#drawing is so hard rn so this is the best this is getting

[sad-leon]

"i dont hate you"

how long could they argue without thinking they're hated by each other. how long until they can't take it anymore

[xxplastic-cubexx]

had a wanda in my game ask me how to effectively use meteor m like my beautiful daughter i havent the slightest clue. also round starts in five seconds.

[lemongogo]

need 2 find myself again in 2025 . tbhwu

[cepheusgalaxy]

@clickerflight @whump-art-exchange

Image ID: An ink drawing of Kolt, naked, from the whump series Fallen. He is bruised and looks away as the chain attached to his collar is tugged. He is inside what appears to be a cell, with multiple eyes on the walls watching him intensely. /end ID.

Ok, so, I tried to do this like two times and it took me a while to lay the sketch. I had an idea for what to do--i went to give the series a shot, once i noticed this buddy here is a part of one so i could get better context--and so the idea i had was for making something from his villain days! It appears that Kolt as a villain was very intriguing (at least for me) but I couldn't make a sketch I was satisfied with, so I decided to go more whumpy! I remember a part where Kolt is in his recovery and he remembers when multiple people were watching and mocking him....couldn't get this over my head. Overall, I haven't finished it yet, but Fallen is a great series! They write it so well!

Art taglist:

@for-the-love-of-angst

[cappurrccino]

i was gonna say "i shouldn't have to go to work when my brain feels like a depression slushie" and then i was like "wait but then i'd basically never ever go to work" and i'm actually doubling down on the first part now bc my god how am i supposed to heal my brain from burning out 5 years ago if i can never get an actual break

[solace-seekers]

screaming into the void <3

[zellkabellk]

Nowadays trying really fucking hard to teach to my brain that it's okay and better to "just do 10 min of this task" even if it means leaving it unfinished (but further along than before!) rather than not doing it "because when I do it I should do it all" Because jfc I can't keep leaving my house in states where I need to do 30+ minutes of dishes instead of just... doing a little everyday and at least it remains a manageable amount in the sink even if it's not always emptied...

[godlygivenanxiety]

not all of you (AKA, not a single soul probably) will see The Vision but i'm gonna be so real rn: chillin' like a villain from descendants but it's mark and amanda teaching adam how to be an evil jigsaw apprentice *mic drops*

[arolesbianism]

Doodle of my boy

[flufflecat]

Teaching myself to whittle!

[disposal-blueeee]

gay gay homosexual gay

[vengeful4ever]

I wish art was effortless

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

WHAT DA HECKKKK MAC!!! UR A BIRTHDAY GUY!!!! HOLY SHIT. OLD!!! time 2 put u in a retirement home!!!! IT'S UR DAY OF BIRTH I AM THROWING U A PARTY RN 🎉🥳🎉 TIME 2 HIT THE PINATA 🪄 🪅 CANDY!! 🍭 🍬 🍫 TIME 4 PRESENTS 🎁🎁🎁 CAKE TIME 🧁 BIRTHDAY BOY GETS A CROWN 👑 BLOW OUT THE CANDLES 🧨🧨🧨 <<couldn't find any candles so i got these weird red sticks instead!! i think they're sparklers!! :3

oh fuck i love sparklers-!

[annieminx]

finally back from the grave and it's all thanks to all of my babies getting their new outfits

[mnty-bubblegmyum]

I wanna kiss the scars on polina

[pricegouge]

price x pregnant!f!reader meetcute drabble i whipped up on my lunch dedicated entirely to the girl at work who's too heavily pregnant to fit her scrubs rn. john price would love you, girl, keep your chin up

The worst part wasn't actually the discomfort of the papery material, nor the cheap elastic waistline which dug into your plush sides and itched like a sonofabitch. It wasn't even the embarrassment of having to track down your lead at the start of your shift and shamefacedly admit that you could no longer fit into your designated scrub pants and ask if he could maybe please find some spares somewhere? (He couldn't, because apparently no one on the team before you had ever fallen ill with a baby in the belly or even just gained a little weight.)

No, the worst part was the noise.

It hadn't been something you'd even considered until you were already barging into your first patient's room, swishing away with each step. Mr. Jeffreys had grumbled in his sleep, eye peeking open just as you'd leaned over him to start your morning check. Enough ruckus, woman. You'd thought he was just being irritable, a common enough occurrence, but then it happened again and again, each new room bringing another grumpy occupant, displeased about being woken up so far ahead of breakfast. Still, you almost preferred that to the early risers, the old biddies who would turn to greet you, already alert, take one look at you with your swollen belly overhanging the thin paper pants they'd made you wear over your reliable leggings, and start cackling loud enough to draw attention from the other orderlies. 

You weren't the first pregnant woman to outgrow her pants, but you were perhaps among the first to have done so in a professional setting. 

At least it got easier the more the day dragged on, quippy remarks coming more naturally to you the more you had them levelled at you in kind. You'd even let a little boy doodle on your shin, an attempt to keep his mind of his mother groaning in pain, attempting to work through a kidney stone. You're fairly sure you're rocking an Incredible Hulk there now, but it was a bit hard to tell with the way the magic markers had bled across the tyvek weave. 

