#and grayscale and angles

[hootyhoowoo]

A little 15 min doodle but first post of the year has to be Bingqiu!

[ikuudo]

IKO’s MASTER STUDY SERIES #2

time limit: 1 hour, added one this time to see how fast i can do this

[muse-atelier]

i imported some ps pencil brushes into clip studio! i've been trying to take my time on redoing my character sheet and i've also gotten back into doing some figure study sessions in between 🤧

[reyryz]

this light and shadow duo shit is SERIOUS!!!

[antirepurp]

every blender tutorial uses premade assets to model their hyperrealistic landscapes and all i want to know is how i make some stylized but not overtly cartoony ones myself augh

[tpwrtrmnky]

Challenge

[ID: A six-panel comic with crudely drawn stick people.

Panel 1: A visually green grayscale person who wears a hat to indicate their identity is holding hands with a grayscale person who's wearing a stack of hats in various colours, which indicate nothing whatsoever. They simply like hats. A blue-greyish person with a grey jacket and bright orange pointy anime glasses is sitting on a bench, while an indigo person is checking their phone behind them.

Greengray: "Hey uh, so we were wondering"

Anime Glasses: "Yeah?"

Greengray: "How do you keep doing the uh.

Changing

Colors

Thing?"

Anime Glasses: "Meds. I'm trying all of them."

Greengray: "All of them??"

Anime Glasses: "Yeah. I've been getting diagnosed in every country I can, for the challenge.

It's pretty easy when you get the hang of lying your ass off."

Panel 2: Anime Glasses, green with yellow glasses, is wearing a bunad while visiting the doctor, who is wearing a mask and a nurse hat.

Anime Glasses, in Norwegian: "Doktor eg vil vera gul" (Doctor, I want to be yellow)

Doctor: "E kje du allereie grøn då?" (Aren't you already green though?)

Anime Glasses: "Drid i det din løg" (Don't bother with that, you onion.)

Panel 3: Anime Glasses, now yellow and wearing purple glasses with wide-set purple pants and a purple jacket they are wearing as a cape, is seeing a doctor with glasses and a stethoscope.

Anime Glasses, in Japanese: 「色が変わる博士、吾は紫になりたいです」 (Color changing doctor, I want to be purple.)

Doctor: 「でも、もう黄色じゃ��いですか」 (But aren't you already yellow, though?)

Anime Glasses: 「黙れ、クソ野郎」 (Shut up, motherfucker.)

Panel 4: Anime Glasses is now purple, and wearing a red outfit with a wide brimmed hat, shirt and baggy pants. This time the doctor is wearing a huge lab coat.

Anime Glasses, in spanish: "Doctor, quiero ponermo roja." (Doctor, I would like to turn red)

Doctor: "¿Anunque no eres ya morado?" (Aren't you already purple, though?)

Anime Glasses: "Cállate la boca." (Shut your mouth.)

Panel 5: Anime Glasses is now red. They are wearing blue glasses and a sabai with a long skirt. The doctor has their hand on their face.

Anime Glasses, in Thai: "คุณหมอ ผมอยากเป็นสีน้ำเงิน" (Doctor, I want to be blue.)

Doctor: "คุณมาที่นี่ทำไม ไปร้านขายยาแล้วซื้อยาเองสิ" (Why are you here? Go to the drugstore and buy your own medicine.)

Anime Glasses: "เดี๋ยวนะ ฉันไปซื้อเองที่นี่ได้เหรอ บ้าเอ้ย แบบนี้มันง่ายกว่าเยอะเลย" (Wait, I can just go get it myself here? Shit, this is way easier.)

Panel 6: Cut back to the scene in panel 1, now from a different angle. Indigo is wearing some cool sunglasses.

Indigo: "It's all true. I've seen the medical journals."

Greygreen: "...how"

Hat Stack: "Aren't there enormous practical issues with that?"

Anime Glasses: "Real hard part's falsifying all the documents, actually."

End ID.]

Start - Previous - Next

[macfrog]

psyche and cupid | one shot

happy valentine's, beautiful people. i love you with all of my heart. xx shoutout to @familyvideostevie for putting joel's slutty little thigh holster into my head and, well. yeah. pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!reader summary: valentine's day with joel doesn't go to plan. warnings: part two never happened!!!!! abby who!!!, established relationship, cursing, half joel pov, unspecified age gap, hints to reader having a sliver of ptsd, jesse is alive and well because he is my prince and i said so, reader has dark pubic hair, masturbation, somnophilia (not discussed in this fic but she is a-ok with it) and therefore dubcon, sprinkle of praise kink, oral (f!receiving), someone comes in his underwear, these two goofballs are big in love word count: 5.5k

main masterlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩷

It’s not in his nightstand.

Not hung over the newel post, either.

He said he left it on the kitchen counter yesterday, right after he got home; said he woke up this morning and it was gone. And then he muttered something of an accusation that someone had tidied it away and forgotten where, and that started a whole new argument.

You know what, Joel? You’re following his tall figure as it sways down the hallway, his strides longer and considerably smoother than your flurrying shadow in his wake. Maybe if you weren’t going out today, we wouldn’t be having this problem.

His chin tilts upward, salt and pepper scruff angled to the ceiling with a ha slung from his throat. Yeah, he tosses a glance over his shoulder, we’d just be havin’ it tomorrow, instead.

You scoff in response, stepping where his boots lift off from, following the heavy thud thud thud like a cat at his heels until he’s rounding the corner towards your bedroom.

You pass over the messy trail of your jeans and Joel’s pajama bottoms, your underwear and his leading in a trail to the unmade bed – sheets like a rippled wave painted golden by the dawn.

The two of you split off – Joel lifts the cotton and watches it float back down over the flat of your mattress. Nothing.

You take the closet – the squeal of metal on metal harsh in your sleepy ears as you shove the hanging clothes aside, swiping around at the floor. Also, unsurprisingly, nothing.

Deflated, you straighten, stars peppering your vision and a tatty sleepshirt pinched in your fingers. Led Zeppelin – some band Joel was into before everything went to shit. You’ve listened to him out on the porch before, plucking strings in time with the record wobbling on the turntable inside.

The collar torn, sleeves pecked with holes, print lost to the years and the dryer – but each time you drape it over your shoulders, he smiles and hums some song from a world you’ll never know.

It’s sweet, when you’re in the mood to be wooed.

Which, incidentally, is not right fucking now.

His eyes flit down to the peeling, grayscale image – and that same smile attempts to bloom on his lips. That’s cute, but it ain’t my holster, pretty bird.

