#lore drop(

[totallyottie99]

Carving a space between us so she can fit

[legodragonkid]

Who wants some more art/lore of my girl Zhi?

[runawaymarbles]

guess who just got exposed to WHOOPING COUGH!!!!!!! *jazz hands*

[bundleofboys]

Happy Monday! Please peruse my boy tome...

The Casio D&D Lore Drop is up on itchio!

✧25 Pages of writing and art ✧Free (but donations are appreciated!)

You can also read the full thing by supporting me on Patreon!

[immadatdisney2]

making a picrew chain cause I'm bored

this is my favorite picrew, make the dream version of yourself and give them some cool ✨️lore✨️ (let's make it two truths and a lie type of thing whete the next person has to guess for the funsies)

Here are mine

I have short, purple died hair

Every single picture of me includes me sticking my tounge out cause that's the kinda bitch I am

I always (and I do mean always) wear a leather jacket

Alright moots (I'm only tagging a few of you cause I'm Hella tired but open tags<3), have at it

@hardtobethebardbitch, @gilmorenights, @celestialbitch-art, @kayzedrawz, @fangirlmyth, @hyperfixationjunkie, @luzsaysfuckyou annnnnnnnd anyone else who want to do it<3

[igotthis-egg]

There’s absolutely a disguise trope in bunker of the bleak because I’m a sucker for that kind of trope sooo bad

Uzi dyes Newt’s hair black mostly so the Wardens (bunker police) don’t recognize him from patrolling the outside world. This is after Newt becomes human-passing enough to not try to immediately eat someone in public (thankfully! But don’t let him get hungry). He’s a nervous wreck every time they step outside the comfort of the Doorman home though.

At this point, Uzi doesn’t know Newt’s full name—only the first initial. He’s supposedly from the manufacturing floor of the bunker because it’s a part of the deep district. The deeper you go underground in the bunker, the poorer the living conditions get. And if someone down there gets lost, nobody really notices nor cares. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for someone to just appear seemingly out of nowhere if they’re from the deep district. Nobody keeps track. Uzi is a courier (at the beginning of the story) so it wouldn’t be strange for her to make friends on the deeper floors.

[70sscifiart]

I just did an interview about this blog and my art book!

Colorful futures: An interview with Adam Rowe, the guy behind 70s Sci-Fi Art project and author of Worlds Beyond Time

[potsiefaerie]

Pretty sure mine looks like this, but maybe also TN

Updated states I’ve peed in map

[moongirlwidow]

Open RP - All Welcome

TW: death, grief

-

The news had come at night.

TV programs interrupted their soap operas. Newspapers scrambled to write. Memorials formed faster than anyone could remember before

Three Avengers had died. Natalia Alianova Romanova, the Black Widow. Yelena Belova, the White Widow. James Buchanan Barnes. The Winter Soldier and White Wolf. Died at a battle against an unknown species let in by portals in New York City. The three Avengers off of a press tour

Well, four. Their youngest sister had been there. Darling of the media, headstrong, just eighteen. Vespers Volkov, the Winter Widow. Their pride and joy, all of their best parts, they had said. Considered retired after an injury who had swung in. Fighting like greasefire, trained by the Avengers, the Soviets, HYDRA, even the goddess of Death had trained her.

It wasn’t enough. Her siblings died and were in Valhalla, she said, as she handled the press, the proceedings. Silent, poised, firm. Their chief mourner.

She arranged all the proceedings,silently. Calm, almost, never cracking.

She turned down state funerals from twenty countries, instead taking them to a beautiful place in the mountains, near the memorial of May Parker in her mountain house, the one her siblings had helped her build from scratch. Only handpicked reporters allowed.

-🥀-

On the day of the funeral, people cried. They called it a beautiful service, an honor to attend. The caskets were attended by a unit of Widows. Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson carried the casket of James Barnes with them. Tony Stark helped carry Natalia’s, alongside Clint Barton. Yelena Belova’s was carried by Kate Bishop. Her golden retriever following behind with Vera.

Eulogies were given. Empty offers of help, condolences. She didn’t speak. Just nodded and watched the graves fill, the stones find position.

Left alone, standing in the rain, a black armband over a black coat. The hour glass widow’s wore embroidered, a widow fallen. Below it, a second. The star of the Winter Soldier. Silent remembrance.

