#back waxing

[cloud-makers-make-pollution]

I HAVE A STORY TO TELL YOU SIT DOWN AND READ

My mum thinks my dad is having a midlife crisis. He’s 48 (I think) and keeps going on and on about having his back waxed?????

I’m minding my own business and suddenly

Mum: I don’t understand why you want your back waxed

Mum: it’ll be so weird

Dad: my back will be ✨ fReSh ✨

(I’ve already started laughing my ass off at this point)

Mum: it’ll be like seeing a bear

Mum: a half waxed bear

Mum: it’s got no hair on its back

Mum: how does that make you feel?

This sort of conversation went on for a full 10 minutes.

I was wheezing.

I thought it was hilarious, my mother thinks my father is stupid, my father thinks he’s a genius.

Just try and visualise the half waxed bear I don’t know how it didn’t kill me through lack of oxygen

[barbaricjester]

I'm think so hard about Stanley Pines I'm gonna fucking cry. Have you guys ever noticed how he talks to Ford even before he got him back. In Carpet Diem he scolds Ford and says his carpet is ugly. He asks the wax lookalike if he wants anything from the kitchen. He tells Ford to shut up when he's reading his journal. He tells the kids he talked to his reflection while fishing alone. He needed his brother so fucking much and I'm

[emmcfrxst]

jason todd swears like a sailor whenever you ride him. the visual of your body on top of his, the feeling of your hands on his chest and your cunt fluttering around him, the sweet sounds of your moans and mewls— everything about getting ridden makes jason’s dick hard and turns his brain to mush

[justabiteofspite]

"Astarion doesn't do big romantic gestures."

My Durge still trying to get graveyard dirt out of her ass crack after being lovingly pounded into it by Astarion who wanted to share with her this deeply joyful and meaningful reclamation of himself after sharing a vulnerable declaration of his love, at this place he hasn't shown anyone else but her: "Then what the actual fuck was that???"

[frozrowan]

[fantasykiri5]

Fabian Seacaster, Maximum Legend that you are

[idontwikeit]

Assad Zaman in INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE 2.04 I Want You More Than Anything in the World

[marlowe-art]

a view of the coast in may

[visceravalentines]

small town, sunday night

Bo Sinclair x AFAB!Reader

a discarded scene from a longer fic. Bo's pretty sure by now you know who you belong to, but he oughta make sure, just in case. on ao3 here if you wanna.

2.4k words. porn with plot if you squint. extremely dubious consent. Stockholm syndrome. forced exhibitionism, voyeurism, vaginal fingering, emotional manipulation. tried out something new where the narration is written more in Bo's voice and i'm interested to see if that works for you or nah so lmk.

The whole family’s gathered in the den on a Sunday night. It ain’t tradition, not really, it’s just that if everyone’s gonna get together it’s gonna be on Sunday. 

Nobody felt like cookin’ and he don’t trust you ‘round the knives yet, so Les picked up some fried chicken from the Kroger and Bo said grace and you behaved yourself like a nice young lady, and now everybody’s sittin’ in front of the television drinkin’ beer and watchin’ football like some kinda all-American family. 

He’s got you sat on his lap in a sundress that belonged to some other bitch before you. It don’t fit you right, barely covers your ass, but that’s fine by him. His brothers keep eyeing you like you’re the skin mag by the cash register. He'll let ‘em look; in fact, he wants them to look. Plus it freaks you out, makes you press yourself against his chest in search of protection and boy, if that don’t make him wanna laugh out loud. He’s all too happy to oblige, wrappin’ you in his arms and whisperin’ sweet sugary bullshit in your ear. You’re servin’ yourself up to him on a silver platter and you don’t even realize it. 

He snags the six-pack off the side table and hands it to you, watches you wrestle a beer from the plastic ring and pop the tab for him without being asked. 

“Good girl,” he says, and kisses your cheek when he takes the can from you. You're bein’ such an angel today that it’s got him nostalgic for that bitch with the bad attitude. He wonders if she's gone for good or if he could dig around in that pretty head of yours and find her. “You want one?” 

You hesitate. He watches you do the math. You know by now you can’t get somethin’ for nothin’, but apparently you think you got plenty to give because you nod quietly. 