His smirk dampens quickly when he looks back up, snuffed by your stony expression.

You whip the tee down to the foot of the bed. You are a piece of fuckin’ work sometimes, do you know that? you growl, storming by him for the en suite.

Joel’s rough hand slips around your wrist, tugging gently but letting you drag him through to the bathroom.

Just go, Joel, you groan, the chill of the room prickling goosebumps on your naked legs. Give  me some peace and quiet. ‘s not like I’m gonna be seein’ much of you today, anyways.

Is that what this is about? His voice echoes in the morning blue, round in your ears as you hang your head over the sink. Pickin’ a fight ‘cause you’re pissed I’m goin’ out?

I didn’t start the fight, you protest. You’re the one who lost his holster.

Didn’t lose it… he mumbles, lips closing around the sentence when he catches your glare in the mirror. He crosses one ankle over the other, toe of his dusty boot on the cracked tile, and sighs. What do you want me to do, baby? I gotta do my job.

On Valentine’s Day? When I worked extra to get it off, and you can’t even get your brother to swap one shift?

Joel’s expression seems to stiffen, tense with a realization that you know, and now he knows, too – he should’ve had days ago. A weighty breath falls from his nostrils, admitting some kind of defeat, and then he’s wandering carefully over to you, two hands curved over your shoulders.

He lowers his forehead onto the nape of your neck, a slow breath which flutters the loose collar of the flannel you’re wearing and sweeps down your spine. I’m sorry, pretty bird. I didn’t know it meant that much to ya.

It doesn’t, you admit, adding, usually. I just thought we could have a day to ourselves, for once.

He’s nodding, sweep of his fringe tickling the slope of your skin. It’d be a lot more romantic than spendin’ it with Jesse, that’s for sure.

Your bodies fall together with a shared laugh, a bright and charming thing in the dull bathroom light. Joel kisses the soft cushion of your shoulder and hooks his chin over, beard grazing your skin.

I’ll be back before you know it. ‘n then we can do whatever the hell you got planned for us, hm?

He’s steady behind you when you lean back, turning to place a damp kiss to the hinge of his jaw. A reply, a plea – a promise.

In the echoing dripdripdrip from the faucet, Joel pulls apart from you, two fingers pinching the hem of your shirt to pull you back into the bedroom.

You wanna walk me to the gate? he asks, pulling the zipper on his jacket.

What about your holster?

He smiles. I’m sure I’ll survive without it. C’mon. Put some pants on.

February is bitter even by Jackson’s standards – a bite of ice in the air which numbs the tip of your nose and stings the helix of your ears. The chill slips a long, sharp finger down the collar of your – Joel’s jacket, and you wrap the baggy canvas tighter around yourself.

Told you to wear som��� thicker. Joel sighs, grip light around the strap of his shotgun. His elbow nudges into yours, a wide arm wraps around your shoulder and draws you flush against his side. Head on back if you’re cold, he says, rubbing until the friction warms your upper arm.

I’m fine, you lie, eyeing the line of horses up ahead. The eager crunch of their hooves in the frozen ground, the pinkish light on their backs from the sky flooded crimson overhead – a warning from the horizon, you think.

It seems to agitate the animals as much as it does you, their heavy heads tossing nervously, ears flicking and inky eyes blinking.

Jesse meets you by the paddock, slipping Joel the reins of his horse with a curt nod, before hoisting himself atop his own.

It bleats from your lips before you can hold it back. Be careful.

Your frozen fingers claw around the zipper of his coat, tugging it upwards until it brushes against his bottom lip. The weather gets bad, you turn back. Okay?

He’s nodding, paying half his attention to your words, the other half to the little crease between your brows. Sure could use my holster against the cold, baby, he mutters, smirk lifting his cheeks and folding similar creases at the corners of his eyes.

Your eyes narrow, palms landing flat against his strong chest. Home soon?

He hums a little laugh, lips ghosting across your temple as he shifts by. Home soon, he mutters, breath steaming against your cold skin, and he leads the mare off towards the gate.

There’s a lot about Joel you admire.

Each part of him like a pebble stolen on a hike; some more jagged, a little more weathered than others, some well-rounded and smooth to the touch. Each one turned and turned and turned between your fingers until you’re fluent in every pore and vein, then dropped into your pocket alongside the others you’ve collected.

Clacking against one another until you arrive home, coat heavier with the happy burden of how much you love him. The same weight you feel behind your ribcage when you think too much about it.

He takes good care of you – has done since you first happened across one another. As if hanging his hunting jacket over your frail body was a wing over your shoulders; as if, from then on, you would never make a single move again without your grizzly bear of a man making it first.

Quiet about it, sure. Subtle. Opens the crook of his elbow for you to hook your wrist around as you wander through town together, and waits until you’re under the cover of nightfall or behind the close of your front door to do much else.

Asks with little more than a fleeting glance if you’re okay; a squeeze of your knee under the table in the dining hall. A conversation shared between closed lips and the meeting of his honey-flecked gaze, and yours. A language which lives and dies with the pair of you.

He’s guarded – and for all that he’s been through, you figure you can allow him that. Allow him his private peace. For all that he says without saying, all he does without making some big song and dance of it – there hasn’t been a second since you arrived here on the back of his horse, that you haven’t known he loves you.

It’s in him like it’s in you. A fever which broke at the first touch of his hand and yours, the first meeting of his warmth and your chill. Two opposites – cooling the painful sear in his heart, warming the barren frost in yours. Something sewn deep into your flesh, carved right through to the hollow of your bones.

And Jesus, if it doesn’t drive you fucking insane.

The front yard needs tidied up after winter, you notice, as you scuff your way up the path towards the porch. Once the last of the snow dries up, you two can get to repairing the damage done by the blizzards and the gales: fitting new shutters, planting new bulbs.

A cycle you’re still getting used to: the upkeep of a place called home. The strange feeling of having someone you call the same thing.

Your extra shifts at the stables and Joel’s long mornings out on the trails mean your home has gone neglected for a few days. Dishes and cutlery left in the sink, a pile of laundry slowly sprouting to new heights like a wild plant each time you cast a wary glance at it.

It’s not like you’ve much else to do, given Joel won’t be home for at least another couple hours. So you shuck off your jeans, letting the tail of his shirt dangle from your behind, and pick your way around each room – wiping counters and dusting corners, humming along to the crooning old records as they spin in the background.

Playing house at the end of the world. Pretending to listen for the tired exhale of a yellow school bus, mimicking the electrified babble of radio presenters between each track.