She had fought the courts loudly the days after their death, their next of kin was her she argued. Until no one tried to take their weapons and suits and her brother’s arm for display.

But when it all was quiet, she was alone. Completely alone, as she felt it.

No-pressure tags:

@goddessof-death @official-buckybarnes @clintbarton-thearrowguy @truthful-timmy-of-saskatoon @imnothulk @definitelynot-peterp4rker @the-best-duck-tamer @verygoodlawyer

[suckmydictionary5]

[wisteriagoesvroom]

interesting soundbites you might've missed from the op81 & howie games podcast in melb

(did this while procrastinating at work... we are so back i guess.)

disclaimers: (i) i'm paraphrasing here so can't vouch for 100% accuracy, but as much as possible have tried to capture the meaning (ii) the word association game and the carcar soundbite have already made the rounds, but, i feel like, there was a lot more in this interview.

let's go!

on the topic of personal chefs and nutrition etc: host mark howard asks if the menu changes or there's anything special that oscar requests that reminds him of home -- apparently race week thursdays for a while were "chicken parm thursdays" and they might bring this back

oscar's lunch on press day was barramundi and "the big grained couscous with no spices" (oscar... the 1/16th is crying out for help)

one of the reasons he renewed with mclaren is because he felt the infrastructure and people needed to get to the championship in the new set of regs was there, so he was confident

on the reported $22mn bonus last year: oscar denies that it was this high (lol ok sir)

on longevity of career and responsibility: oscar talks about the estimated career in f1 usually being up to 35, maybe into your 40s but "it isn't like a typical career where you've got until your 60s" so financial investing and doing something with your salary to prolong the usability of it is important (wow 20something multimillionaire thinks of his pension. mature)

on the early RC cars: "i drove one around the school [cricket] oval a few times and that got me in trouble" pLeaSe !!!

recounting his first race at oakleigh (he was about... 9? 10?): "i went to a friend's birthday at the bmx track and did the last jump of the day before we went for the race. and i skidded down the down ramp on my face, so i actually missed it" HE REALLY WAS JUST SOME KID

so his real first race was a state race (with a P/provisional drivers' plate) HAHAHAH. he fought his way about half way up the pack in this one

"my first win... i won a club race at oakleigh and it felt like a world championship at the time. and then i quickly realised no one cared" <- once again devastated by his deadpan humour

on aus footie: "i was good in the under 9s cus i was pretty big as a kid up till that point and then everyone else grew and i didn't, then quickly realised i wouldn't become a footballer no matter how much i wanted it. i was playing footie a lot before i started racing and [the demands of racing then] really took up a whole season"

he also fielded in cricket at state level (?) a couple of times here and there. [i don't understand cricket terminology fully so i might be wrong here]

he was starstruck when meeting jackie stewart and alain prost because it was "pretty special, pretty cool. to meet legends of the sport like that."

he downplays the question about whether it was hard to move to boarding school, because he wanted to become a professional racing driver so badly and was always really motivated by this.

but does say formula renault was hard because of everything he felt he had to balance that year, and when things were not going well it feels very pressurised especially when you have only a year to prove yourself

on sponsorship and racing: "i'm fortunate to have a family that are pretty well off and it didn't become apparent until i entered f2 [that it was a big financial strain]. it costs about three million AUD a year [to fund a year in that series]"

credits both his parents for the sacrifices they made to support his racing career and shouts out his mum for making sure his sisters had the same opportunities to pursue their dreams as well

about the alpine purgatory years: "that was a tough thing because not everyone knows the full story and we weren't able to tell it. it was not an easy thing to go through but once i cemented my future and signed with mclaren, it was a relief to know i was going to be on the grid for at least a little bit"

to put the current margins on the cars into perspective: "the amount of difference between me and the car in front is the time it takes to blink".

and on car development being so advanced now: "there being something like a second between first car and last on the grid in qualifying is pretty unprecedented"

does he watch drive to survive seasons? "to be honest not really. i just skim through and see my parts to see if they've painted me as a supervillain. [this year's] is pretty balanced i would say. the mclaren episode is a pretty fair reflection of two competitive guys wanting to win races and it being a difficult situation for the team. it's entertaining but that one is for the most part pretty accurate. i found it quite entertaining."

