#Scribes thoughts

[scribe-of-stories]

An earlier conversation with a good friend (@sunset-a-story) got me thinking. How many undead entities can one person produce? Does a zombie need a skeleton, or can you raise them both separately? Could the blood be animated into some kind of slime creature at the same time? Assuming the soul leaving the material plane punched a them shaped whole into reality (thus spawning a ghost), could that same soul also come back as a wraith to take vengeance on their ill fated death? And to top it off: what if that same person is a telepath who stored a copy of their neural engram into someone else so that a psychic ghost also exists in their head?

What is forming in my brain is a comedy about a occult found family who is mainly made up of multiple fucked up versions of the same person.

[starcurtain]

I think one of the funniest things about the Sabzeruz event is that the devs choose to go with Candace, Traveler, and Paimon having a whole "Ooh, two mysterious men are going into an alley to have a 'private' conversation; they must be bad guys!" only to then go "Oh just kidding, it was only Alhaitham and Kaveh doing typical Alhaitham and Kaveh things."

Except the "Alhaitham and Kaveh" thing in question this time was talking about Mehrak, a sentient robot that Kaveh built using absolutely forbidden technology, and which he then whole-heartedly willed would develop a consciousness of its own, violating one of the central taboos of his nation's governing agency, committing what amounts to an inherent and extreme felony punishable by law.

Alhaitham and Kaveh: Listen, we're not bad guys discussing illegal activity here. We're just two men having a private, personal conversation. Happens all the time.

Paimon, Candace, and Traveler: Oh cool, they're not doing a crime; they're just gay.

But they were, in fact, doing a crime.

[fluentisonus]

thinking about these mesopotamian scribes who were struggling with their math. i love them

[astriiformes]

Hello tumblr. A fic-writing question lead me to look up a word to make sure I was using it right, and now Scribe and I are losing our minds a little. Those of you who are also old enough to remember having a non-cellphone phone in your house, please weigh in:

Without looking it up, what part of the phone is the receiver?

[tenderfxck]

Bestie bestie!

Imagine: seeing alhaitham crumbling below you as you're riding him. He's cursing at you and telling you how much he hates you between low groans and you're just like "hm, is that so? doesn't really look like it"

His ego is just too big and he's so self assured and confident in himself that I just wanna destroy him.😩😩

what i wouldn’t give to call him a “poor thing” while he struggled to keep his composure.

that’s just it, isn’t it. he hates the fact that you’re the one thing that sends his normally stoic facade crumbling.

nsfw below the cut :9

he assumes that maybe fucking you rough and hard against the nearest surface would finally make you fall apart just like he always does in your presence.

but it all still remains. that stupid fucking smirk you wear all the time. looking down at him as he’s sent reeling below you, now bouncing on his cock as he’s left gasping at the intensity of your movements. that self-satisfied expression finds its way again to lips that he can’t seem to keep his mind off of.

his broad hands find their way to those curves he curses for plaguing his thoughts when he has work to be doing. but instead of guiding you like he imagined, it seems like he’s rather holding on for dear life, all while your stupid hole squeezes him so tight, shit, shit, shit.

“haitham?” you breathe out, a lilting tone almost too sickly sweet to bear. “what’s the matter?” a particularly harsh grind down on his cock leaves him squirming below you, breath caught in his throat as he chokes out a surprised moan. “too overwhelmed?”

“f-fuck you…” he gasps, feeling his self-control slip just that much more.

“that’s the plan, mr. scribe~”

[squatch-and-stretch]

Reunion V1

Ford Pines & Stan Pines & Fiddleford McGucket | 829 words | Mystery Trio Through the Multiverse AU

A scrapped draft of Stanley and Stanford’s reunion with Fiddleford in the multiverse.

The first chapter of the actual fic available here!

“Ge’down!” a voice shouts, and the sound of a human other than him or his brother is so shocking that he can’t even try to recognize it.

It stuns him so badly that he doesn’t even register the command, not until Stanley is grabbing him by the back of the coat and pulling him down. On instinct, he rolls onto his back to face the threat, and his eyes land on the massive slithering beast just in time to see something— some sort of squat tube with loose wires and four sharp metal legs— latch onto it. It doesn’t flinch even as those legs dig in and hold on tight, its head twisting a full 180 degrees so its blind, gaping maw can shoot out towards them. Faintly, inexplicably, he hears a sharp series of beeps and then—

Stanley shouts out a curse, grabbing Ford by the shoulder and turning him back towards the cave floor, one arm thrown over the back of his head, hand covering his ear. Ford means to shake him off, but before he can—

BOOM.