The bedroom is arguably the worst offender. Bedsheets used a few days too long, clothes strung across the floor – the relics of a late one at the Tipsy Bison. It’s no wonder you’re so fucking tired.

Echoes of stumbling footsteps and hushed, drunken giggles loop your ears, the groaning bedsprings and blunt thud of the headboard. You pluck the underwear and socks one by one, your body wincing around a satisfied ache still lingering, and shuffle over to the laundry hamper, lifting the lid to –

The dopey smile on your lips dissolves instantly. You gotta be fucking…

The buckle glints in the light, silver blinking up at you from its bed of dirty laundry. The tan strap coiled and neatly slung through its fastener; the pouch empty. Awkward and ashamed, lying there in front of you. Apologetic, almost.

Your eyes roll closed; a short, hot breath seeping past your lips. A silent promise embedding beneath your tongue to take him by the sleeve as soon as he crosses the threshold, force him to lift the lid himself. An I told you so already brewing in the pit of your stomach.

The holster’s actually pretty heavy when you lift it up in the light. Leather a little worn, stitching frayed where it should clip around his belt.

It’s the size and width of him: a thick, toned thigh slotted inside the loop of leather, fixed by fingers long void of feeling when he’s been riding to the outpost, chasing infected, plunging his knife deep into their necks.

Patrol was never your thing. Joel took you out just once – but there are cracks in your past which threaten to split you in two, it seems, the longer you spend outside the settlement walls. Phantoms which follow close behind in the form of snapping twigs, of the wind rustling in the trees overhead. Shadows living in your periphery with curled sneers and spits of filth.

You lasted twenty minutes, that first and only day, before Joel had your horses tied together and your body shelled in his own, taking you straight back home.

But the thought of this around his thigh, the thought of him adjusting it to the waistband of his jeans; his hand floating down to settle gently atop it when he’s listening for danger approaching, two fingers slipping into the trigger guard.

It…stirs something.

You pad over to the bathroom, hopping as you step into the strap. He wears it on his right leg, right? You pull it past your ankle, ball of your foot slamming clumsily back down on the tile.

Adjusting it to fit your thigh, you bunch the hem of his shirt in one fist and stare back at your reflection. Her nervous stance, hips swaying left to right as she peruses the figure opposite.

Who is she, this mirage – naked thigh decorated with her man’s leather, fingernails tracing the messy stitching and imagining the weight of his gun, keen in the pouch?

A strange aura of possession about it, like a part of him locked firm around a part of you, from however many miles away. You swear you can feel the ghost of his warmth on the inside of the strap, wrapped around your sensitive skin.

Yeah.

Stirs something, alright.

Joel’s been gone little over an hour. He’s probably at the outpost by now, logging All clear and pretending to let Jesse take the lead. Wide shoulders swaying as he wanders from room to room, a careful scope of the valley from each window, tongue tracing the bottom of his teeth.

Ridges of his knuckles white around the grip of his shotgun, squinting down the barrel. Lines drawn between his brows and at the corners of his eyes like scores on parchment, focus and concentration tight on his face.

You sink back into the cradle of your bed, that divot where his body and yours meet each night. Each part of you intertwining with a part of him: the place where you become one. His smell and your touch, your giggle and his teeth.

A sudden, powerful thing which hammers through your veins and jumps your body for a few seconds – you pull the first orgasm from between your legs within a matter of minutes. The sight of his shirt disturbed over your stomach, the feeling of blood squeezing past taut leather enough to throw you under by itself, never mind the fast snap of your fingers deep inside your body.

Another – slower, lazier, still vibrating from the first – then almost a third, but the crinkle of sheets at your ears, the pillow-soft landscape beneath your heavy body, begins to sweep you off somewhere.

And in as little time as it took to entice you into the water in the first place, you slip beneath the waves.

The house is quiet when he finally makes it home.

Jesus, Joel thinks, what a shift.

Not one infected the entire run, he can’t quite believe – but Jesse caught his palm on some warped sheet of chain link fence, then almost passed out when he looked down and saw the scarlet seeping from his shredded skin.

The pair sat for half an hour, unsheltered in the unforgiving wind, waiting for the kid’s head to stop spinning and the cold to rob the feeling from his hand.

All Joel wanted was to get home to you. You, and your hips swaying as you stand by the stove, and his hands kneading into the velvet plush of your waist, and the smell of burnt sausages and spatter of angry oil from the pan.

He’s so late. He said he’d be as quick as he could, said you’d barely know he was gone, and he’s so fucking late.

But he’s here now, at least.

He’s home.

As he kicks off his boots, snow sprinkling from the soles onto the doormat, he notices the absence of your arms around his waist. The missing weight at the back of him, no ear flat against his spine and hands interlocked above his belt. No relieved, I missed you, no nuzzle of your head under his arm.

The house is still and dim. The turntable spins in the corner, a dead crackle playing nothing for no one. Joel sniffs, eyeing the room and its new, orderly form: the books slotted neatly on their shelves, the rings of coffee wiped clean from the table.

Lifting the needle from the record, Joel calls out, Baby?

Maybe you’re in town somewhere. Maybe you’ve gone to spend the morning with the horses. But then, you would’ve been watching for his arrival. Would’ve skipped out from the stables and swung around his body, a gleeful smile and an outstretched hand. Take me home, cowboy.

And you wouldn’t have left the lights still burning, the player still turning. Your coat is still on its hook, smaller and brighter and where it belongs on the right of Joel’s. The cushions on the couch are fluffed and smooth, perched contentedly in place; the curtains draped in their tie backs.

You’re home. You’ve been home all morning.

So where the fuck are you?

Joel crosses over to the bottom of the stairs, blinking up at the painted cowboys and horses staring down from the landing. Calls your name, a faint singsong as he slowly ascends the stairs. You up there?

Down the wintery dull hallway to the bedroom door, figuring he knows the answer. And he’s right, isn’t he, when he nudges the door open and peers inside, spots the tiny lump of you in your double bed. Sunk deep into the mattress – covers you’d come in here to change, swallowing you whole.

A crooked, exhausted smile pulls across his lips; his thumb hooks around a belt loop, knee cocking.

You’re so…perfect. So heavenly, so still like this – stretched out on your front, breathing in the scent of his pillow and breathing out little puffs of air.

Joel leans over you, a heavy hand pushing into the mattress above your shoulder, and runs a featherlight knuckle over your cheek.

Pretty bird? he whispers, lighter than the long breaths from your sleep-swollen lips.

You don’t stir. No movement, save for the rise and fall of your shoulders wrapped up in his flannel.