during the drivers' word association part: "i don't have much for Stroll" FLKJKFJSDKLJSDK he really went *mariah carey voice* i don't know her

race weeks are scheduled down the minute, and on off weeks it's usually training every day at least once or twice a day; they get maybe 2-3 days at home. last year he reckons he spent 100 days at home in monaco last year, and was on at least 48-60 flights for work depending if you count the ones going to and from the MTC

howie told him to share his airline points (ha) and oscar said "qantas is the one airline i don't have platinum status at the moment [though] i used to when i lived in aus"

oscar does not own a boat in monaco (YET)

finds life in monaco a little bit of an adjustment due to the smaller spaces, but he's been in apartments even since boarding school so it's not a big deal to him. "i'm going to sound like a complete wanker if i complain about living in monaco"

on communication style on the radio, it's kind of about personal preference and he doesn't cast judgment on that – "some people need to be fired up, some people need to be calm and for me it's staying calm. in baku you can see from the onboard and my helmet i got pretty excited but i don't always open the radio for that"

howie closes with any advice for kids. oscar says: "enjoy it. for me, even – we've spoken about how difficult it is being in f1 and how cutthroat – [it's] always taking a conscious moment to reflect that you're doing a thing you love. doing it because you love it is the first thing. that's an important one for me even though there's so much more pressure now than when i started my first race at oakleigh. the second part is always be trying to learn, and improving. it's often easy when you have success early on, you think you're at that [certain] level now. but on my journey i've learned what's good 12 months ago isn't going to be good enough in 12 months time. that's in the car too. if we raced last year's car this year we'd probably be last. continuing to learn and improve is a part i enjoy as well."

[grinnames]

200+ FOLLOWERS SPECIAL EVENT

THE POSSESSION COLLECTION

I've decided to cook up a fun little event that is open for anyone wanting in! Inspired by @4thwallbreakerdraws2, (they're awesome go check them out) and @niramihasters's Billsona trend, I've decided that I want to draw your OCs, but with a twist...

Here's a special lore-drop about Godbox AU:

SMG4 AND SMG3 CAN POSSESS BODIES.

They do so by physically crawling into someone's body, kind of like a ghost!

Here's the plan!

You draw or write your character about to be possessed by SMG4 or SMG3! How do they get possessed? Do they get jumped and forcefully inhabited? Do they fight back? Or do they willingly let them in? Did they make a deal with the demon? Or did they even… lose a bet? Were they tricked? Bribed? Creativity is not required, but it is encouraged! Make sure to mention me (@grinnames or @smg4godboxaucollection) in the post!

This step is optional. You can draw or describe the possessed design yourself! If you're gonna submit a drawing, make sure it at least is flatly colored. Either way...

...I draw one of my boys wearing your OC’s skin like a glove in the order they were submitted! Please note that I will be taking my own creative liberties, and my design may not always line up with yours.

Window for submissions closes March 1!

Here's a rough idea of what possession looks like for the two of them:

Placement of the missing texture skin can vary, SMG3's claws are protruding from the inside of the fingers, and if you are not comfortable drawing gore, don't feel forced!

Something extra to know if you are considering making the design yourself:

SMG4 could care less about clothes. He has little to no fashion sense. As long as he's allowed to stretch, he fine with anything.

SMG3 always cares about how he looks no matter what body he inhabiting.

Do with this information as you wish.

RELEASE OF LIABILITY (joke): By joining in this game, you consent to having your OC's free will be stolen by force and their body used as a demonic tool for "silly silly fun times." Grinnames is not responsible for any injuries, trauma, or possession-induced actions that may be inflicted upon or by your characters. "Accidents" include, but are not limited to: bleeding from the head, puncture damage to the arms, wrists, and fingers, bleeding gums, bleeding back, stretched facial skin, twisted joints, and "the general feeling of being violated."

I'm looking forward to seeing how this goes! Will you kindly let my boys borrow your OC?

Again, thank you all so much for the support!

EDIT: If you're not gonna design the OC yourself, please send me a reference or description of your OC to work with!!!

ALSO please only choose one OC and either SMG3 or SMG4, I will not be drawing both!

