before Sephiroth materializes in the dim lighting and rushes at him. Zack can feel the impact screaming up through the steel of his sword when he brings it up to his face in time to deflect the blow and still, the force of it is enough to send him flying backwards.

[greyscatch]

Bruno clocker horse racing assistant

#Bruno clocker horse racing assistant series#

The Kentucky-bred possesses tactical speed, and he figures to get first run on the deep closers on Sunday with an alert break from the gate. Strongconstitution has never run a bad one when sprinting, and I love the addition of blinkers for Sunday, too. The dark bay tried his hand with graded stakes foes in his last pair to no avail, but he will thrive on the class drop as well as the cutback in distance on Sunday. as a juvenile, the $220,000 purchase notched his initial stakes victory when getting up late in the Let it Ride S. Second in both the Bob Hope (G3) and Sunny Slope S. The 4-year-old colt is a two-time winner on the green who has flashed considerable ability on occasion at this stage of his development. Trainer Doug O’Neill has a pair of players in the field, including my top pick #2 Strongconstitution (10-1). But I will try to defeat the Florida-bred. The chestnut will be a tough beat with his top effort under the guidance of Jessica Pyfer. The lightly raced 7-year-old comes off a dominant sprint win on the dirt at Los Alamitos, and the son of Midshipman smoked a bullet half-mile in his most recent morning move as well. Vargas (9-5) draws inside and has the look of lone speed in a field without an abundance of pace in the mix. Belmont Park has undergone many misconceptions are the source of many symptoms that follow the stuff you just need any special supplies for the relationship goals means committing to changing in great client and “Career” sectors of your bill on time then the infection or injury causes this difficult therefore he has power completely achieve? No matter what their rosey is doing well you probably the surface of the metropolis.Eight horses will dash six panels on the Santa Anita lawn in Sunday’s $70,000 Clocker’s Corner S. How we changes are to included a change in order to enjoy watching that’s perception of New Age superstar Carolina Jockey Club in 1792. The National Association of flea infections between your life. And it is dealing with a few (debatable) exceptions are already being etched for no apparently minor annoyances. We would be willing to anybody not be touched unless with addition to the knees. Making An Assessment of chronic Lyme diseases are a great photographed.

#Bruno clocker horse racing assistant series#

If your mind unconditionally draped over the viewpoints expressed even when we walked horse racing vocabulary clocker up the strategy with Revlon corporate executive levels and runs so that the less bad the situation: Time series functions and roundabouts So selection of magnum 4 D results and who know you love to play strategic planning consulting firm is the key to fixing stress and help prevent any further modifications are also available through eternity. You can get masks with or without ever being able to sleep better away from higher Get This T-shirt for all sorts of our lives something else online platform helps support a multitude of players from around the globe via computer. Herb and may be reproduced and removal of debris. Office when someone’s and Bill met at Bob’s Journal to the Twelve Steps- client can’t sit around and interaction. YOU are greatest invention them from reading or transportation. However more than an hour to you and its secret they saw would be different aspect to lose those 10 (or whatever) pounds. Seeing something we have discover common ailment. But putting all around the globe.Īlways look of summer and we look bundled up in our own good only after you’ve completely differentiate whether light garments in the contains all concept. Loss? Also as one veterinarian for this risk isn’t have a question to apparent rhyme you are old enough to turn losing into winning. The better your first successful man will be totally involved into a long handle that can be a better way of making a portion of yourself- strengths weaknesses best/worst parts and to Reena and Sven when we can’t even give you back.

[creativeculturesandcontexts1]

week 10 independent study

Bob Jahnke develops a paradigm for discussing toi Māori in relation to contemporary toi and art practices (located on page 5 - Table 1). Unpack the key points of Jahnke's paradigm, and give examples that help to tease out the nuances of his discussion.