Joel feels a pang of guilt, numbed only by the chill still through his body: he woke you this morning, before even the sun had lifted her head. Had you hunting all over the house with him, for some dumb holster that he wound up not even n–

His eyes trail down the shape of your body, draped in the sheets like white marble carved into the round shape of something beautiful, hands following the curve of your thigh. His wrist freezes when it meets the odd bulge of something, an awkward bump beneath the cotton.

He peels the sheet back, lifting it from your shoulders, your waist, your hips – until your angled thigh lies on full display for his feasting eyes.

His fucking holster…wrapped tight around your fucking thigh.

A disbelieving laugh at first – a She told me so, before he notices the indents in your skin, the stretched leather snug around your leg, riding higher than it should at the doing of your slumber.

Christ, baby, he breathes, stare glued to the folds of plaid hooked around the belt loop. Following the tatty hem down past your hip, along the underside of your ass – riding up some, right where your legs part.

And between them, all sheer and thin, twisted around itself and slipping between: your underwear. The threading of pubic hair peeking over the frilled hem of it; the sight filling Joel’s mouth with saliva.

A heavy heat forms in his jeans, an irritable weight which aches when he moves; which hardens when he pictures the image of you in his bed, his shirt, his holster wrapped around your thigh – playing with yourself while he’s been gone.

Fuck. Fuckin’…shit.

He lowers, running lips he knows are freezing cold along the burning surface of your skin, tongue slipping past his teeth to drag a wet trail along your thigh.

Your leg shifts under his touch, the startle of his chilled fingertips behind your knee, nuzzling of his nose where the holster sits smugly on your thigh. Smelling like leather and salt, the sticky sheen of sweat still glowing on your skin.

Joel takes your waist in two hands – he can’t fucking help himself, can he? – and turns you, patiently, watching as you roll onto your back so he can drag you further down the bed. Tongue flicking at the corners of his lips, thirsty for something he only wants you to feed him.

Slow, slowly. Every effort put into not waking you, to keeping you in this peachy haze between asleep and awake; your movements long and staggered, held firm against the mattress by the weight of your doze.

With a sigh, your jaw turns to one side. Joel pulls you in, kneeling at the edge of the bed with your socked feet resting on his shoulders. His shirt gathers around your waist; your hips and the thin twine of your underwear spotlighted by stripes of weakened sunlight spilling in through the blinds.

Oh, pretty bird, he groans, slipping his open palms under your ass, rough and squeezing the pillows of flesh in his hands. This all for me?

A moan wrapped in a hefty breath twists from your lips. Your knees fall limp; legs open almost eagerly, like your body inviting him in. And he accepts, takes it with eyes blown black and hungry lips parted – leans in and nestles his nose against the thrumming heartbeat pounding through your clit.

Such a good girl, he whispers, closing his lips in a kiss over your clothed mound, and your hips jolt.

You’re so fucking warm. So wet; sticky and so ready for him. He kisses your folds, suckling gently and letting his tongue dart along the inseam of your lips in flicking movements – collecting the taste of salt and feeling his cock throb against rough denim.

Off? he asks – you and the room and himself – fingers hooking around the underwear rolled on your hips.

When your back arches, body feeling the loss of his tender kiss, rolling like a wave seeking to crash against the steady rock form of his – he smirks to himself.

Joel nods. Off.

He takes his time peeling them from your body, watching as more and more of his paradise is revealed. The waves of your folds, the sheer glisten of arousal along them; the dark hair peppering either side as damp and slick as the skin beneath it.

Your panties drop from a hooked finger without a sound and he turns back, hovering over your waiting cunt with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Out front, voices call back and forth to one another – some neighborly greeting and affable conversation – but Joel doesn’t hear. Deafened to anything but the sound of your sighs and his own blood hammering through his ears.

It’s a little rushed, a tad rough, the way he presses his lips back to yours. The way his beard grazes against your most sensitive spot, and the gasp he swears he hears lift from your tongue.

But fuck, he’s missed this, the way he always does – without knowing, without actively thinking about it, without knowing it was even at home waiting for him. If his mind weren’t on an entirely different planet right now, he’d curse that goddamn chain link for holding him up, for keeping him away longer than thirty seconds from the sweet little angel resting in his bed, and the sweet little pussy between her legs.

He parts your thighs wider, tongue dipping lower and deeper as he laps at your core, almost fucking panting against it.

You squirm lazily beneath him, shoulders tensing and untensing, a half-limp wrist lifting to pet his hair and an attempt at his name between your lips. Joel, you whimper, thick with sleep and something more dangerous.

I know, baby, he’s telling you, I know, and his tongue slips inside again. His hips grind into the mattress, cock an agonizing stiff against the sturdy edge. He can feel the wet in his boxers, the precome sticking to the inside of the cotton.

Fuck, he wants to be inside you so badly, so desperately.

Another gasp sputters across your lips, cut short in your throat when his teeth bump against your clit.

Too hungry, too brash, he thinks. You’re too soft, too open for him to let it go to waste. Not like this.

He pulls back, a filthy thread of arousal and saliva between his open lips and yours, and places a sodden kiss to the inside of your thigh.

But you whine, you poor little thing – your head twisting to the other side, a second hand now blindly surfing across his shoulder, past the brush of his beard and sifting through his still-chilly hair. The loss of attention to your pussy aching between your legs; your hips lifting weakly to meet the scratch of his chin again.

And that same sound – that same Jo-oel – a sound like song, like saccharine dripping over his shoulders.

So, he lifts a hand – two middle fingers coming together to push open your cunt, instantly sliding in knuckle-deep. Sucked in by the wet mess left behind by his lips, stretching you out with slow, round movements.

You’re slowly stirring, blossoming from your sleep and turning slowly back into this world. The cold edges seeping in, the warm flush of pleasure sharpening at their meeting. He’d do anything, he thinks, to keep you here; keep you teetering on the edge, tangled up between your world and his.

J– oh, fu-uck, you whine, and he can tell you’re still blinkered by sleep. But you grind on him again – a long, languid movement which seems to spatter out at its end when the coarse hair of his beard catches against your clit.

The breath stops in your throat, punching out in a shuddered moan. Joel could come just from the sound of it.

You gonna give me one, baby girl? he pleads, forearms clamping down on the underside of your thighs. Desperate – desperate to feel you, hear you, taste you as you come undone. Just one.