“G’on.”  He dangles the six-pack in front of you and lets you pick one for yourself. He watches the way you set your lips on the rim of the can, watches your throat bob as you swallow. Your gaze shifts uncertainly to him and he winks at you. You almost—almost—give him a shaky little smile. 

You adjust yourself in his lap, tug on your dress, try to get comfortable. He rests his chin on your shoulder and waits for you to settle. He likes the smell of his soap on your skin, even if it makes him miss the animal stench of you from before. Bringin’ you home was a good call. You clean up sweet and so far you’ve been learnin’ your lessons real well. Shit, he’s almost proud of you. 

Once you’ve mellowed out, sippin’ on your beer and pretendin’ this is where you wanna be, he slides his hand up your thigh, fingertips twitching at the hem of your skirt. He watches you frown and glance down at his hand and then back up at the TV like you think you can ignore him. He pushes your skirt up an inch or so and bites back a smirk when you shift and squeeze your knees together, shooting an anxious glance in the direction of his brothers. 

“Somethin’ wrong, baby?” he whispers. You answer with your eyes, give him this pleading look that makes him want to tear that dress off you right here, right now. “You’re alright. Watch the game.” 

Reluctantly, you turn back to the TV with this blank expression on your face that tells him he has your full attention. He moves his hand between your legs and gives your waist a hard squeeze when you stiffen. When you glance at him again he treats you to an ice-cold smile. 

This is a test, girl. Better hope you got a shot at passin'.

You’re bare beneath the dress ‘cause what would you need panties for, and he worms his hand between your thighs until his fingers find that soft, warm center of you. You jerk like a mare tryin’ to shake off a fly, but you don’t make a sound. He probes until his middle finger slips like silk into your slit almost up to the second knuckle and Jesus, girl, you’re so wet it makes his mouth water. This is why he never listens to you, because you don’t even know that you’re lying when you do it. 

He eases his finger out of you and back in deeper, watches your lips part but no sound come out. He does it again and your lashes flutter like a doll’s. You’re sittin’ still as a statue for now but he’s gonna break you. Promise. 

“You been so good, baby girl,” he murmurs into the shell of your ear. His thumb prods at your clit and you strangle the life out of a gasp as it tries to sneak into the room. “Wanna make sure you know how much I appreciate you behavin’ yourself.” He rubs that sweet spot in lazy circles and savors the way your back arches slow, so slow, tryin’ so hard to keep it a secret that he’s finger-fucking you ten feet from his family. 

You think they don’t know, huh?  You think they don’t see you’re nothin’ but a slut?  Maybe you oughta think a little less.

You get that look on your face like you’re determined to take back control of yourself but you belong to him, girl, that body is his. When he pushes another finger into your pussy your toes curl on the arm of the chair and this little moan makes it out alive and both his brothers were raised huntin’ so they know what a creature in distress sounds like and all the sudden, you’re the Sunday evening special. 

“Well looky here,” Les says, and wolf whistles. 

Your eyes go wide and you cover your face with your hands and Bo can’t help it, he breaks into a grin. He thought he’d wrung all the shame right outta you by now, but apparently he thought wrong. 

You peer over your fingers at him with tear-filled eyes and this time, you might just be cryin’ for real. You look so betrayed it makes him sick, makes him wish he could take it back just so he can do it to you again. 

“’S alright, baby, they’re just lookin’,” he coos.

“We are most certainly lookin’,” Les agrees, and ordinarily Bo would smack him, but the way your lip quivers makes his dick twitch. 

“Pretend they ain’t even here,” he says low in your ear. “Unless you like that sorta thing. You like bein’ watched, honey?  You some kinda slut?”

He already knows the answer even if you don’t. He can tell by the way that sweet little cunt keeps spasin’ around his fingers like somethin’ dying. And you don’t deny it, just keep beggin’ him to stop with those big doe eyes. He don't gotta work hard to pull your focus back to that ache between your hips. All it takes is a little spit on his thumb, a little less friction on that poor swollen clit, and you’re melting in his hands. 