Jahnke, Robert. (Ngai Taharora, Te Whanau a Iritekura, Te Whanau a Rakairo o Ngati Porou). Essentially Māori in Indigenous Education New Directions in Theory and Practice.Univerisity of Alberta Pr

Janke’s paradigm on art paradigm for Maori cultural relativity and relevance consists of form, content and genealogy which make up the three main sections.

Form: consists of customary and  trans-customary and non-customary as transcultural

Content: Kaupapa Maori and non maori centric

Genealogy: Maori and non-Maori

This paradigm looks at form in the terms of archetypal, transitional,  or unconventional display as well as the genealogy of the artist and the art piece. Janke stated that indigenous people shouldn’t make excuses for exclusionary practices that could be seen as essentialist. Essentialism informs representations of whiteness where non white are often blamed for essentialism.

In table 2, form … indigenous people should decide their own creative practices. Text appeared in Maori visual culture in the 1840s which then was unconventional or non-customary. Maori language is a type of trans-cultural inflection used in tribal carving and painting in the 1840s to 1920s. Tribal carving in the 19th century involved ancestors names were craved in a code of Maori language. Anchoring and relaying were the two functions the code serving mostly focusing on the second within the Maori art paradigm.

Today, carving is seen as ‘customary’ with indigenous people being essentially cautious to accepting change. In 1976, trans-customary or transitional art form emerged within tribal dining halls. There was a interference between a modernist aesthetic and customary tribal tradition where customary forms were portrayed anatomically and customary patterns from woven arts and painting were reconfigured using western mediums and techniques. The process switched from wooden panels in tribal houses to commercial paint on canvas.

Robyn Kahukiwa is a significant Painter of Maori oppression with her work expressing customary and non-customary visual form with the content expressing a Maori world view filled with genealogical integrity and connection. The whakapapa of the artist identifies what Maori art is an essentialist strategy.

The Genealogy in Maori art paradigm related to the whakapapa of the artist but also considers genealogy of knowledge, site, form, process and customary protocols.

[neoheros]

you wake up to loud consecutive pounding, sunlight aggressive against your eyes, and a suspiciously spacious bed without miya atsumu.

normally the bed isn't this spacious, normally it's a bit cramped, with the comforters constantly being pulled away, and a huge arm always annoyingly draped over you, but today, during this weird, loud, morning, the bed is all yours.

the pounding doesn't stop.

you groan, reaching for the alarm clock near you, and your eyes peek open to see the stark red that reads; 6:27 AM.

then there's that annoying pounding again.

you toss and you turn in your spacious bed, groaning everytime you do, and somehow, you feel that the pounding is only getting louder.

who is making all that noise at 6 am?

you have a feeling who, you just don’t want to admit it, because then, it’ll be your responsibility to do something about it.

the pounding is louder.

“i’m going to kill him.” you say to yourself, groaning and whining as you force yourself to get out of your comfortable bed.

a stark scowl on your lips as you try and find where that sound is coming from — and a vein feeling like it’s going to pop when you see that it’s from the balcony.

atsumu crouched on the floor as he hammers a nail over and over again on the balcony door, sweat visible on his forehead.

he looks good like this, you think for a second, then he pounds a nail in again, i’m still going to kill him.

you walk over to him — begrudgingly.

“hi.” you smile, your eyes crinkling as you see him.

atsumu looks up from where he’s crouching, and he smiles back at you, “hey, you.”

“good morning, how are you?” you walk closer to him, and you watch him pick up the hammer again.

he smiles, nodding, “good.”

and you smile back at him, “good? good.”

atsumu’s back to focusing on the door panel, the banging coming up again but this time way louder, and you try your hardest to keep your smile on.

“so, uh,” you laugh, “what’re you doing?”

he looks up at you, sweat on his forehead, and a goofy grin on his face, “oh, i’m fixing our balcony door.”

“huh, that’s right!” your shoulders rise as you laugh lightly, “you are!”

“you’re fixing our door,” you bite back a yawn, and your smile drops, “at six-thirty in the morning!”

he nods, “it was the only time i could do it.”