(I'm sorry for the late information I've never done this sort of thing before please forgive me)

[lesbianismluvr]

Unbeknownst to y’all several years back I used to be a super cunty femme

[silvakochdostoe]

My OC’s character sheet, and down below her lore/backstory/ability awakening: ⬇️

Silva was ten years old when her ability awakened,

Just ten—and she’d been happy that morning. Her scarf was red, her fingers a little numb from the cold, and she’d stolen a piece of chocolate from the kitchen for her little sister Shizu. She was supposed to go straight home.

But she wandered.

The abandoned docks were quiet, gray, littered with broken bottles and rusted chains. She liked the silence. Until it broke.

They surrounded her.

Six—no, seven men. Adults. Ability users. Scarred, twitching, high on something. Their eyes gleamed with something unclean. Predatory. Hungry.

“What’s a pretty little girl like you doing out here?” one crooned, stepping closer. His hands glowed faintly red—heat user. Another crackled with static. One had black eyes and claws.

She froze. The air thickened. Her legs refused to move

She didn’t know there was a world of supernatural powers, but now she does.

“Don’t scream,” another said. “It won’t help.”

She screamed anyway.

It didn’t help.

They were on her. Rough hands. One slammed her face into the concrete. Another tore her coat away. She felt the blade before she saw it—cold metal sliding across her back, slicing skin, over and over. She choked on her own sobs, her fingers clawing uselessly at the ground. Her blood ran hot down her spine.

“Still breathing?” a voice sneered, just before the knife slashed across her left eye.

Agony. Blinding, searing agony.

She couldn’t hear. She couldn’t see. Only pain.

But then—something else.

A low, pulsing sound beneath her skin. Like a heartbeat—but not her own.

The blood stopped falling. It started rising.

It listened.

The pain vanished. Not gone—replaced. By rage. A monstrous, pure kind of fury that took her tiny, broken body and twisted it into something new.

Her eye—burned red. The other glowed green like wildfire.

Then the screaming started.

Not hers. Theirs.

She didn’t move. She didn’t have to.

The blood flowed up—hers, theirs—turning into jagged tendrils, barbed blades, sickle-sharp whips. One man was torn in half before he could blink. Another’s chest caved in as a spear of blood impaled him through the sternum and burst out the other side. They tried to run. Their feet slipped in gore. One tripped and was dragged back by a crimson leash around his throat, flailing, clawing at air, before his body exploded into meat.

Her expression didn’t change.

She watched them die like it was a lullaby.

One man begged. “Please—please, stop! You’re just a kid, please—”

Her blood slashed his jaw off mid-sentence.

When it was over, the docks were painted red.

Three escaped. Broken, bleeding, screaming about a monster with one glowing eye and blood that moved like it had a mind of its own.

Silva stood in the center, her back a lattice of torn flesh, her eye a ruined mess of blood and tears. But she wasn’t crying anymore.

Her body trembled. Her hands were slick with gore. She looked down at her fingers, then at the shredded corpses twitching around her.

She didn’t understand what she’d done.

She just knew one thing:

She had become something terrifying.

And she would never be prey again.

That meant she had to hunt down and locate the rest that got away.

_____——_____

At fifteen, while her classmates obsessed over crushes and celebrity gossip, Silva was tearing through encrypted firewalls designed by military contractors. While they learned algebra, she was reverse-engineering black-budget surveillance software from four governments and rewriting it in six hours—better, sleeker, impossible to trace.

She had no formal training. She didn’t need it. Her brain devoured information. It wasn’t just intelligence—it was something else. Something unnatural.

Patterns glowed for her. Systems spoke. The moment she laid eyes on a network, she saw the architecture behind it, the cracks, the pressure points. Like blood vessels waiting to be pierced. And she did. Effortlessly.

They called it a gift. The psychologists, the government recruiters, even the hackers online who traded secrets with her and never knew they were talking to a teenage girl with one ruined eye and scars down her back. But Silva didn’t feel gifted. She felt haunted.

The attack when she was ten never left her.

She still heard the screams.

Still felt the blade.

And so, she controlled what she could.

She built her own systems from scratch. Modified keyboards to fit the speed of her thought. She wrote code like it was poetry—fluid, instinctive, laced with venom. Her personal rig had no brand. No OS. It was hers and hers alone. And it was alive with her blood.

Yes—blood.

Her ability had evolved. She could now interface directly with machines using thin strands of her own blood, magnetized and refined through years of brutal experimentation. Wires were clumsy. Silva’s veins were cleaner.

