#axe anon

[pkmn-smashorpass]

Ok I wanna ask yall what's the most smashable regi bc I'd smash registeel given the chance

-🪓 anon

I love this

[prince-liest]

Idk if you ship Radioapple but I think it would be really funny purely because of Alastor's daddy issues. Like, would it help his daddy issues? Absolutely not. Would it address them? Yeah I could see it lol.

Especially as Alastor sees Lucifer as a sort of "dead beat dad" and the fan theory that Alastor dislikes man who reminds him of his father.

- 🪓 (has that been taken yet?)

I actually don't know much about the meta wrt Alastor and his father (I only recently learned that him being close with his mother is canon per word of god and not, like, popular fanon) but I think I head that most of the assumptions about him having resentful feelings towards his father were extrapolated, so I'm not sure how much of that I'm willing to write into my own headcanons, to be honest!

But also I will totally ship radioapple, haha. I like them as really weird queerplatonic hatefriends. They're so ♣️-coded to me, and poor Charlie is stuck in the middle as their auspistice and also the poor target of their combined attention. I think a lot of Alastor's canon dislike of Lucifer comes from his hackles getting incredibly raised by Charlie calling in someone more powerful and influential than him to judge and possibly help with the hotel, which Alastor sees as his project.

Which is fucking hilarious considering Lucifer is also super fucking insecure about Charlie and Alastor clocks that immediately.

[shepard-ram]

BOO!! Hahaha i havent been here in a while! Its good to be back tho and check things out again. I want you to know you got me into writing, you guys got me going, got me brain rotting. So. Much. Brain rot. OTL. But I love it. And I love you guys for it./p

-Axe 🪓

Thank you so much Axe! It's always nice to see people still interacting with my stuff over here! I can't believe how many people I've seen say they've been inspired by me, it feels unreal <3

As a bit of an update I haven't been watching hermitcraft in a GOOD while so I'm not planning on writing over here for the time being (we'll see how I feel when the next season starts up lol). I'm currently waist deep in a few other fandoms atm (Honkai Star Rail specifically, fell in love with that game) but yeah- I still love y'all and it's great to see people still kicking around

[alastor-roleplay]

Hey Alastor, have you ever heard of the Axe-Man of New Orleans?

"Nope!"

[nobleriver]

TWD: The Ones Who Live - Finale Opening Scene + Blurred/Faraway

Requested by Anonymous

[axolotluv]

Love your under the cult au, it's given me so much brain worms.

Now, I know the end has to be some grand fight that ties the narrative together, and by the power of I guess 6 angry gods, the barrier breaks.

But I raise you an image that has been plauging me, that the group doesn't see Leshy the entire time, until in the middle of the grand confrontation... the barrier just breaks.

Courtesy of a certain chaos worm. No magic ritual can stand to him might.

Just a funny thought I thought I'd share of my fav worm

AHDGJKHKAD THAT'S A HILARIOUS IDEA

You understand the spirit of Under the Cult perfectly, I had to draw this

[hungharrington]

this might sound a bit weird, but personally i find comforting someone and like. boosting their confidence really fucking hot. like i get off to fixing someone’s insecurities

like maybe an insecure steve about how he’s not the same person he was in high school, thinks he’s lost his charm and attractive looks or whatever due to his scars as well as change in body (he’s not 16 anymore, he’s gonna have a bit of pudge)

just like body worship and, in the best way i can describe it, fucking the belief into him that he’s still gorgeous. like lots of praise

hot or not?

HOT !! HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT!! i'm not sure if 'fix' is the right word for it but i am GOBBLING up what you are putting down my god <3 lots of praise is my fuckin JAM MDNI this entire blog is 18+

i actually don't think that steve is overly that insecure, especially to do with his appearance-- most of the insecurities that pop up with him are to do with his abandonment issues :( but that does not mean there aren’t little moments, yknow?

sometimes it’s a comment, sometimes it only takes an old photograph, especially something something from his earlier years when it was just sport after sport after sport— and look, he likes that he's not as lean as he used to be but then, well sometimes old jeans just don’t fit right and his tummy pushes over the waistband and steve doesn’t hate it, he swears he doesn’t, he just spends a couple extra minutes in the mirror.

he thinks you won’t notice— thinks there wouldn’t be any way you would be able to tell and honestly, he thinks he gets away with it- his usual charm gets all the laughs and you seem to be more giving with your kisses tonight, on his neck and cheeks whenever you can, but he doesn’t make the connection at all. but then back at his, when the kisses get more heated and you’re sprawled in his lap, both of you half undressed, steve starts to notice the extra attention. the lingering lovebites on the inner of his thighs, the nuzzling along his happy trail and tummy — these these motions that draw attention to these parts, these fickle little moments of insecurity, all while you douse him in pleasure.

steve doesn’t mean to let you lead, to let himself squirm on the sheets while your hot tongue licks up his cock but you have a determination in you tonight that he’s far too willing to submit to. every moment your lips aren’t stretched around him, not making him cry out and tremble with how good it feels, you’re whispering into his skin— “feeling good, baby?” you murmur sweetly, pulling your mouth off and pumping the length of him in your hand, teasing at the top. steve nods quickly, arching his back as you speed up your hand. you kiss the skin where his thigh meets his pelvis, your free hand soothing up to his tummy.

“mm, good,” you hum, lightly tonguing his vein, as your hand slides back down from his tummy, gripping into the flesh of his thigh. “s’want you to feel good, stevie— want you to feel good always, cos you are. so fucking good and so fucking beautiful, hmm? my beautiful boy.” and god, steve knows what you’re doing now, a loud whimper slipping out his throat at the realisation - that you’d somehow picked up on his own disappointed looks at his appearances and taken them in stride, showing him in a way he’d understand just how easy it was to love all of him.

steve moans loudly, the noise all high pitched and pitiful, his hands pawing at the sheets for one of your hands to hold, that familiar hunger in his gut boiling hotter and hotter— you release your hold on his thigh in an instant to reach out and lace your fingers together, squeezing tight, and when you take him back in your mouth, steve whines again loudly— feeling hot, feeling loved, and the sour thoughts about the extra pudge on his tummy far far from him now <3

[animatedglittergraphics-n-more]

requested by anon

[heartsforhiccup]

I would like to make a request for a girl who likes hiccup and is intense, what would hiccup be like? <<33<333<3<3<33<<33<3<3<333<

sticks and stones pt 1

hiccup x reader

Summary: You've fought dragons, wield the weapon in your hand with calculating precision, stoicism held in your shield over the vibrations of your heart. Your strength proved to be your greatest asset, keen eyes placed on you as the heir of a long-lasting clan of Vikings before you... Yet talking to Hiccup Haddock? That might just be impossible.

word count: 2,698

tags: pre httyd 1, one-sided feelings, aloof reader doesn't know how to express themselves, gender-neutral language, unedited

Sweat dribbled down the curve of your forehead, dipping between the lids of your eyes to be caught between downturned lashes, your squinted gaze held on the wooden staff clutched between your grip. Thoroughly used, lightweight in your calloused palm and splinters running along the natural direction of the wood — compared to the bludgeon of a club, perhaps an axe or mace, you missed the usual weightiness they held in your swings.

It were the weapons that children used; too young to properly use anything but a pocketknife to cut apples, yet eager to imitate and play out scenes of slaying beasts. You, too, participated in them, fleeting moments of your younger childhood. A simpler time, spent sneaking out to the forest to search for bugs hidden under crumpled leaves and frogs by mud puddles. That night, you would come home with dirty boots and the firm lecturing of your mother.

The cool breeze of early dusk brushed past, pushing back strands of untamed hair to expose your forehead. Your lungs heaved in each breath, shoulders pushed back as your spine twisted up, then released with a sigh. Shoulders loosened, you pointed the staff towards the dummy stood before you. It stood limply on a tilted axis, a sack attached to a pole by frayed rope, clearly beaten far beyond its longevity. It was a pitiful sight. The hold on your wooden beam loosened, blood flowing to the tips of your fingers that splotched shades of red.

Your stamina waned, feet sore under firm cobblestone and muscles strained from exertion. The hunched curve of your neck stretched back, chin tilted up at the metal cage that overhung the arena. Past the scent of salt and rotting fish by the docks, thick smoke permeated your lungs still. Remnants of the most recent raid left a few dozen sheep missing from farmers' pens and new buildings destroyed once more. The thrill of battle did nothing to sate bloodlust, nor the satisfaction of bringing pride to your family. It was a chore; it only brought more issues, if anything.

If you were to have a say in the matter, you wished to be the child of a farmer – the only worries you'd have then were the bountiful blessing of the gods, or if your crops had been destroyed during a raid. Descending from a long lineage of Viking warriors that came to settle on the land you stood on, fighting came easy to you. You'd trade it all for the dirt of soil and soot than warm blood cupped in your palms.

No one told you, nor could you recall a time you realized the expectations placed upon your shoulders; an ask from the gods themselves, perhaps, a subconscious acknowledgment you were born with. Discerning eyes watched you closer during training sessions, noticing the occasional slip of your hands and feet, soon refined into more defined movements. You weren't one to concern yourself with pride – Snotlout's obnoxious gloating further pushed you from that mindset – your family was pleased with your current feats, and you were satisfied with that.

With the back of your hand, you wiped away the sweat on your forehead. The peace of the early morning would end soon, pulling itself up from the sea to wake Berk for a new day. Only another hour until you'd be called to the Great Hall for first breakfast, you guessed.

Your stomach held water and still air, your lips dry. Saliva bubbles up from the back of your throat and coated the inside of your mouth, eating now sounded sickly; you learned from experience it'd leave you more nauseous than to not eat at all. It was a bad habit easy to fall into, a Viking could only last as full as their stomachs were.

Your head craned back towards the bunch of weapons and chipped shields thrown haphazardly into a storage compartment; next to it was your lance. The tip of the blade looked stunted, dull metal that struggled to poke through the muscled flesh of a chunk of meat. The blade had been a gift from your father, once belonging to him, then unto you.

The lance compared to axes or pattern-welded swords was an unconventional choice. Something blunt worked best against dragons; if screaming at it failed, the next course of action would be to smack it on the head until it was dazed. You found comfort in the precision it took to wield a spear; thin and long to keep your distance, much heavier than the wooden pole in your slipping fingers. Being light on your feet made it easier to run away.

Your eyes bored at the lance for a long while, contemplating. Gobber could fix it up in a matter of minutes for you. Your thoughts settled - the pole hit the ground with a hollow clatter as you strode towards the open gates, exchanging it for your lance with a slip of the hand.

...

The forge worked as a well-oiled machine, the firepot sputtering to life in the early hours of the morning, burning off coal till the late hours. Smoke steadily poured from the chimney when you approached, delicately shaped and carved into dragon-esque features. It was one of the few standing buildings that remained untouched from weekly raids, the long-standing wooden structure beginning to rot, burnt shingles lining the rooftop.

Your head dipped out of the way of axes suspended in the air, carefully weaving past barrels of scrap metals and logs of wood laid by the kiln. Swords laid across the wide workbench, partially concealing parchment and smudged lines of charcoal, while the more refined weapons were presented delicately on the wall. The flame flickered and sputtered, warm light cast muted glows and blurred shadows, brushing against your cheek in a featherlight kiss.

The going fire told you that the forge was open for business; the longer you waited, the more you fidgeted in place. With the tip of your blade held to the ground, you stepped further into the smithy.

What you weren't expecting was Hiccup to come out from the back.

Your feet stood in place as if you were stuck in a thick tar, lips parting in a wordless request for what you came here for, unable to force it any further up your throat.

His hands finished tying the knot to hold his smock in place, coming to rest awkwardly at his hips. "Oh, uh, hey."

He sounded defeated, almost, exhaustion clear in the heavy bags beneath his rounded eyes, which only appeared more pronounced in the shadows cast by the roaring fire. He scruffed the back of his head, messing up unruly strands of hair as he tilted his head to your spear. "You want that fixed?"

Your brows furrowed - was the disrepair state of the blade that obvious? He must've sharpened a thousand weapons and then some. You could only nod, presenting it to him with an awkward weight in your palms. "The blade... It's been dulling for a while, now."

"Right." He stepped towards you, not enough to bear too close to your personal bubble, taking it from your grasp and towards the grindstone in purposeful movements.

He hoisted the steel of the blade to the coarse curve of the stone, leaning his weight onto the plank, watching in rapt fascination as the gentle grate of metal on rock stung your ears. He adjusted the angle occasionally, sparks of friction sputtering out, slowing the speed of the wheel as he reached the delicate tip of the metal.

The deft movements of his dirtied hands and precision that felt out of place yet entirely his own, assured confidence in his actions without his usual bumbling clumsiness. You couldn't help but stare.

You nearly jumped when his neck turned to you. "You want a sharper tip for piercing, right?" When you nodded, he turned back, shoulder blades shifting under his tunic as he hunched further. "You'll, uh, want to oil it every use so it doesn't dull too quickly."

You knew that. The way he said it made it sound much smarter than basic sense. You allowed yourself to loiter, the mess of the forge visual noise to your flooded senses. There was a curtain tucked further in, drawn out loosely to hide whatever laid behind it from the public eye. It wasn't long until you grew bored, lingering in Hiccup's vicinity, where he now swiped the base of the newly-honed blade with a cloth.

"Here," he offered it back to you, almost sheepish as he presented the faint gleam of metal reflecting off the flame. "Should be good as new."

You took it a beat after, scrutinizing the remnants of superficial cuts and indents permanently etched into the quality mineral. He did a great job, it was as good as new.

"...Thanks," you muttered, settling it on the wooden end to not damage the tip. You owed him more than a thanks, really. He exhaled slightly in reaction, shrugging a shoulder to say it wasn't a big deal.

You flickered between him, the blade, and something right past him that piqued your curiosity.

"What is that?" you asked with a tilt of the head, your voice sharper than you intended. Your throat tightens, wanting to correct yourself so the vowels come out softer, but nothing comes out to fill the lapse in conversation. Wordlessly, you swallow down the lump, staring at the device to avoid his gaze.

His head jerkily shot up, flitting from you and the contraption, side-stepping in a poor attempt to conceal it behind his scrawny frame. "This? Oh, it's- it's nothing."

You squinted. "It doesn't look like nothing."

You wondered what his project would be this time around. It was clearly much more elaborate than his previous, resembling what you could only guess to be a canon. The wheels looked to be recycled shields, a detail that charmed you greatly. Mismatched scraps of metal and wood hammered together by his experienced hands, built into a device of complex machinery to your untrained eyes.

"Just something I've been working on," he muttered, stepping away for you to get a better look. His hands flung out in a gesture towards it flimsily, lacking the bravo you'd expect. "I call it 'The Mangler'. Uh, pending title."

The name was suitable for... whatever it was meant to be. Very Hiccup. Having more of Hiccup was a good thing, in your eyes.

Forging weapons was just as valuable as being in the fight yourself, not unless everyone resorted to using their bare fists instead - which there were a few. He held more skill than you ever could; Vikings destroyed things in their grasp while he created them. Maybe that was why the sight left you in such awe. Praise for him threatened to slip past your tongue, the words founded and lost the second you hesitated.

"I see," you mused, taking a step forward. You pause when he steps back in return, but you push through, delicately brushing your fingers along the grooves of the wood. You'd hate to break his work if you weren't careful, something he must've spent weeks on. "Does it work?"

His foot twisted with brimming nervous energy, lips pursed into a thin line. "Define 'work'."

Unsure of how to respond, you chose to say nothing at all, carefully observing the details you couldn't see from a mere glance.

Ingenuity was more of his strong suit than the traditional way of doing things, which you appreciated more than any axe-swinging Viking running around like a fool. It was a selfish way of thinking, to say that you enjoyed his odd quirks and skills, because you didn't have the entire village breathing down your neck for being the Chief's son.

Clans of higher status like yours were held close to the Chief's lineage, the strongest assets to the Hooligan tribe. You had a superficial relationship with each of the clans' children back then, when you couldn't so much as hold a battleaxe or fit into your boots proper, including the sheepish boy before you. A boy you used to hunt for trolls with, sneaking off into the Great Hall in search of the bread on people's plates.

The situation came a surprise to you, a rare moment of interaction after who knows how long. Memories of years ago were useless now, a shared history but nothing to show for it. You'd heard of his feats, the news of a recent catastrophic event of his doing circulating around town faster than you could blink, followed by disappointed sighs and the lighthearted jab at his character. You wished they and the gods be kinder to him, any sign that his efforts proved to be fruitful.

The acrid stench of smoke and slowly dying charcoal filled your senses in a thick fog, pulse stuttering in conjunction with each sputter and sudden spark of the kiln. The scent in your nose reminded you of where he spent all his hours, tucked away from the outside world with many sleepless nights. Reluctantly, you turned to meet his gaze, dull green irises reflecting the warmth of the flame and softly outlining the curve of his jaw. The Mangler was much easier to look at than him.

Surely it wasn't that hot to justify the rush that bloomed across the round of your cheeks; you couldn't make sense of it. Your lips twitched sourly before your reflexes could school your expression, turning your head suddenly to study the intrigue of a pebble on the ground. No matter how hard you clenched your fist around the familiar polearm, the direction of blood travelled further until it spread down the hairs of your neck.

"I can show you, if you want?" he stuttered out, the sound you likened to the honk of a goose. It only made that feeling worse. "You might wanna, uh, step back."

He made a shooing motion with his hand, hurriedly shuffling towards it. You smothered the tightness in your chest for the lingering curiosity from earlier. His expression was knitted firmly, anxiety for approval clear as he fumbled around with the hinge and latch, revealing two crossbows attached to the base of the canon with a mechanical click.

It was more impressive than the outside led you to believe, you'd never seen anything quite like it. He was impressive.

"You built all of this?"

He nodded, as if uncertain in his answer. "It's still a prototype, I don't even know if it works-..."

You were about to interject when he attempted to lean on it, sounding off rhythmic clicks followed by the sudden blast of the bolas spinning across the air, gusting right past your cheek. Metal clashed together, dwindling into rattling scrap parts that tumbled to the ground. When you managed to collect your senses, mirth bubbled up to the surface of your chest as you stood in the midst of the chaos.

He muttered something under his breath. "That answers that, I guess."

"You'll figure it out," you offered, only to bite your lip right after. How come everything you said came out wrong? You forced yourself to stay put, anchoring the distilled energy that ran through your spine to the weight of the polearm. "It's better than your previous ones... Keep it up."

You would offer up your help, but you doubt you'd be of much use to him. Hand over tools when asked, or clean the utter mess that was the smithy. No real reason to linger any longer, you reminded yourself. That is, unless, he'd want you to stay...

He blinked at you with an odd look, an expression unable to discern. "Uh, thanks? I think."

"Yeah," you mumbled. "You'll injure someone if you don't fix it."

Hiccup had a habit of doing that, doing more harm than good, no matter how innocent his intentions stood. Of course, he was still the son of the Chief; stubborn to the boot, unwilling to listen. His recklessness should've annoyed you, but one look at him - scrawny and fidgety - had your stomach feeling weightless.

A subdued laugh left him, the sound lacked any real amusement. "Noted."

[pkmn-smashorpass]

SPEAK 👏🏻 YOUR 👏🏻 TRUTH 👏🏻

[kyodelika]

todays robbie: going to the movies

[stimboard-radio]

Boy Jerry stimboard

✭ with related stims

✫ RQ'd by anon!

+ | + | +

+ | - | +

+ | + | +

[scalproie]

About details in tfone:

- the High Guard all being flight alt modes is an allusion to G1, but I like to think In-universe it's bc it's the most practical army to have. During the war, they fight the Quintessons on the surface, which is constantly changing — it'd be very dangerous for a Ground type but a flight alt mode can go anywhere. It's probably also why Soundwave and Shockwave has flight alt modes.

- Megatron was crying after his fight witb Optimus.

- Megatron sheathed his weapons and didn't use any of them agains Bee and Elita — instead opting to fight them hand-to-hand. It's interesting because when he fights Optimus he uses every firepower he could.

- Soundwave transforms via a front flip, Shockwave through a cannonball jump, while Starscream twists.

- Optimus didn't use any of his own offensive power against the SSS — instead using friendly fire. However, despite the SSS's firepower not exactly being weak, none of the attacks hurt the other or themselves — it seems another thing on what makes the SSS dangerous is that they're very durable.

- the High Guard are all bigger than the average mech. Cogged Orion w no Matrix is presumably, the height of an average mech, Cogged D-16 is still slightly bigger - but even then, Starscream is STILL taller.

- Skyfire is mentioned in the race and you can see him in the tunnel scene — his design looks like it uses the default Jet mode like Darkwing instead of his default shuttle design.

- Bee ignored D-16 and Orion at first despite them making a loud commotion, and after angrily rambling at them then saying "You're real!" implies Bee gets hallucinations a lot.

- Starscream's voice becomes much calmer when he recounts the High Guard's experience

OH HELL YEAH INTERESTING STUFF THANK YOU

[nightwonder7]

Idv characters r always great in ur art style, bro is always serving us GOOD!!

Oh gosh thank you so much for your kind words!! 0////////0 Honestly having a lot of fun drawing these characters ^w^ they are all so very interesting! Here's a sketch of some characters suggested by some cool people over on Discord :3

[arkarti]

So curious as to how your afton would look completely bloodlust, holding an axe in his jumpsuit.. 👉👈

yooooo! 👀 I am in fact already drawing a lil doodle page featuring him in his lil jumpsuit and hobby 😳

[axolotluv]

I absolutely adore your lil plastic guy!! 100% would adopt that lil guy

THANK YOUU!!