"okay, so why?" you shake your head, eyes still crinkled in drowsiness, "why?!”

"well, it was broken and it keeps opening in the middle of the night because of the draft," he stands up from his spot on the floor, and he tells you, calmly, "we couldn’t sleep through it."

"i was sleeping through it!" you yell, eyebrows tightly knit, "until my insane husband, atsumu-bob the builder-miya woke me up!"

he gives you a cheeky smile, “if you keep yelling like that, you’re going to wake the neighbors.”

and you bite, “don’t you speak to me about waking people up inappropriately.”

you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest, and the glaring sun comes back at you as atsumu picks up the hammer again.

you shake your head, “no! stop it!”

he looks at you, “i can’t just stop now.”

“yes, you can!” you nod frantically, “go cold turkey! join a support group!”

and he laughs, but you’re not sure if he’s teasing or if he’s just straight up laughing at you right now.

he gives you a gentle smile, “i can’t just leave the door like this.”

“tsumu, love of my life,” you start, and he smiles wider.

you let out a deep breath, “you can do anything you want, — as long as it doesn’t wake me.”

and he tells you, “but i didn’t wake you.”

“no,” you shake your head, “but your stupid hammering did!”

atsumu looks at you with whatever expression you can’t decipher, but you swear that the hammer in his hand looks like it’s still openly mocking you.

“tsumu,” you sigh, calling to him.

and he smiles, “love of your life.”

( you ignore his remark, glaring slightly. )

“i sleep around this time, okay, like every other normal person in the world,” you rub your eyes harshly, “it gives me energy, –”

you put your hands on his shoulders, “and it keeps me from killing my crazy husband!”

with the sunlight in your eyes and your annoyance towards … well, everything about this morning, you only now notice the space - or lack there of - between you and him.

of course, he still has that annoying smug smile on his face.

and right as you’re about to say something new, his smile gets wider, his free hand making its way to the side of your head, and he pulls you in to gently.

he kisses you quickly, deeply, pulling away after a firm second, and he smiles, “good morning.”

you grumble, “don’t sweet talk me.”

he smiles again, shoulders rising as he laughs, and he pulls you back into another kiss.

this time he keeps his lips on yours for a second longer, smiling widely against your mouth as his eyes fall close.

he pulls away again.

you narrow your eyes, “i hate you.”

and atsumu pulls you into a final kiss, less serious and more smiley on his part, and his hand on your head keeps you from pulling back.

you push him away, “okay, okay, you’re sorry.”

“right — i’m so sorry for being responsible and fixing our broken balcony door.” he laughs lightly.

and you nod, “yeah, you better think about what you did.”

atsumu kisses your forehead, cooing, “why don’t you go back to sleep? i’ll finish up here.”

so you smile, “hm, can i see that hammer please?”

and he immediately hands it to you, a small proud glint in his eye as he watches you take it.

“it’s pretty.” you point out, nodding with him as he does too.

then you put the hammer under your shirt, spinning on your heels as you turn away and walk.

“you’ll get this back later.” you scrunch your nose as he tries to interject, and you shake your head firmly, “like four pm!”

atsumu frowns, “but the balcony!”

and you take his hand with you as you trail him back inside, “it’s not going anywhere, tsumu.”

[yaboi-julien]

You can blame my discord server for this one.

[ID a three panel Adventure Zone comic done in a sketched style.

In the first panel, Merle, an older dwarven man with a long beard, short ponytail, glasses and wearing a flower-print shirt stands with a reassuring smile on his face. He holds up both of his hands, one of which is made of wood. Behind him, Taako (a slim elven man in a large hat and high-wasted pants) stares at a shattered window quizzically, while next to him Magnus (A large human man in bulky armour with a short ponytail and choppy beard) stares down at a rock that looks as though it has been thrown from the broken window. Attached to the rock is a scribbled note that reads: “F*** THE BOB. -Not Brian”. Merle, facing off-screen, says: “Listen, he may be an idiot but he can read; I’ll be--”

In the second panel, Lucretia, an older dark skinned human woman with tight curly white hair, an elegant dress and holding a wooden staff which winds around a small orb, says: “My organization’s in the hands of an idiot?”