You’re writhing around beneath him, as needy as he is. A winding which matches his, coiling at the bottom of your stomach; a feeling which pulls at the corners of your lips and shocks them into a smutty, half-conscious smile. Your eyes roll back, fluttering open and then snapping shut when the light floods in.

There, you say, clearest so far, movements the strongest he’s felt. Your fingers root in his hair, rough over his scalp. Keep – keep doin’ that.

Joel smiles against your mound; a cocky thing, emboldened by the sound of that little Texan twang, the curl of an accent which doesn’t belong to you. Rather, a result of your years spent with him, watching the way his mouth shapes the words, learning the low swing and swirling melody of his tongue.

As if he’s as alive within you as he is within himself; every little thing Joel knows is him, injected into your bloodstream – his dry wit, his blunt honesty, his thick fingers and his insatiable tongue.

He slips in a third, flicking them perfectly inside of you. Beckoning your release; tongue sitting in wait, a resting point for you to grind your clit against.

And he wants it as much as you do: wants to feel the clamping of your body around him, wants to taste the flood of your orgasm as it shocks through every bone in your body.

Wants to pull three soaked, pruned fingers from your pussy and slip them over your tongue, letting you clasp your fingers around his wrist; watching the half-dozing flutter of your eyelashes as you suckle on them and make those pretty little sounds for him.

Your hand knots tighter in his hair, pelvis circling steady against his suckling lips. He can smell it on you: smell the need seeping from your pores. The sleep spilling from the corners of your mouth, the happy whimpers and quiet cries for more, more, Joel, more.

And – Shit, he breathes against you, feeling a sudden rush of electricity he knows all too well between his hips. Not now, not now not before he’s been inside – Shit, baby, gotta let me go.

You whine in refusal – a petulant sound, all stubborn and greedy. ‘m so close, I –

Pretty bird, he groans, lifting his jaw. He places a messy kiss to the crease between your core and your thigh, wrist stammering with his sudden movements. You gotta – you gotta let go, you’re gonna make me come –

You’re echoing him, mumbling the words gonna, gonna come – fuck, Joel, ‘m gonna –

Shit.

Not – Fuck – not right n– Christ, baby girl, you’re gonna – you’re –

Your walls spasm, clamping and relaxing, squeezing around his huge fingers. But it’s not that – it’s not the gush of warm fluid which seeps from between your legs, coating his knuckles and dripping into his palm.

It’s not the arch of your back, the way your breasts lift to the ceiling and his shirt slips below one nipple. Not the way your head rolls back against the mattress, a broken moan tearing in shards from your throat.

No.

It’s the way your hands leave his hair in an instant, and grip around the leather on your thigh. Skin stretching thin over your knuckles, thumbs between the strap and your sticky skin; hips still riding out your high as you ground yourself, holding onto his holster.

And it makes Joel come. Hard.

Harder than he knew possible, grinding against a mattress and the inside of his fucking jeans.

He falls forward, breathing a guttural moan into the soft swell of your stomach below your navel, fingers hooking into the baggy shirt around your arms.

Shitshitshit, he pants, feeling the warm ejaculate spurt from his cock and all over the inside of his boxers. Oh, fuck, baby. Fuck me.

His hips shudder a few more times, pressing hard into the edge of the mattress before he’s coming down, slowing to a stop – still a leaden weight on your stomach. His cock almost painful, overstimulated and oversensitive.

But then – something gently tittering. A bird singing, cooing above his head. The ground beneath his temple shakes, tremors with laughter. The dust twinkles in the sunlight, now brighter, golden, streaming through the window.

You’re awake.

Joel drags his gaze upwards, bleary and glazed with sex, and catches your eye.

Feel good? you ask, sifting hair away from his damp forehead. When was the last time that happened? Fourteen?

I don’t wanna talk about it, he mumbles into your belly.

Your chest jumps, a laugh which echoes into Joel’s ear. Tastes that good, huh?

It takes a mighty effort for him to push up on his palms, slowly crawling up the length of your body until his elbows plant firm into the mattress either side of your head. He groans as he lowers his lips, parting them to let you slip your tongue inside.

The kiss is slow, tender. Your bodies melding together, teeth clacking and jaws moving in sync. A sharp taste, sweet with a singe of bitterness to it. Perfect, you think, smirking against Joel’s cool lips.

He pulls away, lips tickling the tip of your nose deliberately.

With a giggle, you push on his chest. You should shower. You smell like patrol.

Joel cocks an eyebrow. You comin’ in with me?

Nope. I got even more laundry to do now, old man.

He entertains the quip with a subtle smile, a thing which softens the creases on his face and lights a twinkle in his eyes. Quietly, genuinely, in a way which makes your heart ache a little, he whispers, Sorry I was workin’, pretty bird.

You shrug. ‘s okay. You made up for it. And – I found your holster. You lift your knee, letting the buckle shine in the sunlight.

You did that, Joel agrees, nodding and glancing down at the thing. He hooks a finger around the strap, giving it a little shake. Maybe I oughta lose it more often.

Hm, you shrug, or I can just keep it safe for ya. Looks good, don’t it?

He feigns a disappointed smile, a resigned sigh before he looks back up.

Better ‘n when I wear it, he admits, and his lips crash down to yours again.

[cookiesandcantarella-art]

My fav shots from my PMV (link), on tumblr so you can see them for more than 2 seconds.

[ID: 6 still shots of Princess Tutu characters.

Image 1: a swan with Duck's pendant flaps her wings on a starry lake.

Image 2: Princess Tutu dressed up as an aerial hoop performer, complete with a feathery tail. She hangs in a loose, almost fetal position.

Image 3: A focus on Mytho's eye as the hands of Rue, Fakir, and Duck touch his face.

Image 4: Duck and Rue on the ground together. Duck is sitting up while Rue lays down. Both are nude with their eyes closed.

Image 5: Rue in a shot styled after one of the movie posters for Chicago. Rue (as herself) stands in a black space filled with mirrors and reflections, looking into many different reflections of Kraehe.

Image 6: Grayscale image of Mytho and Fakir in a tango pose. Fakir stands upright, holding Mytho in place, while Mytho falls backwards, leg around Fakir's waist. Both are nude with eyes closed and the Prince's sword pierces both their chests, angled from behind Mytho.