“I’m just showin’ ‘em, baby,” he whispers. “Just makin’ sure they know you’re mine.” 

He collects your wrists with his free hand and pulls them down to expose your face. You make a sound, some kinda protest, but you don’t fight him off like you used to. That girl’s been buried six feet deep inside you and you’re all that’s markin’ her grave. 

“Hey Vince. Do me a favor?”  Bo tosses his head towards the camera sitting on the coffee table where he left it, a brand-new roll of film ready and waitin’ inside. His twin snatches it up without question and puts his goddamn gift to good use. 

You’re fightin’ it hard, makin’ him work for it, but he knows your body better than you do by now. When you cum, you try to hide it, bitin’ your lip and screwin’ up your face. But you can’t keep that pussy from grippin’ him tight, throbbin’ like your life depends on it. You squeeze his hand. A whine sneaks out of your throat and he catches it in his mouth, swallows it whole, savors it to the last.

You slump against his chest, let your head roll into the hollow of his shoulder because it's got nowhere else to go. You're soakin’ his shirt, soakin’ his hand. You're made of water, girl. Maybe that's why you make him so goddamn thirsty. 

“Well she’s a delight,” Les says, slaps his thighs, stands up. “I'm gonna head home ‘n jerk off unless you gents need anything.”

He has the gall to reach for one of the Polaroids Vince is layin’ out on the coffee table like playing cards and Bo hisses through his teeth. 

“Leave it. I ain't handin’ out souvenirs.”

Les rolls his eyes and slinks off like a stray mutt. Vincent looks for a second like he might make a case for himself, but thinks better of it and rightly so. He hands Bo the stack of photos and creeps back downstairs where he belongs and now it's just you and him and the TV static. 

You're stiff as a board in his arms but you're clingin’ to his shirt with all you got so which is it, woman? He kisses your temple and starts shufflin’ through the pictures. Mama's favorite son ain't immune to the charms of the pornographic and most of them center on the view up your skirt, the curve of your ass, your juice shinin’ on his knuckles. 

But there's one, just one, of your face lookin’ up at him. With these big, round eyes fixed on him and your hands cupped together in front of your chest. You look like you're prayin’, girl. Like you're worshiping him. 

He licks his lips, looks down at you. You’re starin’ straight ahead into space, head on his chest, tits swellin’ against the bodice of that dress as you breathe deep in and out. He can tell you're searchin’ for the way back to that place you used to go, safe and warm without him. 

You can't find it. It ain't there anymore. All you got is what you got.

“Can we go to bed?” 

He’s surprised you’re speakin’ to him. Your voice is low and rough from the tears. You don't look at him until he tucks his finger beneath your chin and tilts your face up. There's somethin’ bright and broken in your eyes like glass. 

“Please.”

He hates givin’ you what you want, doesn't want you gettin’ the wrong idea about who's in control here. He can't be spoilin’ you any more than he already has. But he prizes that look of relief and gratitude you give him when he's generous. That little furrow between your brows that melts away when he's good to you. 

“Sure, baby.”

There it is. You slump against him beneath the force of your relief and fuck you for the way his hands move to hold you without him thinkin’ about it. 

He don't carry you to bed. You're not a goddamn princess no matter what you might think of yourself. But you drop that dress that ain't yours to the floor and crawl naked into his sheets and when he climbs into bed beside you, you inch your way over ‘til you're pressed up against his ribs. 

He can barely hear you breathin’. You're hardly even there. The old you would be rippin’ into his stomach, thrashin’ fit to snap your own spine. This new bitch, though, she’s manageable. Sweet, even. 

Probably you don't mean for him to hear it but something like a sob sneaks out of you and it gives him butterflies. He rolls onto his side and slings his arm around you. 

“Don't cry, now. You're alright.”

You shrink into him, make yourself small and bite-sized. You need him so bad and he knows it, figures you’re startin’ to figure it out too. What would you do without me, huh?

“Was I too mean, baby?” You choke on those tears and he bites his lip. “I'm sorry…you forgive me?”

You whimper, can't commit. It ain't your fault you're stuck tryin’ to make sense of it all, ‘specially with him feelin’ you up like he is. He can't keep a straight face, grinnin’ into the back of your neck. “I just got carried away, showin’ off my girl.” He pushes his hips against your ass. “You are my girl, right?”