At sixteen, she hacked an underground weapons ring trafficking in children. She leaked everything to Interpol—after burning their funds and publicly doxing their leaders. Three suicides followed.

At seventeen, she took down a private mercenary company’s communications grid during a covert operation in Syria. No one ever knew how it failed. Only that it failed catastrophically.

Her files were ghosts. Her online identities were labyrinths. Even the best white-hat teams could only conclude she was either a government AI or a demon in human skin.

But inside, she was still that girl on the dock, bleeding, shaking, trembling with a power she barely understood.

She didn’t go to parties. She didn’t trust people.

She trusted data. Control. Isolation.

And still—her body was not done changing. Her blood whispered. It wanted to grow. Sometimes her skin would split during stress and release threads that slithered along the floor, searching. Curious. Hungry.

But she never let it loose again. Not fully. Not since that day.

Not until she met him, by fate, years later.

The man who would unravel everything, Fyodor Dostoevesky.

___—-___

Silva Koch also graduated at sixteen.

Officially, it was with highest honors, top of her class. Unofficially, she had already outgrown the curriculum by the time she was twelve.

By then, she’d rewritten portions of her school’s outdated network infrastructure just because the lag irritated her. She exposed a hidden surveillance subroutine planted in students’ laptops—by the school board—and dismantled it, anonymously dropping a report to the national press.

When she sat for her exams, the proctor swore he’d never seen a teenager answer higher-level math problems in seconds, without a calculator, while simultaneously reading from a law textbook and re-coding her own testing interface to be more efficient.

She was bored.

She completed four university degrees online before she could legally drink:

•Cybersecurity and Forensic Cryptology

•Applied Mathematics

•Political Science (focus: covert policy and digital warfare)

•Linguistics, because she liked pattern-mapping phonemes

She never showed up for classes. Never turned on her camera.

Her professors feared her.

Some respected her.

Most didn’t even realize she was a teenager until the national spotlight hit.

____—____

“NEMESIS” Appears in NATO Leak—World Governments Scramble to Identify Source

At seventeen, Silva—under the handle Nemesis01—intercepted a shadow op that would have used a social media algorithm to sway an election in a small Baltic country. Funded by two superpowers. Sloppy, arrogant.

She didn’t just expose it.

She hijacked the code.

She weaponized it to undo years of digital disinformation, and wrote a 94-page dossier analyzing the psy-op’s structure, weaknesses, and funding lines.

She sent it to NATO, Interpol, and the UN.

Not with her name. With a blood-red insignia: a single eye.

The world panicked.

Hackers tried to trace her. Blackhats and whitehats both. No one could.

Governments issued quiet invites.

Only a few got responses.

Germany got her first.

The Bundesnachrichtendienst recruited her under strict anonymity—not as an agent, but as a consultant.

She worked behind mirrored glass and biometric vaults, never in person. She built systems that could detect cyberwarfare attempts before the first packet even arrived. She predicted a data breach three months before it happened—down to the day. She corrected it with six lines of code.

She worked with the EU. With Japan. Even a few secret joint operations with the CIA’s cyber division—though she made it very clear she found their encryption practices embarrassing.

She never just took payments in cash.

Her fees were data. Access. Leverage.

Control.

___——___

By eighteen, she was untouchable.

They called her “The Blood Witch of Code.”

The “Ghost Cipher.”

“Red Nemesis.”

No one knew what she looked like.

Only that she was young, brilliant, and not entirely human.

And behind the digital veil, her blood still whispered—itching for something more.

For a purpose no system, no government, no firewall could satisfy.

Not until they found one another.

Not until fate brought them together.

But that wouldn’t be for another three years.

[possumteeeth]

Lambpaw, like every other healer apprentice before him, traveled to the Moonshell to be granted StarClan's approval. When he stared at his reflection in the massive, iridescent shell, he couldn't help but feel anxiety gnawing at him. His mentor, Salmonfleck, gently urged him on. Lambpaw touched his nose to the salty water within the shell.

He awoke in a place that nothing could have prepared him for. Gone were the lush forests and starry skies that Salmonfleck had told him of. Everything was dull and lifeless. The air was so still he could hear the blood in his veins. Fog shrouded the forest like a blanket. A single star hung in the grey sky, giving off cold light. Worst of all... there were no StarClan cats to be seen--

--until the fog began taking shape.