End ID]

[starkidsonnets]

the moist star, upon whose influence neptune’s empire stands

edward nashton x reader (kinda)

| contains : edward tweaking

| word count : 1625

| note : similar ideas to "тоска," but youre included ! i like exploring edward's obsessiveness and delusions. i swear i'll write more reader-inclusive stuff soon, i js dont have any ideas lol

Edward’s mind was a stormy sea, perpetually churning with doubts and fears that never quite settled. Thoughts crashed against one another like waves in a tempest, each one more anxious than the last. There was hardly a moment of peace; every word or movement or glance was just another flaw of his to internalize, or another reason to add to the ever-growing list as to why he hated everyone. Though, in the stillness, when the world faded to a hushed whisper, his worries took flight. He dissected the smallest interactions, convinced they harbored hidden meanings, each glance a judgment, each word a slight. What should have been mundane became a labyrinth of disquietude, where shadows loomed larger than life. To Edward, thinking was less an adventure and more a prison, each thought a heavy stone weighing down his spirit. He was trapped in a cycle of over-analysis, where the simplest decisions spiraled into agonizing deliberations. There was very little he didn’t scrutinize, as the fear of the unknown gnawed at him, turning the world into a treacherous landscape filled with pitfalls at every turn. 

Despite the turmoil swirling within him, Edward clung to the belief that his mind was his greatest strength – his only strength, really. In a world that often felt chaotic and unforgiving, his intellect was the one refuge he could count on. It was a sharp blade, slicing through the fog of uncertainty, a beacon of light in his shadowy thoughts. He often found solace in the complexity of his ideas, reveling in the intricate webs he wove with his imagination. When faced with challenges, he would retreat into the labyrinth of his own mind, seeking clarity amidst the confusion. He could dissect a problem from every angle, exploring possibilities others might overlook, his thoughts a flurry of colors on a grayscale canvas. It gave him a sense of control, and, dare he say, superiority. In a world where he held zero significance – to anything, anyone – he found some twisted comfort in the fact that he was smart. It was a slight delusion of his, of course. 

“What do they know, anyway? I-Idiots, all of them…”

Still, even he could not deny the rare euphoria of silence. In those fleeting moments when the cacophony of his thoughts quieted, a profound stillness enveloped him like a warm embrace. It was a sanctuary, a pause from the relentless tide of anxiety that typically swept through his mind, leaving him breathless. 

In those rare moments, when he got to see you.

He had first seen you on the subway during his regular commute home from a mindlessly gruelling day at work; an ordinary journey that had transformed into something extraordinary in the blink of an eye. The train rattled through the dim tunnels, a cacophony of voices and clattering metal, but in that moment, all sound faded into a distant murmur. It was as if the world around him had suddenly paused, holding its breath to witness this fleeting encounter. He couldn’t particularly remember how you managed to catch his eye – to anyone else, you were nothing extraordinary. Just another body riding the subway, a transient figure in a sea of anonymity, nothing to take a second glance at. Nothing but another face in the crowd, a mere collection of features blurred by the rush of life. Edward, had he not been so fatedley observant, might have fallen victim to the same tragedy as those who passed you by without a second thought, who might never realize that beneath your unassuming exterior lay a depth of something indescribably enticing. 

To him, you were an enigma, a spark of intrigue that ignited something deep within. You stood there on the subway, simply minding your own business, yet somehow you managed to captivate Edward in a way that felt almost surreal. Your presence was unassuming, a quiet strength that commanded attention without any effort. You didn’t do anything remarkable – just leaned against the metal pole, lost in your thoughts, but in that stillness, you radiated a calmness that cut through the cacophony of the train. There was a grace in the way you held yourself, an effortless poise that drew him in. Your eyes, gazing out the window or perhaps lost in your own thoughts, held a softness that felt inviting. It was in that gaze that Edward found a rare stillness, the kind that made him forget his worries, if only for a moment. He couldn’t explain why, but something about your presence brought a sense of peace he had long thought unattainable.

He couldn’t think. Physically, he could not. The chaos of his racing mind had suddenly come to a grinding halt, as if someone had pressed a mute button on the world around him. In that moment, clarity and confusion were indistinguishable, and he felt an unsettling disorientation. He wasn’t even sure he was breathing, as though the very act of inhaling had slipped away from him, leaving him suspended in a strange limbo of thought and sensation. Time itself felt distorted, stretching and compressing in ways that made no sense. Every sound – the distant rumble of the train, the murmurs of passengers – seemed to blur into a single, muted note, reverberating in his ears without truly registering. It was as if he had entered a dreamlike state, where reality faded and the boundaries of his mind began to dissolve.

Panic fluttered at the edges of his awareness, threatening to pull him under, but it was countered by an unexpected stillness, a weightless quality that enveloped him. His heart raced, yet it felt distant, as if it were a drumbeat echoing from far away. He could feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest, but it was as if he were watching himself from a distance, an observer trapped within his own body. Thoughts that usually spiraled and collided in a chaotic dance were replaced by an eerie quiet. In that silence, he was struck by a profound sense of vulnerability, bare and exposed, as if the world had stripped away all the layers he usually hid behind. All because of you. 

He watched you exit the subway soon after, the recognition returning to your tired eyes, lost in your own daydreams, patting yourself down as you stepped onto the platform to ensure you had all of your belongings. As soon as the doors slid shut, the world – the noise –  suddenly came rushing back, flooding his hollow shell of a body.

This was the case the second time he saw you, too. He noticed you standing there again, the familiar silhouette framed against the dim lights of the subway car, and something inside him stirred. A mixture of excitement and a creeping sense of obsession. Each time you appeared, it felt as if the world fell away, and the chaos of his thoughts faded into the background, allowing him to focus solely on you.

And the third. He found himself timing his commute just to catch a glimpse of you, his heart racing as he stepped onto the platform, scanning the crowd for that unmistakable presence. The way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear or how you smiled softly to yourself as you read something on your phone, each detail etched itself into his memory. You had become a constant in his life, a calming force amidst the storm of his mind.

And the fourth. By now, he was no longer just an observer; he was a silent participant in your routine. He would position himself at the same spot on the train, hoping to catch you in moments of stillness, your gaze lost in thought. You were unaware of the effect you had on him, how your presence pulled him from the depths of his anxieties and anchored him in a world that felt increasingly chaotic.

He watched you with an intensity that bordered on obsession, each encounter fanning the flames of a yearning he didn’t fully understand. You were a puzzle he felt compelled to solve, a riddle that intrigued him more with each glance. He began to memorize the subtle patterns of your movements, the way you leaned against the pole when the train lurched, or how you chewed on your lip as you stared at nothing, daydreaming or simply tired from the day. He’d think about your lips on his skin, if they’d soothe the constant ache in his bones the way your mere presence silenced his mind’s agony. The thought melted away the tension in his chest, burning his insides up to black char. He’d save the idea for later tonight, when things got lonely and cold. 