A breath shudders through your body. You arch your back, don't even know you're doin’ it. He wraps his hand around your throat like a collar, nice and snug, squeezes just a little to get you back on course. “I asked you a question. You got an answer for me?”

“Yes,” you whisper. 

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I'm your girl.”

Your voice breaks and whew, he's got blood rushin’ every which way. “Tell me you forgive me.”  

You don’t respond. He tightens his grip just beneath your jaw, brings his lips to your ear. 

“Fuckin’ answer me, huh?  You forgive me?  I gotta hear it, baby doll, or I’ll be up all night.”  

His fingers dig into your flesh. He can feel you shaking like a leaf in the wind with fear or fury or something else he can put to use. He’s grindin’ against that ass, just about ready to flip you facedown and fuck the sense back into you, when you finally give him what he wants. 

He always gets what he wants, baby. Haven’t you figured that out by now?  

“I forgive you,” you rasp, and he loosens his grip and feels your tits press against his arm as you suck in air. 

“Ain’t you sweet,” he says, and he presses a kiss to the side of your head, and when he rolls back an inch or two you scoot right along with him until your back is flush to his chest again, and that’s fuckin’ hilarious, huh?  Just can’t get enough. 

He lays in the dark and feels your breath on his knuckles, feels it hitch, feels it slow, feels it mellow out and go feather-soft, and before he knows it, he’s out like a light. 

You wear him the fuck out, girl. 

[tangledinink]

Swanatello's memory problems hurt me way more than they should Like wtf I read CAS and LFLS I thought I was more immune to this But no tears are streaming down my face at Swanatello not fully remembering his bros aUgh

I offer you-- the first time Swanatello was able to recognize one of his brothers. And, in the same vein, the first time that Swanatello realized that something was wrong.

[ next ]

[polychromaic]

🌸 when the Hindriarch banished Eskhind and her kin from Bey Lah, Neelahind would follow her heart into voluntary exile. To abandon a surefooted life, as well as a coveted spot among the Fellowship, is nearly unheard of among both hindren and Wardens, but Neelahind was glowing when she took her leave. I hear the pair are quite happy together, practicing arconautics in the ruins to the west—at least, that's what the kendren bring news of when they come back to trade.

back at it again w more caves of qud deer gals 😏✨ i'm kind of enamored with the ending to the Bey Lah quest where Esk and Neela both take off, so i wanted to see what they'd look like as a matched set of lesbian pariah-arconauts. geez, i can’t believe it’s been almost two years since i drew them last

image descriptions under break!

img desc: A drawing of a hindren deerfolk girl from "Caves of Qud". On the left a title card reads "Pariah Neelahind (she/her)". Some of the details are labeled. Her fur is a rich cedar red, with a lighter heartwood underbelly curling under her arms and on the inside of her legs down to her hooves; her curly hair is dark mahogany, tied back in a ponytail with a sky-blue bandana; her antlers are a pale heartswood, deepening to a rich velvet at the tines. She’s smiling, looking up and off to her right; she's poised upright, her arms spread to either side of her as she grips the haft of her war-scythe Yal, which is laying across her shoulders. She’s wearing shining steel platemail—a breastplate over a nanoweave surcoat patterned with pale lemon slices over pink (called "Pink Lemonade"); her armor is incomplete, but well taken care of. She’s wearing leather braces, a steel gauntlet on her left hand only, and a woven blue sash and bedroll across her back.

