#is scribbled out nonsense

[tennessoui]

every time i see more ab the hunger games au it sends me spiraling into obsession it sooooo cool soo good sooooo fascinating

ahh I’m so glad you’re excited !!!

please enjoy page 1 of….3… hunger games au to ao3 fic planning notes that I wrote out during my long ass flight

(if you can read my shit handwriting)

[jujucomet]

Hi! You said you were doing art requests and I've got one for you if your willing and still taking requests.

Prompt 10 for two characters (dancing together) with Shockwave and Soundwave (preferably from the same generation/universe)

Regardless, hope you have a good day!

[surreal-duck]

suffering from a disease called i need to draw things that are extremely corny every once in a while or i may spontaneously combust otherwise (incurable)

yeah

[shitouttabuck]

what if i wrote a twisters au……….

[undefeatablesin]

My angel, my pride and joy, my beloved AKA the Good Hunter Ruza lmao 🧡 ft. Her Lost Chikage and her fun outfit from these screenshots! + some lil headshots of her in the Yharnam Hunter Garb, a look I also care Deeply About ✨️

[rillils]

rils, absolutely nothing hurts more than bucky saying "its fine, im used to it, ive had worse.." whenever he gets beaten up a lot

It’s the simple, matter-of-fact way he says it, that makes it all the more heartbreaking.

If he were crying, if he were slamming his balled-up fists into the wall, screaming, rioting at the unfairness of it all, Steve thinks it might be just that bit easier. Then, at least he could wipe Bucky’s tears away, dull the sharp knife-edge of Bucky’s grief with his own hands, hold him in his arms until all the parts of him came back together.

But Bucky keeps his grief under the surface, silent; private, except for those glimpses his body lets slip sometimes, in the traitorous set of his tense shoulders, or the blanching of his knuckles digging tight into his thighs, or the painful clenching of his jaw.

He brushes off the bruises, the cuts, the dark blood crusting his suit, shrugging his shoulder as Steve coaxes him into the chair he pulled up for him from the kitchen table.

“I’m fine,” he says, his jaw blossoming purple and blue in Steve’s cupped hand. Says ‘I’m fine’ and means it, just the same as Steve meant it when he used to say ‘I can take it’ after each beating in a piss-rank alley, back in the day. He recognizes it; the intimate need to believe it, to make it true, speak it true, even on the days when it started to taste like a lie.

“I’m used to it,” Bucky assures him, speaking softly in the homely kitchen glow, hand squeezing Steve’s knee with gentle purpose – as though that wasn’t the worst part. As thought it wasn’t the cruelest piece of truth.

He’s used to it.

He’s grown used to it.

There are so many things humans can grow into. Grow better. Grow kinder. Grow older. But Bucky’s grown into the pain, was raised into it, shaped into it, until pain became a natural presence lingering under his skin, twining its ancient roots around his ribs.

“You shouldn’t be used to it,” Steve murmurs, dabbing iodine over the tender-looking cut cresting Bucky’s cheekbone.

He shouldn’t have to be used to it.

Habit can turn even the most terrible things into day-to-day routine, given enough time.

Habit will see the hurt and whisper, It’s okay, it’s just another Tuesday. It doesn’t matter. But it does. It matters so much, so much it’s all Steve can see right now. That’s what he tries to tell Bucky, with the swipe of his thumb over Bucky’s good cheekbone, seeking the places where touch won’t hurt, where the caress will stir only warmth, no lurking aches: It matters. That’s the salve he spreads on Bucky’s bruised cheek, before slipping the band-aid into place, smoothing it over with the pad of his thumb, tender like a naked heart: It matters.

So what if the black and blue will have faded tomorrow, leaving behind nothing but the olive skin Steve has worshipped longer and more fervently than any gods or holy ghosts? So what if the wounds will heal fast, and the flesh knit itself back together till there’s not a pale scar left behind? That doesn’t mean Bucky’s not hurting now. That doesn’t mean the heart won’t remember, even when all the evidence is gone.

Bucky must read his thoughts on his face, easy as leafing through a book.