Even with Stanley’s hand covering one ear and the other buried in his brother’s armpit— gross, he notes distantly— the sound is nearly deafening. Stanley pulls away with another series of curses, this time under his breath, too soft for Ford to catch.

“C’mon, this way, don’ wanna see what that did to the structure of that there cave!” the voice shouts, or, at least, they say something along those lines. It’s still hard to parse, both physically with his ringing ears and mentally with his mind racing with no known destination.

Stanley doesn’t seem to hear it at all, still kneeling on the cave floor. He lifts a hand to his ear and Ford watches as it comes away wet. As soon as Stanley himself seems to notice, he quickly wipes it on his jacket, letting the fluid blend into his stained burgundy jacket.

It’s up to Ford to grab him this time, pulling him to his feet and towards the entrance of the cave. There's a person— or person-shaped being, perhaps, Ford can’t take anything here for granted— silhouetted against the strange light of this unfamiliar dimension as it filters into the cave. They’re tall and wearing a long, tattered coat, and that’s all Ford can make out at this distance. As cautious as he is of the stranger, he can’t deny the logic of their words.

Once Stanley seems to get the point, he pulls away to stand on his own, wobbling slightly. He shakes his head and shoves his hand into his pocket, doubtlessly retrieving the pair of brass knuckles he has stored away there.

As they approach the stranger, a few more features come into relief; light brown hair pulled back into a messy bun, green-tinted goggles with one cracked lens, a scrap of brown cloth wrapped around their neck and brought up over their nose. The long coat, Ford realizes, is a tattered and stained lab coat.

With a jolt, Ford recognizes the hair color, the lanky build, the anxious hunch…

“Son of a gun,” the not-stranger groans, pulling his scarf down to reveal a familiar soft jawline and tight frown.

“Fiddleford,” Ford breathes, hardly believing his eyes. He wants to run up to his partner, pull him into a hug and celebrate the fact that he’s alive, it worked, Ford made it in time, but even Ford can read the way Fiddleford’s tense posture only tightens at the sight of him.

“Stanford,” Fiddleford says in response, “What in tarnation are you doin’ here? And who…”

Fiddleford’s eyes land on Stanley, brows furrowing for just a moment before his eyes widen.

“Stanley,” he concludes. “Hell of a way to mend bridges with your estranged twin brother.”

“I wouldn’t really say those bridges have been mended,” Ford mumbles, and surprisingly, Stanley doesn’t respond.

He hasn’t said anything, actually, in quite some time. He’s still staring at Fiddleford, posture defensive, eyes wary but distant, somehow. Some sort of cloudy liquid has gathered in the low notch of his ear, a few drops making their way down his jaw. As if noticing at the same time as Ford, Stan huffs and tilts his head, lifting a shoulder to wipe the liquid away. His breath hitches as if the movement pains him.

For all his staring, Stanley doesn’t seem to notice. He squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment before opening them again.

“Stanley?” Ford asks, completely distracted by his strange behavior. Stanley doesn’t respond, still watching Fiddleford warily.

“What do you want?” Stanley says, far more loudly than necessary, glaring at Fiddleford.

Fiddleford, for his part, just stares at Stanley in the same way he used to look over Ford’s less-than-legible notes and equations.

“Shoot,” Fiddleford mumbles, lifting a hand to his own ear. “Done ruptured his eardrum, I reckon.”

“I’m fine,” Stanley grumbles, moving to mirror the motion before just letting his arm drop.

[terra-tortoise]

dusthides vs overbite jaw from undel's dragonart evolution

[heayn]

and ANOTHER dead cells dub? you better believe it! this one's from @l0verseyes!

you can find the original here, here and here!

[checkadii]

mfs do anything but finish their wips . like startign another, for example

[13reasonstoeatthatcake]

I really want to know how Lilith Sorrengail feels about trying her best to get her youngest daughter away from whatever it was that her dad supposedly found in the Archives after Brennan 'died', just to get said daughter even more involved with the tyrrish rebellion two: electric boogaloo.