img desc: A drawing of a hindren deerfolk girl from "Caves of Qud". On the right a title card reads "Pariah Eskhind (she/it)". Some of the details are labeled. Her fur is ashen, with her pale undercoat spotting through on her forearms and flanks. Her messy hair is a greenish bleach-blonde, and one of her ears has a hole in it; her antlers are pale and their velvet is darker grey, and they're covered in little tied-on charms and brass tine hornaments. She has an eyepatch over her left eye, and a gap between her front teeth. She's grinning, slouching in a relaxed fashion, pulling back her hood with one hand and flashing a rock-on with the other; her front two legs are crossed, while the back two are spread like she's posing for a picture. She's wearing a well-worn chainmail hauberk, which extends down over her back; a ragged cowl, with buttoned slots along the hem of the hood for her antlers to fit through; a leather bracer on her left wrist, a steel pauldron on her right shoulder, a fingerless elastyne glove on her right hand, and two pairs of croccasins on her hooves. A pocketed saddle is slung over her back, along with a backpack and bedroll; on either side, the pockets are full of tools and bits. Tucked into her swordbelt is a sheathed folding carbide longsword and a gaslight kris; slung across her chest is a bolt-action rifle called "Peashooter" (it has a lesbian flag on its stock). Around her legs are several beaded bracelets and charms; one of them is the rightfully reclaimed Kindrish, complete with its carved deer charm.

[jadewritesficshere]

Steddie x female!reader thought 18+ only

Eddie blinks his eyes a couple of times to make sure he is actually seeing what he is seeing. He must be living in a nightmare.

You're laying back on one of the pool loungers. One leg dangling over the edge keeping your foot on the warm cement ground, the other spread over Steve's lap as he absently rubs his hand up and down it while he bitches to you about something from work. Your hand rubs up and down Steve's back in comfort. But that isn't the nightmare.

Your bright red bikini bottoms covering enough, but with your legs spread a bit more skin is shown then intended. Spread in such a way that makes Eddie want to just dive in. Get on his knees and worship you, rub his face over your mound as he licks and nips and sucks. Moan as the curly thatch of hair brushes against his face.

Except the curls of hair he is expecting to see peeking around your bikini are gone. Just smooth bare skin. And that isn't the only nightmare. Steve's chest is smooth like when he was in school on the swim team. Not a speck of that beautiful chest hair Eddie would curl into after getting hot and heavy. Not a single curl of the "love rug" he jokingly called it.

Eddie wants to weep. To throw himself down like a little kid and thrash his arms and legs around. Yeah, it's your body and you can do what you want, but he still is sad its gone. Eddie doesn't like change, and suddenly walking in to see both of his partners change something without any warning? Uncomfortable. It makes Eddie feel itchy.

Eddie can barely speak as he walks over and sits next to Steve. He doesn't respond to Steve's warm greeting. Doesn't respond to you asking how the day is. Just stares with big wet eyes at the sight in front of him. A pout on his lips.

A warm hand lands on his shoulder, gently squeezing. Steve's brow furrowed in concern, your wide eyes blinking at him.

"Shaved?" Eddie asks in a quiet voice, eyes darting to Steve's chest and then your clothed pussy. Steve lets out a huff of laughter, "Fuck, thought something was wrong man." Eddie glares," It is."

[charleslee-valentine]

Trudy refills Vincent’s cereal. He’s 2-3 years old and blind in one eye. He doesn’t need more cereal, he just needs his bowl rotated so he can see the cereal that was left over on his blind side. Not that we necessarily know how Vincent communicates without speech, but she hardly gives him time to answer her question about more before she’s refilling the bowl anyways. This is her approach to parenting her boys in general.

There’s no interest in fixing their actual issues. Rather than help Vincent to see what he already has in front of him, she’d rather add more, inadvertently also adding more onto the side he can’t see. At some point, this would just add to the issue. Overcompensation into overwhelm. Bo is brought in for breakfast kicking and screaming and it’s sort of evident why Trudy puts all her love into Vincent to the point of it being suffocating and unhelpful. Sure it could be a simple case of favoritism, but with the aspect of overcompensation specifically, it seems that she wants to balance her guilt over failing to parent one of her sons by pouring more effort than necessary into Vincent. Rather than giving the extra attention to Bo, it’s refilling a non-empty bowl of cereal.

I don’t think that necessarily mean she loves Vincent more. She finds him easier to parent. Fill the bowl whether or not he needs it because that’s easier than unpacking where Bo’s massive emotional outbursts are coming from. It seems more like love-bombing than genuine kindness. He’s “being such a good boy today,” but the implied part is an unsaid comparison to Bo. As twins, and conjoined twins at that, they’re not independent of each other. Vincent’s behavior exists only to contrast Bo’s, from her perspective. “Fix” his needs, and she can fix them both. Hence, preferring just to duct tape Bo to a chair than help him any.