“It’s nothing, I swear,” he insists, rubbing soothing circles on the meat of Steve’s kevlar-clad thigh, a small, lopsided grin slanted on his lips. “I’ve had much worse than this.”

He seems to regret the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth. Steve sees it, how the grin seals back up and Bucky’s eyes widen for a moment, as if he startled himself. The way his Adam’s apple bobs and his lips part and close and part again, hesitating. “Sweetheart.”

“I know,” Steve says. “It’s okay.”

Worse, in their two-people world, is barely a euphemism for the atrocities Bucky has borne, the likes of which Steve couldn’t have dreamed of even when he used to come home with more black eyes and fractured ribs than his stubborn body could afford to handle. Worse is a sore spot they only ever touch carefully, treading hand in hand on crumbling ground, and doing so takes its toll. There’s a time and a place for Worse, and tonight, Steve estimates, they both lack the spoons for it.

“Tell me something else you’re used to.” He wets his lips. “Something nice.”

Bucky’s eyes soften. In the dim, buttery light, his irises glitter like gems, startlingly pretty, and the corners crinkle just so, roped into a genuine smile. “Something nice, huh?”

His palms curl around Steve’s forearms, pulling him into Bucky’s space; and Steve goes, standing up from his chair only to step into Bucky’s inviting embrace, climbing into his lap, hoarded close in Bucky’s capable arms.

It’s precious, how Bucky has to tip his head back to look him in the eye like this. The way he looks up – looks up at Steve like he’s gazing at the stars, eyes full of wonder, of something soft like Oh, like How. How does something this beautiful exist. How does it bring light here, where the world is at its darkest.

Bucky’s flesh hand comes up to touch him, warm, brushing knuckle-first against his skin to stroke the soft underside of Steve’s chin, his fingers overlapping with Steve’s jawline, raspy with the day’s stubble.

“I could list you a whole bunch of nice somethings,” Bucky rumbles, gaze raking all over Steve’s face to drink him in, here, up close where he won’t miss a single detail. As though he could collect every freckle, every mole and laugh line and tuck them away for safekeeping, treasures that they are.

Steve exhales softly, feeling warmed through. Wanted. Desired. Craved, with that delicate, bone-deep hunger with which one craves a caress from their lover.

“Just give me the first one off the top of your head,” he prompts, whisper-soft, and tastes the word when Bucky breathes: “One”, against the curve of his lips, before capturing them in a kiss.

He lets Steve take the lead, and Steve moves them as he sees fit: slow and gentle, the bruises on Bucky’s face demanding that he take care, softly now, easy does it, as he tilts his head to the side and slips tender into the welcoming heat of Bucky’s mouth, dancing their tongues together.

His fingers sink in Bucky’s hair, cradling the nape of his neck as they part, lingering, close enough to breathe each other’s air.

“'Tell you a secret, though,” Bucky husks, breathing in with his eyes closed, his nose rubbing at Steve’s flushed cheek. He’s so warm, so warm all around him. Holding onto Steve with a need so deep, Steve is sure it’ll bruise him too, heart and soul. “I ain’t ever getting used to this, honey.”

Steve feels himself shiver, heat dripping down his spine. I love you, he feels, starting breathless in his lungs, tingling all the way into his fingertips, straining against the seams of his skin, too big to be held within. I love you, love you, love you–

In a cone of yellow light in their kitchen, he holds Bucky tight, and he doesn’t let go.

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

figuring out how to draw him. its surprisingly challenging!

[averlym]

miscellany (again),, tags in the last image by @pyrotechnicarus

[deakyjoe]

Found a photo of 14 year old me at Madame Tussauds with Wolverine 💀

Also me being Wolverine 🥲

[quatregats]

WIP guessing game! slang, slander, slay

These are truly making me dredge through every draft of every ill-advised fic that I have ever written, apparently I only use like three words 😅

I couldn't find a single use of "slang" in anything which I'm deeply disappointed in myself for...faking the being attuned to linguistic factors for attention I guess...