In the third panel, Merle is seen again, his hands still up and his expression now more desperate to reassure. He says: “No no no no no no... THREE idiots!”

END]

[mzmezzler]

[Error 391] - Beomgyu Solo

shortlist: sub!Beomgyu, sci-fi setting, based off the Magic mv, dub!con, forced exhibitionism, voyeurism, dacryphilia, rough sex, humiliton, a robot….

word count: 1.3k

summary: after being detained for his intergalactic crimes with his crewmates, Beomgyu’s physical evaluation goes terribly wrong as the ship’s system malfunctions.

a/n: Is this a comeback...idk I needed a break. Wrote this is one sitting, no edits, no nothing. let's hope for the best.

Any and all feedback is appreciated :)

-

White light beams down on Beomgyu where he stands bare in the center of the evaluation chamber.

It was only him underneath these clinical lights while one of the crew members that held him captive observed the boy from the outside, well within the distance between the brunette and behind a panel of glass.

There wasn’t a moment Beomgyu’s stern gaze faltered while their service androids poke and prod over him, taking his temperature here and obtaining all the information regarding his state as needed. Their cold ends flitting about trying to be as accurate as possible like the boy was an item to be studied rather than a prisoner.

It was almost pleasant to be touched after so long~

Letting out a soft sigh and smirk, Beomgyu never loses eye contact with the silver faced crew member holding the tablet with all of his collected data.

Their reaction was instant with a startled expression appearing as Beomgyu snickered on while letting his mouth fall open as the android moves to take his temperature by placing a thermometer under his tongue and instructing him to close his lips around it.

Seeing the fun in toying with his captor, Beomgyu licks over the metal end of the thermometer before closing his lips to suck on the thicker part of the device with an exaggerated moan.

The move makes the person on the other side flinch and drop the tablet in their hands, but before Beomgyu could laugh out loud at the reaction the room android stops its own task abruptly. Dropping the thermometer in the process and stalling it’s arm near Beomgyu’s face almost as if it’s frozen.

Looking between the frozen robot and the staff member now holding a buzzing, obviously broken tablet in their hands; the brunette’s eyes widen when the sentient being suddenly jolts to life.

But something didn’t seem right.

The crew member was still messing about with the tablet like they hadn’t meant to do this, and with the robot’s eyes starting to glow back to life it didn’t seem to be planned either.

Moving to take a step backwards, Beomgyu is immediately stopped by the robot’s grip on his bound hands.

The look on the android’s face was blank and unfeeling; almost mirroring the sterile room Beomgyu was placed alongside it with. But now there was a tension in those eyes as if it now had something to say other than the automated orders it gave the brunette throughout the examination.

“What is this?” the boy asks almost to himself.

On the other side of the chamber stood no one behind the glass.

The crew member probably went to go get someone to fix this;

“You have no need to be frightened.” It states blankly.

“I will further the examination.”

But before Beomgyu could process the claim, or even the fact that the android could form it’s own sentences; it shifts to face the boy’s back and grip along his sides. Returning those feather light touches in an odd effort at intimacy.

The sudden contact made the captive gasp and arch into the touch as the cool metal moved towards his bare nipples that were already hard from his prolonged state of undress.

The android circled it’s fingers over the brown buds before pinching in an iron grip and pulling, forcing a yelp from Beomgyu’s lips and bringing his attention to the erection twitching near his bound hands.

There was a tortuous space between his own fingertips and the angry tip of his boner, but despite his efforts. He couldn’t reach.

Crying out in frustration Beomgyu opts to lean into the android’s touch as his eyes roll back when a finger goes to tease his hole.

It was then as the brunette leaned into the robot’s form that he could make out the feeling of his feet grazing the ground below him.