[shepherds-of-haven]

halek is find as he’ll i won’t him 😚😚

[phonkscribes]

Imagine Havik with a passive S/O, and dragging them along for his crusades of madness. He's out there having a blast, and while it's not their cup of tea per say, they're trying to be a supportive S/O anyhow and be besides him. Even if they're not causing enough chaos as they could, he'd find it cute. Aw, look at them go, struggling to crush another man's skull. Out of the way babe, this is how you do it. The gore splashes onto their clothes from, both sides as they smile and give him a thumbs up. In the end, he ends up showing off how brutal he can really be, and for a moment he wonders how someone so passive can tolerate his animosity for order.

Why haven't they run away or deserted him? Rain did after what he'd done in Seido, with Darrius leaving his side only moments ago. He'd wondered for a while if he'd have to go on alone, and so seeing his S/O there amidst the chaos waiting for him there imbues him with a certain vigor. They are the calm to his storm, completing him in a twisted sort of way. Perhaps it is this contrast that has captured him so. It leaves an inkling of conflict on his bloody heart, something he can reflect on in the aftermath as he reunites with them.

[pjowasmy1stfandom]

Okay, I decided last night that I was gonna do Inktober (never done it before, we'll see if I get all of them) so I did a quick sketch before I went to bed. And now I'm posting yesterday's + today's sketch before I have to go to work

My first one is Legend from Linked Universe (a satchel is close enough to a backpack, right??) and today's is kinda Minecraft inspired. I also listened to Home by Livingston on repeat while drawing it

[thalassophiliascripte]

balor/female farmer wip

She glanced at Balor—then back toward the fish.

Then back at Balor—trying to keep it to a quick glance from the corner of her eye—and tried to muster up the courage that had faltered somewhere between her intentions and her vocal cords.

“Is there something you wanted to ask me, Ari?” Balor asked.

She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to duck her head from embarassment or roll her eyes—so she settled for neither, and just glanced around the empty museum wing around them. Each season had a branch off the main hub of the piscine wing—and the winter wing was at the very back, to leave enough space for all the equipment that kept the water cool. If there was anyone else in this part of the museum at the moment, they were so deep into a branch that they wouldn’t be able to hear what was going on among the winter fish.

“Well, I was just thinking—I don’t think you’ve been back to the farm since I settled in,” Aryn mused, trying to keep it casual. Next to her, Balor watched the fish dart through the water in the tank in front of them—the winter cold frosted glass causing his breath to condense on the front of the aquarium. “Would you like to stop by, maybe?”

She glanced at him after making her offer. He didn’t look away from the fish, a cluster of dace sending flickering silver shadows across his face. He’d mostly kept control of his expression, as he worked through whatever answer he’d give her, but there was a slight uneven furrow between his brows—something between a raised eyebrow and a look of concentration.

His fingers tapped against the loose silky fabric of his pants. Balor was twitchy when he got cornered, and Aryn raised a hand to wave off her offer. “If you’re busy with another run into the city—”

“Yeah, sure,” Balor interrupted. “I don’t see why not—I’d like to see what you’ve done with the place. Next Saturday, after the vendors leave from Market Day?”

Her heart had lodged itself between her sternum and collarbones, all tangled up in her lungs. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat as she nodded and agreed weakly. “Oh—alright then. Sounds good.”

[rrredgi]

Haven't used notebooks for a long time since most things I write/draw digitally, but this one is my little work journal :) dotted, came with jayvik zine merch package (first printed zine I participated in!), art by @gvalesdraws 💘 forever love this composition!

[ramblebrambleamble]

You're a braver man than I am yet a coward just the same;

Oh, tell me, when the curtain falls, which one of us they'll blame?

Oh yes, I gave the order; oh yes, the blood is on my hands,

But you, who would refuse me, will be on that witness stand:

Mark my words, my bloody boy, you might have stood aside-

You stood aside and lifted not one finger to save their sorry hides.

It's not enough to drop the knife; you must also wield the shield;

Stand yourself between I and them, and then refuse to yield.

'Twas I who gave the order, yes; 'tis I who'll lose my head,

But you the one who stood and watched as the streets turned crimson red.

Don't play innocent, my boy; you always knew the stakes;

Don't think that merely standing by will be enough to earn escape.

It's do or die, so don't you try to wriggle out of this;

This time you have but two choices to pick out from the list.

There is no middle road. There is no merely standing back.

Either they'll believe that you were with me, or you'll defend from my attack.