SLANDER

From a very random draft of The Creative Endeavor AKA 4-3-3 AKA my modern Aubreyad football AU (the normal kind of football not the American kind in case the 4-3-3 does not immediately ring bells) - this is from about two years ago, and I promise I have learned to write them better in the interim:

“Hmm,” Stephen said, raising his eyebrows. “Well, that certainly explains why you were comparing him to a weasel.” “I hope you're not offended. It was the first animal that came to my mind.” “No, no. Better Mustela nivalis, whose crimes are based in true animosity, than, say, the unjustifiable slander against snakes. But you were saying something about Harte, I believe?”

SLAY

From like, the first draft of my very strange Stephen/Jack "Famous Flower of Serving Men" crossover. Yes like the folk ballad. Don't ask, it will not get any clearer, but I'm unsurprised that this word showed up in it since it shows up in the original song

Late that night, a band of brigands set forth from the back gate of the royal castle. It was a company of the worst sort of men—thieves and murderers who would slay a sleeping babe without the slightest prick of conscience. They had received their orders from the upstart lord: do away with the bastard child, and they would be rewarded generously.

Thank you for putting me through my paces!

(Also side note but if the actual first draft of 4-3-3 were typed in a document and not like 100+ pages of handwritten scrawl I might be able to answer way more of these. Alas it is not :/, it remains in the notebook, untyped, but that's how Patrick O'Brian would have wanted it.)

[sibillascribbles08]

20 ^.^

Here have this at 10PM

Okay not married in this one but there's no way Jason wouldn't have learned about this kinda early on so it makes sense

Jason became shockingly familiar with “turtle” noises.

He couldn’t correctly call them turtle noises because he’d done his research. Turtles did make a variety of sounds, but for the most part the mutation—along with learning to speak human language—kept his boyfriend and his brothers from sounding like they would normally.

Not that they were completely without their strange sounds. Raph would frequently hiss when he was frightened. Leo made a bunch of strange chirps when he was annoyed—and thought no one was watching. And Mikey had a whole list of squeaks that he’d let out when he was excited or happy. 

Donnie had his own list of strange noises, though most of them Jason just chalked up to his brand of weirdness. Every single emotion seemed to have its own designated sound to go with it. Hisses, growls, squeaks, squawks, snorts, and everything in between. 

Jason got used to these noises. After eight months he’d gotten pretty good at deciphering them even. There goes the, “Donnie took a bite of something he doesn’t like” noise. That was the, “Donnie is straining himself to reach for a tool because he’s too lazy to get out of his chair” noise. And how could they ever forget the bizarre giggling sound that occurred when a new invention finally worked. 

After eight months, Jason assumed he’d heard it all.

But then…

He definitely didn’t do it on purpose. He left the lab to grab some snacks and some drinks and returned to see Donnie focusing on nothing but sliding two small bits of metal together. Jason approached from behind, watching for a bit before he leaned over to place the juice box on the desk.

The motion made Donnie jump, and as he did he squeaked.

Not a typical human gasp or shriek in the slightest. No. It had the same loud and drawn out noise as a windshield wiper on a dry windshield. 

Jason stared at him, eyes wide. 

“Jase, be more careful.” Donnie shook his head, acting casual like that insane noise hadn’t just left his throat. “These pieces are delicate.” 

Jason just kept staring, the sound looping in his memory as if to burn it into place. 

Donnie finally noticed his stare and lifted his goggles. “What?”

“Did you just make that noise?” 

He narrowed his eyes. “What noise?”

“That squeak, when I surprised you.”

“Scoff, like you haven’t heard me squeak a dozen times.” 

“Not like that!” Jason insisted. He put down his own drink and the bag of chips. Could he recreate the sound? He had to at least try. 

At least after eight months he knew how to make the softshell jump. 

Even easier to do when Donnie reached for the juice box. Jason lightly poked him under the shoulder right where his scales gave way to his plastron.

Donnie squeaked again. The same noise, though much shorter this time. 

“Oh my god,” Jason gasped.

