ok i got carried away

anonymous asked:

okay but im five feet tall exactly. like andrew. and if i want to reach something in the top cabinet, i have to straight up stand on the counter to reach it. so i guess im saying imagine andrew.

ok so i uh… really love this prompt. maybe got carried away. it might barely seem to match the prompt. but stick with me, folks.

  • neil is Stressed
  • it is his final year as a fox and he is captain
  • no one ever told him how many foxes are little shits
  • he has a newfound respect for wymack and dan

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i dont know how to respond to things abt smoky without sounding like a jerk about ‘young artists’ and shit flkfdlkg im a young artist too! you know what i do when im having trouble with a certain pose or body type or anything? i look up a reference! look! here’s some references right here

even more under the cut! (like way too many i went overboard)

but in conclusion art is hard and references r helpful

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I fixed Liru’s design 

honestly I adore monster girls, but I despise how often they’re used as some ecchi trope so I like to think about what i can do to improve their designs to venture out of that, maybe I’ll do more fixes in the future

For now here’s the big tough werewolf girl we need and deserve

                   he was everything.

space had never been so ridiculed and exhausting since her time confined
within arkham , where a touch was forgotten and a credibly CRAZY smile
had been blurred in the back of her mind.    her body   
ached   with hate
for arkham due to the ruin of her lustrous ,   b r i g h t   memories of her and
jay.   the length that separated their figures for months was the harlequin’s
tale of hell , pits of fire simply requiring affection and the echo in her ear of
love , and not receiving a lick. 

as she stood , prompt and perked , back grazed across the bar , her pupils
remained dilated on one particular thing              her puddin’, her lover, that   
batshit   smile.    she found her breathing estranged to oxygen , pining for
less and less as she drank in more and more of   
his   vision.    never again
would she be yanked from him , even if she was a fool to die for it;    and she
WOULD die for him.

barked orders without a glimpse or acknowledgement of the members retaining
the bar’s capacity , drinks came without wait , as they knew better than to
disobey the king’s woman.     a   q u i c k   , jesting wink at the mixologist , and
harley’s heels were grazing the white , pearl floor  
effortlessly   to reach her
suitor.    she fell into his lap , distributed his drink , and murmured mild moans
as her tongue traced the entirety of his ear. 

“    i was just thinkin’ how i neva’ wanna be away from daddy again.    
neva’          i would die for ya’.    ”

suddenly, she stood forth her nutjob , palms slapping in excitement as heels
pitter-pattered against the floor.    “    i’ve got a   
surprise   , puddin’!!        
harley’s fingers disappeared under the gold of her dress , a wink sent , before
yanking out a handful of goodies.    a watch , a cell phone , and a wallet , and
the she-devil handed them over submissively.    she drooped to her knees , her
eyes ridiculing every feature along his jawline , her heart beating in a frenzy for
his reaction.    she desired to see that DEMENTED smile.

                             starter: closed.

Animal Planet - lh

I think about roasting Luke 24/7 and this is what I came up with in the shower today. There’s language and it is a little vulgar, even nsfw, so don’t read if that makes you uncomfortable!! Stay comfy and safe my dudes.

Feel free to request if you want some writing! Hope you lovelies enjoy. :)

A kick on the back of your chair ripped you from your thoughts back to the noisy homeroom you were sat in. With a mumbled “for fuck’s sake” you turned in your chair to face the culprit, sucking in a breath so that you could tell whoever it was to kindly fuck off because it was fucking early o’clock and you were so damn tired – but you never got the chance. The breath whooshed from your lungs when you saw that it was none other than Luke Hemmings behind you, smirking at you, with his little group of friends flanking him like they were a group of fucking wolves. You only had a moment to think what is it with boys and their fucking pack mentality I feel like we’re on fucking animal planet before the blonde haired boy was leaning forward and speaking to you.

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radiiumheart  asked:

ok but holtzmann snapping and killing someone out of fear from erin getting hurt and its not like a little stab but full on slaughter hours like im talking some Jungle shit going on like the person is a pig getting ready for the afterlife

“Y’know what’s just great about Culture Club?”
                                                      Doctor Jillian Eleanor Holtzmann likes to think her PHD was an investment. Not just for the accumulation of knowledge it represents – although, she’s phenomenally well-equipped – but for the wonderful little title it merits her. The first thing she did after graduation was change her prefix: on her driver’s license, on her passport, and on her tongue with every new introduction. 
                           She’s a doctor of engineering. But she likes to doctor up other things.

There’s a delicious line-up of lovingly-crafted bits and pieces on her trestle table. The halogen light overhead catches in their pristine surfaces, and they smile at her as she sways and snaps her fingers along to the music. It’s nice and loud, but not too loud – just loud enough to compliment the muffled pleas of the person behind her.
                               Holtzmann pivots on her heel to look him dead in the eye with a wicked little smile. “Culture Club drop a sick opening riff,” she says. “Color By Numbers? What a record! My girlfriend, she loves that record – you know my girlfriend, right? Erin Gilbert?”
                                                                                                Oh, he knows. The way his eyebrows recede into the wrinkles of his forehead and his glassy eyes almost reflect that woman’s face. Jillian can almost see Erin in them, as she saw her last: cold. Afraid. All Higgs bosons and uncertainty principles because that’s what it takes to reign her in when she is truly, deathly terrified. Holtzmann smiles wider at the point of recognition. “Theeeeere we go.”
                                                  She selects from her little armory of pointy, zappy things, tucking them into the pocket of her lab coat. “Anywho – I’m super partial to Karma Chameleon. Hands down, whatta-song. These guys…” she points with a scalpel over her shoulder, the boombox bubbling at the brink of the chorus. “They get karma. I get karma. Do you believe in karma?”
                                                                                                    If the sonofabitch didn’t, he was about to.
Real fast. And really, really slowly.
                                                    “So. Here’s how it’s gonna work, pal. I’m going to give some of my great new toys a whirl.” Holtzmann withdraws a small, sleek buzz-saw from her armory, and gives the blade a little spin. It sparks dangerously, and her eyes alight. “And while I doooooo, you’re gonna think about my good girl Erin, and what you’re gonna say to her when you apologize for putting the fear of God in the fearless. How does that sound?”
                                                    Sounds like a plan. Sounds to Holtz that this guy doesn’t like it. But he’s in no position to argue. 
                                 Above her work station is a photograph: her and Erin. Just being, just doing. She loves to look at it while she works, and when she works, she grinds. Holtzmann grinds her hips to her charming little ditty as it gives way to the next track: Give me tiiiiiime
            She guffaws.
                                “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me? Erin’s fave,” she muses. “I mean, I get it… and I do. Wanna hurt you. And I’m gonna. ‘Cause I’ve got…” she glances down at her watch. “… Nine hours. And you got nine lives. We’re gonna go through all of ‘em today, buddy.”
                                                                                                    Pulling on a pair of surgical gloves, Holtzmann covers over the face of the watch: Erin’s, actually. “I can’t believe I wore her watch to work,” says Jillian, sliding her glasses down over her eyes. “I am just all over the place today. And in a sec…” she pauses, momentarily, to amp up the volume, and riiiiiiiiiiip the duct tape off this poor soul’s mouth. Gotta let him breath his last.
                                Loudly, grandly, “So will you be.