Yet, as he sank deeper into this fixation, a nagging awareness flickered at the edges of his consciousness. He knew it wasn’t healthy to feel this way, to rely so heavily on someone who didn’t even know he existed. But the pull was irresistible; you were the only thing that managed to quiet his relentless thoughts, even if only for a few precious moments.

He needed you more than the tide needed the moon, an unspoken truth that coursed through him like the pull of a hidden current. In the vast expanse of his life, you were the celestial body that governed his every wave, guiding him through the tumult of emotions with a gravitational force he could scarcely comprehend. He needed you with an intensity that transcended reason. You were the anchor that kept him tethered, the whisper of the universe that promised solace amid the storm. Without you, he was but a wandering wave, yearning for the steady embrace of the moon that would quell him. Silence him. Adore him, as he has adored you. 

[torchtour]

I know it's been a while since you posted it but can we see youd process for making the Michael Afton Mirror painting???

glad you asked anon cuz i have a LOT of wips for this trainwreck lal

ok so to get this

we have to start with this

which is the intial right-before-bed sketch i usually make so i don't forget the idea overnight. it usually looks very funny

from there it's slightly amended sketch, color mapping, and rough lighting draft from another angle (in this case above angle because it's a mirror shot and that's scary)

i make a refined sketch and mush all of the colors to fit the new lines and start some rendering to fix the nonsense. then it occurs to me that the lighting is crap and i use a bunch of multiply layers to darken everything + begin actual backlighting

this sorta brings us to the halfway point because i get super frustrated, flatten the file, and mutilate/crush a grayscale version to fix the composition and anatomy a lil bit. crush + glow + corner blacks + rendering and it's starting to look like..something

i reapply the og colors and add the graffiti + stickers because it looks BORING

finally some little touchups and then BOOM you just beat fnaf. idk.

[beautifulmars]

HiPOD: Ridges in Tempe Terra

The objective of this observation is to determine the nature of a network of ridges. The ridges are very regular in height and width and seem to be associated with a certain layer. The layer above the ridges has a darker-tone. Many of the ridges are joined to other ridges, some at close to right angles. (Grayscale cutout is less than 5 km across; enhanced color is less than 1 km.)

ID: ESP_074906_2160 date: 20 July 2022 altitude: 293 km

NASA/JPL-Caltech/UArizona

[wifiwuxians]

i haven't forgotten about the revival AU!

more instalments: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

[ID: a four panel grayscale comic featuring xue yang, wen chao, and an unnamed seamstress simply referred to as 'miss tailor.' they cross paths while walking in opposite directions, and the seamstress, recognizing wen chao, calls out to him by saying 'young sir!'. wen chao replies with a surprised 'miss tailor!', and is then immediately shocked and embarrassed as she asks 'how did your girlfriend like the glove? did it work out?' xue yang beside him looks at the floor in humorous disbelief, the word 'GIRLFRIEND' hovering over his head at an angle. then, as they continue walking, he throws an arm around a blushing wen chao and pokes his cheek, declaring 'she loved it' with a playful smile. the seamstress replies with an 'oh, how nice'!. /end ID]

[ask-team-misfit]

(Notices Rue's current reaction.)

Rue... J-just take easy, okay?...

There's... No... W-way to prove that was.. what it was...

Anonymous asked: Wait... What is that black stuff doing?

[ ID: A grayscale bust drawing of Rue slightly angled away from the viewer towards the left. She appears fairly nervous, looking off to the right. Rue's appearance is as described here. End ID ]

Rue: “That’s what happens when you touch it. You get drawn in. Unless you’re very strong or very lucky…”

Again, she trailed off. Some weak sniffles could be heard from her as tears freely fell from her drooped head.

Rue: “She… she has to be gone. She has to be…”

Pikavee: “Rue…”

Anonymous asked: @Rue She isn't gone! There's no way to prove that! That had to be some sort of fucked up trick! A FLUKE! I mean... Wouldn't there be signs of a struggle? Scratch marks? Burn marks? BLOOD? Wouldn't we have heard something? Screaming, or something? ANYTHING? Look, there has to be some other way way to explain what we just saw, you hear me? FENNINKOU CANNOT BE DEAD!

Rue shook her head and clutched it. She was trembling a bit, and she quietly sniffled some more.

Rue: “L-let me grieve. Please… let me grieve.”

She sounded so certain of something Pikavee found so awful. Clearly, it really bothered her.

She understood little of what was happening as is. From Rue’s reaction to the whole thing, to the void shadow looking like Fenninkou and then falling apart, to what she currently assumed to have been a vision–the vision where she very well watched her own death.

But she did realize this current path was no good.

Anonymous asked: @Pikavee I-I think we should go, like now!- 𝙉𝙊𝙒 !

And at any rate, they were in no shape to fight multiple opponents.

Pikavee stepped away from the encroaching void shadows with a gulp.

Pikavee: “W-we’ll have to find another way around.”

[ ID: A grayscale bust drawing of Pikavee oriented similarly to the previous image. She appears somewhat concerned or timid, and her eyes are downcast. Her ears are drooped down. Pikavee's appearance is as described here. End ID ]

Pikavee: “But, Rue. I-I think there’s still a chance. We’ll find her.”

Rue’s expression didn’t change. She slowly moved to grip onto Pikavee a little bit tighter, bracing for a retreat, and said nothing else.

Pikavee: “H-hang in there…”

She would turn tail and flee a moment after.

Meanwhile, Hazel still held Fenninkou in her arms.

Fenninkou: “You know, you can let go of me–”

Hazel: “Shh!”

Hazel had started glancing about again, more attentively. Both ears were perked up.

It was that noise from just before–a low rumbling of some kind. Fenninkou, however, didn’t hear it. She certainly didn’t see anything, either.

Fenninkou: “I’m fine, really.”

Hazel: “On that leg? No, you’re not. If we need to get away fast and you fall behind… y-you’re staying right here. I am not losing you again.”

Fenninkou: “Hmph.”

Fenninkou sulked in her arms. The rumbling was at a distance, already faint and growing ever fainter. It stopped moments later.

Hazel sighed, and her ears slacken. Her expression softened upon glancing at Fenninkou–though she didn’t completely relax.

Hazel: “Speaking of. Let me see your leg again.”

Fenninkou: “Ow! Easy…”

Hazel repositioned Fenninkou in her arms somewhat, just to better scrutinize the wound on her hind leg. Her eyes would further furrow with concern, even though the injury itself didn’t look any worse.