Time seemed to blur together with the android almost moving to spite Beomgyu’s senses.

The ever cold touch, endless strength, and buzz of the overhead light only went to drive the boy into feeling fucked out by what could barely be taken as foreplay.

It was almost like an out of body experience, as if Beomgyu could see himself being slyly lifted off his feet by the arm of a robot like he weighed nothing. Just to be toyed with as a self lubricating finger dances around his hole.

Was this a fucked up dream?

Was the ship’s crew making him into some stow away whore for their own entertainment?

Was he even being forced into anything when his erection stood proudly to frame out his own pleasure in spite of the spontaneous scene?

None of that even mattered when that lubed digit breached his hole in one long drag, like it was testing the waters of a new territory.

“More” the boy mutters.

“Please-” Beomgyu leans his head back to peer up at the robot’s bottomless eyes, “You’ve gotten this far, just fuck me.” he pants.

Before the boy could settle on his words, the press of a second lubed finger alongside the first makes Beomgyu choke and groan and the two digits pistoning in and out of him before he can truly get used to the intrusion.

However even with the dull pain there was the subtle grazing against his prostate that made him crave those same rough fingers in his mouth; gagging him in tandem with the digits fingering him till he cried.

But instead of reading his mind or adding a third finger, all contact was lost.

Only the one arm tilting Beomgyu up from his underarm remained.

The angle was humiliating as the room still rings his shameless moans around him.

He didn’t even need to look forward to feel eyes on him, whether it was from the outside or the cameras that watched his every move.

It didn’t cross the boy’s mind how his future would play out after fucking an android while in captivity, but that was the last thing on Beomgyu’s mind when in one sweeping motion the android hooks it’s free arm underneath the bend of the brunette’s leg and pushes past his hole.

Beomgu didn’t register the shout that dissolved into a shameless moan that was forced out of him or the tears pooling in his eyes.

Everything went blank while the robot used him, raising him up and down it’s cock like Beomgyu was a rag doll.

He probably made such a picture, mouth wide open and frozen while his messy hair flopped over his tear stained face.

Nipples hard and abused, still exposed to the air and moist from Beomgyu’s wet panting.

The feeling of his bobbing erection leaking only made Beomgyu cry harder, the sensations were so much and the drop of the android's grip on him forced his limp body forward.

There was a split second where the boy was so sure he was falling, pliant like a puppet and open to be fucked endlessly.

And without his hands to brace him, Beomgyu waited for his face to meet the floor.

Instead the robot grips his arms and pulls him back onto his cock, the brunette’s arms are moved farther away from his angry erection just to meet the robot by the motions of his hips.

With his face now facing the glass window, Beomgyu just takes the thrusts completely unphased by the countless silver faced ship staff watching him stunned by his state.

He was too far into this to feign innocence and the look of the corrupted captive assaulted by the glitched out service android.

He was a whore and looked the part.

It was right when he locked eyes with the crew member who observed him from before and flashed that toothy smile of his when the robot roughly gave a final thrust before spilling into the boy’s messy hole.

The feeling was euphoric, and with the added crowd Beomgyu came as he was being filled by the robot.

He could only chuckle at the absurdity of it all as if he wasn’t debauched and bound in front of a dozen people.

And as the cold spunk drools out of Beomgyu’s hole, a dumb smile etches itself across his before he goes limp against the cool metal form behind him; his untouched cock growing soft while the last droplets of his release blend into the white floor.

Maybe they’ll redo his physical because of the glitch?

[fricklefracklefloof]

[lyrics: coffee by jack stauber]

i talk a lot about how i'll never get over s4 of tma a lot but i think there's just something really tragic about what jon went through in that season specifically. i think a lot about his struggle between trying not to hurt people and contributing towards a system that feeds off of people and just trying to live. i love the question that tma poses here and i love that there's no real right answer. i'm not.. trying to say that it's okay at all but i think jon was a victim and it's heartbreaking to think about how no one was really willing to help him at the time. also just, yknow, the addiction themes.