Then Vincent grows up to become her protege, starting in his childhood but lasting until even after Trudy’s death. Over thirty years have passed since they were toddlers in those high chairs, but Bo gives a hint about why Vince got that ‘special privilege’ to not be as physically abused. “She always said that your talent would make up for what God took away from you.” Only, God didn’t take anything. Victor Sinclair doing illegal, unqualified surgery on his babies is why Vincent lost half of his face. Trudy only uses God’s name and religion as a shield for her own guilt about how her boys turned out. But it’s more likely she included Vincent in the wax business because she again, was dumping affection onto him over and over as her strategy.

Otherwise there isn’t as much favoritism between the boys. In their childhood photos, they both play piano, both play pool and baseball, both get to sit at the table with their birthday cake (without highchairs or bindings) and they play on the floor together. It's not entirely divisive between them, though it’s still obvious from which brother she’s slapping across his face and which brother she’s love-bombing which she’d prefer to deal with. Just not which she actually cares for more. Vincent wasn’t somehow spared from abuse in a house like the Sinclair household.

Interestingly, when Bo tells the story of Trudy and Victor, he mentions that once the Doc died, they were alone. Except, there’s at least one version of a prop newspaper stating that Trudy created a wax memorial for Victor. So this is just a false version of events most likely. Sure it could be that a decision changed, but there’s also the fact that, in the guns and ammo store, there’s a sign that says “Trudy’s Town or Wax.” And Bo tells Vincent, “We almost finished what mama started.” She’s also much older than the Trudy we see in the family photos and articles (even with the amount of cigarettes that woman smoked.) Ambrose is confirmed to have been abandoned for a decade, but to be turned into wax, Trudy would’ve had to die sometime between the abandonment of Ambrose and the present. Else she would’ve been properly buried most likely. The plan to fill Ambrose was hers, it’s just Bo that suggests using real humans (according to his apology to Vincent, he takes credit for the idea anyhow.)

Which makes her boys at least in their mid twenties when she died. In an older version of the script, Bo had killed her and Victor, but knowing it would put them all in foster care, that doesn’t quite make sense unless they were older. So the order of events is, Doc dying, the sugar mill closing, Trudy planning to reimagine Ambrose, and then dying herself.

The reason that’s important is because it’s emblematic of just how much pressure she was putting on both of her boys. And that’s not love. With two mentally ill, abused sons, (maybe three, since Lord only knows how they treated Lester once he came along,) that’s just manipulation. Victor and Trudy aren’t cartoon super villains for being bad to their boys. But when you can’t even just rotate a bowl slightly for your half blind little one, it’s shallow. Trudy has her cigarettes right in the boys faces in the opening and in most of the photos. Smoking was in one study linked to about 1/3rd of conjoined pregnancies, and in a similar case of conjoinment to the boys, one of the twins had lost an eye and had a prosthetic, but with minimal scarring because of the surgery being done in an actual legal hospital. It’s not about God taking anything, or about which is a little monsted and which is a very good boy- it’s about Trudy and Victor both messing up from the very beginning and causing the boys losses, then refusing to take accountability for it. Or, in the symbolic sense, to just do the right thing and turn a damn bowl of cheerios towards your blind kid.

[sothasil]

Two blokes slacking off at work :p

Cretan diplomats based on a painting of the tomb of Rekhmire, Luxor. I was intruigued by the leopard skirt thingy one of them is wearing and drew a more or less realistic interpretation of it! The other guy's there so he can have a buddy.

While i usually draw people looking as average as possible, it's not the case here. It's fair to assume that within the "PR" context of the painting (representing their people in front of a foreign king) these would be the ancient aegean's hottest boytoys, so I kept them snatched and smooth shaved.

Originals under the cut!

Mural with my chosen duo highlighted

Cropped closeup, leopard skirt guy on the left (and the two arms of jugs guy!)

[alittleannihilation]

look at the patch I made for my jacket, boy

[eirianerisdar]

Another A+ track preview from the Ferrari boys