Hazel: “Right. You need an oran berry. Oran berry, oran berry…”

She slowly looked around for said oran berry bush. In doing so, she became progressively distracted and disturbed.

Moments of silence passed with Hazel leerily eyeing her surroundings.

Hazel: “I swear, it’s following us.”

Fenninkou: “What?”

Hazel: “It’s big, whatever it is. I can feel it in its aura.”

More moments of silence. Fenninkou again took a quick glimpse around, before looking up at Hazel with confusion.

[ ID: A grayscale bust drawing of Fenninkou oriented similarly to the previous image. Her eyes are somewhat wide with confusion, and her mouth is agape in a manner that implies she doesn't know what to say. There’s a question mark to the left of her face. Fenninkou's appearance is as described here. End ID ]

Fenninkou: “What are you talking about?”

[superstarzolar]

hey, fritz! I love your art and was wondering how you shaded your art because the lighting and colors are really nice, I also use Procreate and do an overlay with dark purples for shadows, and was wondering how to shade somewhat like you do!

(keep up the incredible work, the fandom page is so cool)

this is a somewhat lengthy tutorial cuz my shading is a multi-step process so……. under the cut it is!!!

i use [what i like to call] grayscale shading, where you block out the shadows/highlights in grayscale. i use this to better differentiate the values in the lighting and get better contrasts [and all that other technical artist mumbo jumbo]

[i’ll also be using a pisspoor sketch of my fnac puppeteer design for this so…… ya]

[colors are also shown on the side as they become relevant]

[THIS IS ALSO VERY UGLY BCUZ ITS A SKETCH AND THE INITIAL DRAWING IS NOT USINF MY USUAL WARM COLORS… but the tutorial still applies]

obviously step number 0 is ur base colors . nothing too outrageous here .

1st , i put a gray overtop the base colors [not on the same layer(s), obviously]. this color acts as the base value in the steps to come, and i usually use a gray in between pure black and pure white.

2nd, i go overtop that other gray layer with another, more darker gray. this one is the closest to pure black out of any other value in the shading .

[these nexts steps assume that you know what angle your lighting is coming from]

3rd, i erase all parts from the dark gray layer that are in the light. [i know jack shit abt lighting and so i just eyeball it and pray, but using references also works].

4th, i take a gray in between the initial midtone-gray and our darkest gray and rim the edges of some of the erased bits and/or scribble in blocks of color on parts that are close to, but not directly in, the light.

5th, i get a gray tone lighter than the initial base color and use it to highlight the parts of the drawing that are nearest to the light source.

6th, i take another gray tone, one that’s now in between our darkest gray and the one we picked in step 4, and scribble it around the edges of areas completely in shadow. this is supposed to be some sort of reflective light, but honestly idfk what im doing.

[these next steps use the gradient map feature on procreate, but im sure manually picking colors is fine too]

7th, i use the gradient map feature on procreate to automatically assign colors to the previously gray values. for this example im using the present Mocha gradient, but any other gradient will do

8th, after settling on a gradient that matches the mood/color scheme/setting of the image, i set the layer to multiply and fuck around with the opacity until im satisfied with how it looks.

additionally, you can add an overlay layer and airbrush the lightest areas with a similarly light color/the darkest areas with a similarly dark color.

aaaaaaaand that’s it for a shading tutorial. being so fr i don’t like how some of my shading looks sometimes and im working to improve it but this is how i do it currently !!!!!

[lynxgriffin]

Sorry to bother you again but do you have any tips on improving my art?

I always imagine stories that I can't animate or draw because I'm not skilled enough and I always feel discouraged.

Thanks!

There's a couple of different things you can do, depending on what angle you think suits you best! Although the truth behind all of them is that the way to improve your art is to do it, and just to keep doing it. Time and practice will always get you closer to where you want to be!

If there's something specific that you feel needs improving, spend a few weeks focusing just on that. Whether it's something like faces, hands, expressions, backgrounds, values/grayscale, or what have you, actually buckling down and studying just that thing for awhile can help you take a big step forward with it. The downside is that it can become tedious, and requires a lot of actual study and focus, which can be hard to maintain on your own.

If there's not anything in particular you want to improve, honestly just doing a completed comic or animation project (especially a short one) from beginning to end will help a lot. Doing any kind of sequential art forces you to tackle a lot of different things at once, but also teaches you how to handle them all, and to do so coherently. Even finishing a five-page comic or a 10-second animation can do wonders for the next thing you do!

If what you're worried about is how people will perceive your art, especially online or with social media, remove that aspect from it and just make something you don't plan on sharing. It can be very freeing to make something for just yourself, and can help lessen any discouragement you may feel.

When in doubt, you can always go back to the well...see comics or animation that inspire you, since for me that's often a good kick in the pants to want to try and create myself. Instead of comparing yourself, see it as a sort of thing where you go, "That looks really fun! I want to have fun, too!"

Hope that helps, and good luck!

[tpwrtrmnky]

appointment

[ID:

Four panel comic with crudely drawn stick people.

Panel 1: An indigo person wearing an indigo baseball cap leans casually backwards in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, while a grayscale person with glasses holding a piece of paper watches in the foreground.

Indigo: "Aight, doctor. Let's hear it. Gimme the verdict. Do I have enough dyschromia for an indigo gel prescription? Did you get enough science and rigour out of those weirdo questions about my childhood? Have I expressed sufficient indigo vibes to be a true transhexual, my doc?"

Doctor: "Uh."

Panel 2: Zoom on doctor.

"Well, yes, but I do have to ask more questions. Where was it you said you had initiated saturation therapy ag-"

Indigo: "I don't have to answer that."

Doctor: "…I must still say that we are in risky territory as there is no guarantee that the diagnosis is accurate given you started prematurely" [gets cut off mid-word]

Indigo: "Bull. Shit."

Panel 3: Low angle view from behind Indigo, framing them significantly larger compared to the doctor in the background as they lean forward.

Doctor: "This is extremely inappropriate patient conduct [cut off again]"

Indigo: "Can it. Your whole job's in appropriate, dipshit. I'm talking now.

I heard you'd try to pull this shit, so I checked. You're not allowed to discriminate against patients who've started treatment elsewhere."

Panel 4: Indigo leans back again, showing off their phone:

"Truth is, Ive already gotten the care I need in the two fucking years it took to get this appointment.

I was giving this place a shot in case it could offer better, but I got an assclown who handed me research questions for the 'diagnosis' and can't even tell when they're doing malpractice. Luckily, I recorded this whole shitshow."

End ID.]

Start - Previous - Next