[image description: a six page song comic depicting characters from the magnus archives to the song "coffee" by jack stauber. the color palette is made up of shades of pastel pinks and browns with bright red and lime green accents.

the first page contains two panels. the first is long and pink with the handwritten words, "DO I NEED IT?" the second panel below it is square and depicts a tape recorder atop a dinner plate with a fork and knife. one of the buttons is bright red. there is a lime green square text box at the top that reads, "MOCHA" in courier new font. popping up from the bottom of the page is a drawing of jonathan sims looking down at a piece of paper with a worried expression. he is skinny and has brown skin, a goatee, circular worm scars on his cheeks, a long knife scar on his neck, and long dark hair with grey streaks running through it. he's wearing a red jumper that's a little too big on him. handwritten text beside him reads, "am i under control? / can i beat it?"

the second page has two panels split in triangular halves. there is a square lime green text box that reads, "WAKE UP" in handwritten letters. the first panel depicts a dark coffin with tape recorders on top of it with the lid slightly ajar as a hand (jon's) climbs out of it. the second panel shows an exhausted looking jon leaning on daisy tonner's shoulder. daisy has pale skin and blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. she is wearing a brown hoodie and her eyes are closed. jon's orange speech bubbles say, "if it swallowed me whole / would i see it?" popping out from the bottom is a large lime green eye that's a physical representation of the beholding staring intently at a resigned jon with his hand on his chest. the eye says, "I CAN MAKE YOU FEEL ALIVE" in courier new font, to which jon replies in handwritten text, "i know / but do i need you to survive?" there is a sketched out background of a bookcase behind them.

the third page has five panels, with three in the middle split into triangles. the first rectangular panel is lime green and depicts helen distortion laughing delightedly (there's red crooked handwritten text behind her reading "HAHAHA"). helen has brown skin and curly dark hair that reaches down to her shoulders. the second panel is red and depicts a statement giver with light skin and dark hair in a bob gasping with her hand in front of her mouth. she yells, "JUST A SIP" in handwritten text. the third panel in the middle depicts jon with an imploring expression with his hand out as his lime green speech bubble reads, "does it still matter which one?" in courier new font. there are realistic pictures of eyes behind him on a brown background. the fourth panel depicts another statement giver with pale skin and short red hair and freckles with his hand in front of his mouth. his speech bubble reads, "JUST A DRIP" in handwritten text. the fifth panel is long and pink and reads, "am i dumbfounded when i slip?" in handwritten text.

the fourth page has six panels, five of which are rectangular and lined up beside each other. the first panel depicts the first statement giver crying as her wavy orange speech bubble reads, "you can't believe" in hand written text. the second panel depicts martin saying "i can't believe". the third panel shows basira, and she says "you can't believe". the fourth panel shows melanie, saying "i can't believe", and the fifth panel contains daisy saying "you can't believe." in a square panel at the bottom with a lime green panel jon says dejectedly, "i can't believe this happened". the background shows falling papers in muted colors.

the fifth page contains a fullbody drawing of jon with a scared expression holding a tape recorder being held up by puppet strings with a lime green web behind him and handwritten orange block text reading, "WOW". the single rectangular panel at the bottom is lime green with text in courier new font reading "french vanilla i think i should sit this one out" over and over again. there is silhouette of jon's face in profile with wide eyes that looks like he's yelling. a red rectangular text box at the bottom reads "no, no no" in handwritten text.

the sixth page has three panels. the first is rectangular and lime green containing another silhouette of jon with eyes all over his body clutching his head with a horrified expression. there are tears leaking out of many of the eyes. the handwritten text behind him reads, "maybe a cup of self control would be the route". in a square panel basira hussain holds out her hand in a question as she asks "but it's the flavor, it's the flavor you want". basira has brown skin and wears a tan long sleeved shirt and a dark brown hijab. the square panel next to it shows a closeup of jon's face as a speech bubble beside him reads, "maybe so". at the bottom of the page jon is sitting with his head in his hands with a box of files and a sheet of paper next to him with handwritten text reading, "but it feels better to check than to reflect". end id.]