“Will you knock it off!” Donnie swatted at his hand. “It’s not that strange.”

“You sound like a windshield wiper!”

“Rude, like humans don’t make their own weird noises.”

Jason would have argued that, only to get interrupted by a jab to the same spot. A high pitched squeak escaped his throat and he scrambled back before his boyfriend could try again.

“See? You sound like a dehydrated mouse.”

Jason glared. “What does that even mean?” 

Donnie smirked at him. “Tiny voice but with a hint of gravel.” 

He rolled his eyes and dared approach close enough to take his juice back. “Sorry for being curious when my boyfriend makes a sound I haven’t heard before.”

“You really haven’t?” Donnie tilted his head. “It’s not like I hide it.” 

“You tend to make a lot of other squeaky noises. Just what’s up with that one?”

“A remnant from my time as a turtle, I believe.” He lowered his goggles again and got back to work. “At least based on what little I could dig up. Turtle noises are not commonly recorded.” 

Jason sipped at his juice and finally plopped down in the other swivel chair. “So red sliders also chirp?”

“When they’re distressed, yes. Leo’s embarrassed of that one, but he never kicked the habit.” Donnie chuckled and then hunched over on his desk, his face inches from the metal he was working with. 

Jason scooted over, making sure he was loud about it this time before he lifted his legs and rested them on Donnie’s lap. The softshell didn’t push him off, so he stayed there and opened the bag of chips. 

Donnie held out a hand toward him. Jason extended the bag, letting his boyfriend dig out a few chips to munch on before resting it back on his lap and taking a few himself. 

“So, how much more of this do you have to work on?” 

“It will be less if you don’t interrupt me again.” Donnie stuck his tongue out as he attempted again to fit the metal together. 

“Fine, but when this is done we’re watching a movie.” 

Donnie chuckled. “Does the dragon crave cuddle time?”

“Watch it, I can kick you in the chin from here.” 

“Yes yes, movie after. Now let me work!”

Jason stopped talking, at least, but he crinkled the bag a lot when he reached in for some more chips and made sure to crunch on them extra loud. 

“Jase,” Donnie hissed. “Please.” 

“Fine,” he grumbled with his mouth full. He ate his chips quieter, thinking through the silence. 

Just what exactly would it take to get Donnie to make that hilarious noise again?

[isfjmel-phleg]

📋

[strawglicks]

just scribbled my thoughts and this came out idk

[mendfri]

The gazes of Phobos and Deimos loom upon the landscape of iron, blood and war,

But as the days grow colder, so do the nights.

The clouds of the coming season cast upon the red skies,

And so begins the winters of Mars.

[sysig]

Not flirting or being in love or feeling protective or anything like that at all, why do you ask (Patreon)

[multiimistakes]

frantically jotting this down before i honk snoo mimi so i can mess around with the concept later

/ self-indulgent project z based oc. so zombies, apoc.

/ we're mixing post apoc with slasher prob. sorta. dude is kinda weird. really weird actually.

/ weird but oddly durable. immune to the infection. has been greviously ill twice and somehow bounced back. smokes. drinks. digs around in zombies all day. still somehow seems to be thriving.

/ wears freaky mascot head or otherwise full head covering. some sort of halloween mask he found probably. motorcycle mask maybe for easier aesthetic? face mask and hoodie/hat when it's off. has a thing about his face being exposed ig. Maybe middle road with something like (This)?

/ loves him a good lead pipe or axe. constantly messy because he just mfing bludgeons shit to a pulp. mostly in military gear he's scavenged. absolutely need some real chompsers to get to him at this point.

/ making him a pretty boy 30 yr old because i love the juxiposition sue me

/ a very friendly fellow. just likes to hit things and collect things. trinket hoarder. enjoys organizing...a lot.

/ jumps from group to group. despite his fREAK behavior, he's a good heavy hitter and supply runner and so most overlook his bullshit. typically will just up and leave in the night though after a few months. freak behavior.

/ currently shacked up in a spiffy church with power??? that like totally had previous occupants. wonder what happened to them :?

/ general aes+vibes be like: