#but I guess that's what scribbles are

[asheanon]

The very rough, wacky tobacky Sal scribble was requested and so, here it is! 🕺

Lose an arm? No problem. Just grow another one! #EtherealLife

[xxplastic-cubexx]

personal happiness or what the fuck ever

bonus:

[g1ngerbeer]

hey percy anon the second if youre still out there. ik that ask has been languishing in my inbox for a while. but heres a gift i guess

i stopped putting effort into this halfway through but i think its an alright edit if you dont look too closely. cheers. bybye

[astrobreaks]

wanted to do draw something quick to cheer my beloved a little bit during a rough time..

[the-judicial-assistants-notebook]

Bonus [MASSIVE spoilers under the cut]:

[synthwayve]

Sometimes I think about how nobody says Micolash’s name out loud in game

[rugwurm]

in which dima visits the beletskys apartment

[son1c]

a scene from my fanfic: roller coaster escape!!!!

[humming-fly]

Happy to report I have finally started listening to Malevolent and to no one's surprise I am already obsessed (I'm almost done with s2 atm please don't send me spoilers yet sdlkfj)

I'll skip over my usual formality of having one normal art post before diving into shitposts let's not waste anyone's time here

[icewindandboringhorror]

Pages from trying to keep a little sketchbook-scrapbook type thing going for two weeks lol. I gave myself specific rules in hopes they might all end up more cohesive/consistent seeming, but alas, scribbly chaos reigns, it seems

[rillils]

🌸 pre-war stucky + discovery

Steve’s knife glides cleanly under the apple’s butter-yellow skin, the peel pooling over the plate in one long, looping ribbon. And Bucky watches, enraptured.

All his life, he’d thought that art was the kind of thing that occurred inside Steve’s sketchbooks; that it was about color, about shading and light, and the twists and pitfalls of anatomy that’ll make Steve cuss under his breath in frustration. He never once figured that art could be happening in their kitchen, at their table, in the naked heart-shape of an apple cupped in Steve’s palm.

But there’s something like grace in the work of Steve’s hands; a deliberate focus in his eyes as he cuts the apple in halves and then in quarters, and a drop of juice trickles slowly down the inside of his pale wrist, catching Bucky’s eye.

Steve always did have delicate wrists, Bucky considers – slender and agile like the rest of him, two columns of milky white shot with the green web of his veins.

The thought brushes against Bucky’s mind, soft as anything. That his fingers could curl around one of those wrists, and likely wrap all the way around it, sweet and whole like an embrace. It’d fit so perfectly, cradled in the palm of his hand. Then he could feel the jut of Steve’s wrist bone, and the quick flutter of Steve’s pulse under the pad of his thumb if he chose to stroke him there, over that silky smooth skin, and he’d have the measure of Steve’s heartbeat, stuttering secrets under his touch.

It’s–

Odd. He never. He never knew.

But it must be true. Something inside him knows it, something–

“... wan’ some?”

Bucky’s gaze follows the silver glint of the knife, his lips parting, entranced, while Steve cuts himself a slice of apple with effortless grace, and holds it against the flat of the blade to bring it to his mouth. His soft, rosy mouth. How does he know it would be soft? But he knows – it’s written in the flush-pink plumpness of Steve’s lip.

The tip of Steve’s tongue peeks out, a darker shade of pink, wet and glistening, and Steve slips the apple slice inside – the crisp flesh of it leaving a touch of moisture across his bottom lip. Steve catches it with a sweep of his tongue, lapping it off in one swift motion; and Bucky swallows, wide-eyed and eager, chasing the phantom taste of apple against the roof of his own mouth.

“Buck?”

Steve’s voice shakes him out of his reverie, and his gaze snaps up to find that Steve is looking right at him.

Steve is–

Steve’s eyes are blue. Bucky has always known that, in the same, absent-minded way as he knew that water is wet, that day follows night, that fire will burn you if you put your fingers to the flame. But today, suddenly,

Steve’s eyes are blue.

And Bucky stares back at him dumbly, breath locked in his throat for an endless moment, as he sees that piercing blue for the first time in his whole life, and is shaken to his core by the sight of it.

“Wuh– what?”

“I said,” Steve begins, hiding his chewing mouth with the back of his wrist, “you want some?”

He offers a piece of fruit to Bucky, a fat wedge of apple held in those long, nimble fingers of his. His fingertips are the same soft pink as his lips, Bucky notices. And he imagines, in a fevered flash, letting Steve feed him with that same hand, and brushing the seam of his own lips against those fingertips as he takes the first bite, and flicking the tip of his tongue out to lick the juice straight from Steve’s skin.

“Uh, um– yeah,” he stammers, reaching gingerly for the offered fruit. The glimpsing touch of Steve’s fingers against his feels every bit like electricity, a zing running up Bucky’s arm, half pleasure and half the terrifying thrill of the unknown. “Sure, thanks.”

Steve pauses to watch him curiously, jaw working on the last of his morsel, his pretty – pretty! – eyes filled with a fond sort of amusement as they rake over Bucky’s suddenly shy frame.

“What’s gotten into you today?”

Steve’s grin is a brilliant thing: sweet and playful, the bow of his mouth crooked up in one corner, more charming than Steve himself could ever guess – and that light sheen of apple sugariness, still shimmering full on his lips like a kiss.

And Bucky wonders, as he ducks his head and bites into his own apple slice, what else he has been missing all these years. How much more he has failed to see, though it was right there under his nose all along.

What lovely secrets lie in the narrow set of Steve’s shoulders, left bare in only his undershirt, here, at home, in the privacy of their little kitchen.

If Steve’s collarbones always looked just like this: carved out of stone by some tender hand, smooth like polished marble. Too holy to touch, and yet too tempting not to kiss with an unholy mouth.

He steals a glance at Steve’s face, and tries to mirror the shape of his grin as best as he can.

“You know me,” he shrugs, waving his hand about, “just got my head up in the clouds, is all.”

But when he takes his next bite, it’s the salt of Steve’s fingertips that he tastes, not the sweet tartness of the apple; and the wonder of it lingers for hours under his tongue, like a question just waiting to be asked.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

"I think this is the most inhuman; and human, that I've ever felt.." MUCH CAN HAPPEN IN A YEAR. IN FIVE YEARS. A DECADE. imagine how much can happen in a century. just ONE (1). How will you grow? what phases do you find? even in 5 years, you will find patterns.

[jadecantcreate]

in the whitchlite carinval. straight up “caking it.” and by “it”, haha, well. lets justr say. My chad

(some gideon exploration & little doodles)

[lukazade]

I saw this super goofy looking whiskey glass and decided I needed Jason to give it to Harvey as a joke (Harvey thinks it's dumb, but he does take it out sometimes to use when he's having a rough one.)

[lab-gr0wn-lambs]

It doesn't sit right that Daryl is old enough to be Jigen's dad.

[fairysylveon]

idk how lighting works in xna so whatever

anyway these bitches gay, good for them