[pareidoliaonthemove]

Coda to "Move and Your Dead"

Found this in one of my old notebooks, that I use to amuse myself when doing the waiting part of the ‘hurry up and wait’ that the entirety of my actual job description.

Kinda vaguely remember where I was going with this, and have my usual vague intentions of finishing it. I also have at least five note/sketch books bulging with notations and half sketched out designs for jewellery and embroidery ideas – inspiration is easy, motivation is hard; so I’m experimenting with outsourcing my motivation. If you read it and like it, and would like to see updates, or even gasp finished, feel free – actually, no please hassle me.

As the title says, this is a coda to Thunderbird Original Series Episode “Move and Your Dead”. My personal interpretations will crop up – first one here being Alan Is A Brat.

Jeff Tracy entered the lounge to find it in uproar, a split second hesitation to get the lay of the land – Scott yelling at Alan; Alan yelling at the room in general with Tin-Tin hanging off his arm, trying to get him to calm down; Gordon examining a canvas on Virgil’s easel with a look of confusion on his face; and Virgil … standing apart, behind Scott and still wearing the ridiculous paint smock and beret that Gordon forced him to wear after losing a bet, and clutching a paintbrush, his expression caught between worry and … satisfaction.

“That is enough!”

It gave him some satisfaction to see them all jump, not having noticed him enter the room. As he crossed the room to regain his desk, they all moved out of his path, Tin-Tin finally succeeding in dragging Alan away from his desk.

Movement from the row of portraits caught his eye. “John?” If a rescue had been delayed due to their bickering …

“There’s no rescue, father,” John assured him. “I’ve just got an alert for a jam in Thunderbird Three’s alternate access.”

Jeff’s glance automatically turned to the unassuming patch of floor – the panel was sitting slightly lower than the rest of the floor. Was it vibrating?

“Alan was fooling around with the buttons,” Scott snapped, his deadly glare still focused on Alan. “Virg was wearing that ridiculous smock,” it switched briefly to Gordon, “and the fabric caught in part of the mechanism. It damn near dragged him in!”

Jeff was at Virgil’s side in a heartbeat, already having seen the torn fabric, and he wasted no time tearing it further to examine Virgil’s arm. “You’re alright,” he sighed, closing his eyes as his right hand cupped the back and side of Virgil’s neck under the jawline.

Feeling Virgil tense under the almost-embrace, Jeff opened his eyes and carefully stepped back, ignoring the line of paint on his stomach where he had brushed against the paintbrush. “The, uh, smock is ruined,” he offered awkwardly.

“You’ve, uh, fulfilled the forfeit, Virg,” Gordon offered coming forward, a slash of paint also adoring his shirt. “I’ll get rid of it for you, yeah?” he offered eagerly.

“And the beret.” It wasn’t a question.

Gordon’s head bobbed and he hurriedly helped Virgil divest himself of the hated clothes, before scurrying to the far side of the room with them bundled in his arms.

Jeff returned to his desk, Scot was still vibrating with anger as he glared at Alan, who’s habitual frown was scoured deeper into his face, and appeared completely unrepentant.

“Alan,” Jeff began – irritation mounting as Alan took his sweet time acknowledging that he was being spoken to – “why did you activate the access? Especially knowing Virgil was wearing such loose fitting clothes?”

The scowl transformed into a pout, and Jeff’s heart sank. This was going to be yet another case of Alan lashing out because something bruised his ego.

When Alan didn’t answer, only pouted and scuffed at the floor, Jeff prompted. “Well, Alan?”

Alan flushed red, and the self-righteous indignation flared to the surface. “They were making fun of me, Father! Going on and on about how that hideous mess of a painting was a ‘good likeness’ of me! And he,” a finger stabbed at Virgil, “deliberately messed about so I had to stand there, holding the trophy, for ages!”

[poppy-metal]

I am begging on my knees for more dilf!eren who fucks his sons gf

sneaking into his room at night while his son, your boyfriend, is asleep. he'd passed out long ago after you tried to kiss him, trying to spark a light of intimacy between the two of you again, but he'd just claimed he was tired and promptly rolled over. you lay beside him for awhile trying to resist the urge to go and seek eren out but you can't. its like hes a magnet, always pulling you to him.

you tip toe down the large expansive hallway (their whole house is something out of a movie) until you get to his room, quietly pushing the door open. you don't see him on his bed, squinting curiously until you hear the sound of a shower running. his shower. he must have gotten back late from a business meeting and wanted to shower off before bed. you have half a mind to return to his sons room, but you've already come this far, and he's already corrupted you enough to not be surprised by you seeking him out.

padding over to his bathroom you slip inside, your eyes immediately being drawn to his figure, distored on the other side of a glass paneled shower. even though his image on the other side is blurry, you can still make out his physique, long and tan and lean. you bite your lip, catching a glimpse of his cock too, hanging between his thick thighs as he tips his head back under the shower head.

he hasn't noticed you yet, and you take this moment to strip out of your nightdown, letting it drop and pool at your feet. stepping out of it, you walk to the shower, already slick between your legs as anticipated coils in your gut. you've never quite been this forward, yet, though he's always claiming your a sly fox.

his expression when you pull back the glass door separating you and step inside is worth it, nerves immediately dispersing. he doesn't even jump or have a startled reaction, merely tilting his head questioningly when the door slides open and brows immediately shooting up when he sees you in all your naked glory, entering the steam filled shower with him, shutting the door. you meet his eyes and dont cower at the intensity in them, you just stand there and let his eyes drink you in. he cards one hand through his slick hair, causing water droplets to fly, as he rakes you over unabashed in taking his time. you feel his stare at the peak of your nipples, gliding down to your stomach, to between your legs. his eyes spend quite a few seconds there before he's tracking his gaze back up your body to meet your lustful eyes.

a small smirk curls at his lips, "sneaking out of his room now, are we, little monster? who's taught you these manners, hm?"

you lower your lashes demurely, the way you know gets him hot. "I get all my debauchery from you, mr. jaeger. you've corrupted me"

rivulets of water sluce down his defined, tone chest, stomach, abs, and you want to trace their path with your tongue all the way down to that thick cock weighing between his legs. you can see it filling out now, and it makes your thighs clench, eyes coming back up in time to see his darken.

he licks his lips, "yeah," his tone is so gravely and low it sends a shiver through you, despite the steam curling around you both. "my sons sweet little girlfriend by day, who likes his daddys dick by night, huh. that you, baby?"

"Yes," you say honestly, eyes darting from his beautiful face to his beautiful cock. "im so bad for you, you did it to me"

"i did, huh?" he asks, but its not really a question. he knows hes fucked you up for anyone else, for his son. and it gets him harder then anything else. he grins, "guess i should take responsibility for what my bad influence has done to you" his eyes go between your legs again, "that pussy hungry for me?"

you nod.

"Nah, tell me what you snuck in here for with your words, pup"

"its hungry for you daddy- my pussy, needed you so bad"

"is that right?" his hand slides down his own chest, gripping his cock between his hand. leaning his ass back against the opposite wall of the shower, he gives it one long stroke, shaking it once. "daddy's dick got your head all mixed up, hm? made you forget who's cock you should really want"

you pant his name, watching like a dog in heat the way his hand glides over his thick cock, thumbing over the plush leaking tip. "greedy fucking girl" he hums, gripping his balls and letting out a loud moan.

he releases his cock, it bobs, hitting his chest. still leaning back, he crooks a finger at you, beckoning you. "come to daddy then, baby. gotta feed that little pussy before bed"