"Missed your calling." 

You frown down at the man before you, thick brows only slightly pinched despite the way you knew his shoulder must be killing him. GSW. Didn't get many of them 'round here, but you'd seen enough hunting accidents to figure out the good stuff didn't always cut it. And this didn't seem like your average misfire, or pulled-shot graze. He'd been the talk of the nurses station when the call had come through to prep for him, bullet taken straight on, center mass. He wasn't from here, didn't seem to know anyone from here. No one believed it was a simple hunting accident, but the authorities had come and gone, sent skittering by a rather severe woman yielding a badge no one had gotten a good look at. No arrests, minimal testimonies. Rumors had sprouted roots, grew too tall too quickly to be believable. You'd heard everything from a jilted lover to some sort of military coup, but you hadn't placed much stock in anything other than the three letters which had remained unchanged on his chart since the moment he'd been admitted, and then later the surgeon's notes.

GSW. Successful operation.

That had only been two days ago. You'd been in his room once before, set about the same task. He'd been fast asleep, the handsome man who's been visiting offering charming but ultimately short conversation. It hadn't bothered you as you'd been in a rush, and you'd known full well the stress loved ones usually felt, trying to ensure the best possible rest for their injured loved ones. 

He had no guard dog today, no one to send you packing when your putzing made too much noise. And now you've woken him, poor man.

"Pardon?" 

Blue eyes blink open, cloudy with pain and the influence of strong meds but surprisingly alert. They flick down to your leg, shoulders tensing a bit as he lifts his head to see properly. "Pretty tree you've made there." 

You can't help but laugh. "Seems I'm right where I should be, then, seeing as that's supposed to be the Hulk. I think," you add once you've earned a smirk.

"Can't even remember what it is you've drawn? You the reason I can't find a comfortable position? Been stealing my morphine?"

"I wish," you sigh, pat your belly dramatically. "But they say it's bad for baby."

His brows lift into his hairline, pain momentarily forgotten as he looks you over again, as if seeing you for the first time. You realize pretty quickly that he's one of those people, the crinkling around his eyes revealing him as the type. It's one of the weirdest parts of being pregnant, the strangers who look at you with awe, as if you've hung the moon. You try not to think too much of it, don't like imagining couples who've tried for years when all you've managed to do was slip up your birth control one time, like a fool. This man isn't wearing a ring, but that doesn't mean much. Most women who carry on after you are single, too. At least he's not trying to touch your belly.

"Is that why you're half way to a paper gown? Come wandering from maternity?"

"Har, har," you deadpan, waving your stethoscope at him although you know full well he's seen it - hard to miss, resting atop your swollen tits. "No, I've simply grown too fat for my scrubs. And I think my lead's having too much fun embarrassing me about it."

He frowns, somehow vaguely patronizing even while heavily medicated. "No spares for someone in your condition?"

"Nope! Apparently I'm lucky enough to be the only fertile little heifer ever on the team," you snark, and then squint at his monitor when his pulse spikes unexpectedly. 

"Sorry," he mumbles - odd - and when you check, you notice some color to his ears. He clears his throat to distract you from fretting, though the softness is gone from his eyes again, replaced by an implacable type of tension. "Perhaps they're simply not used to expectant mothers working so late into their term?" 

Ah. At last, the well-meaning concern. It grates at you worse than usual, the ease and simplicity (albeit annoyance) of your silly morning falling apart in seconds. Perhaps it's that, the whiplash, that has you huffing irritably, mood plummeting. "Well. Someone's got a pay my bills," you gripe, snapping the claw of his clipboard just to work out some aggression. Maybe it's the hormones.

There's a huff of breath, almost as animated as yours. When you look to make sure he's not aspirating or something, your new friend's absurd mustache is twitching. "Well. That's what Mr. Pretty Nurse is for, no?" 

The phrasing makes you smile, hands gentling as you busy yourself with his monitor. This is familiar ground, at least, a path well-tread which you'd like navigating with a conversational partner who would call you Ms. Pretty Nurse. "Sure," you concede, tapping away at his station to check the trend of his vitals. Steady, even. All night. Like he was practiced at taking bullets. "You ever see him, you tell him he owes me a back log of bills, alright?" In truth, your 'mister' never was a mister, just some guy you'd been trying to blow off steam with. He'd cut and run the second you'd brought up the pregnancy, but you'd decided to keep it after some thought and had never followed up with him, deciding it ultimately was no longer his concern. You harbored no ill will, really, but the dead beat dad was a common schtick, an easy conversational piece when simply shooting the shit with talkative patients. If the worst part about pregnancy was the noisy pants (and the morning sickness, and the belly hair, and the leaky nipples and the -) then the best part was surely the built-in small talk.

"Be sure to let him know," chops murmurs, voice tight. You check his file again, correct your mental dub with his real name, John Price. Traditional, like the neat beard hiding the growing color in his cheeks. When he speaks again, his voice is slightly rougher. "Who did that, then?" 

You think he's pointing to your belly, far too forward, but when you check you see his finger aims lower, towards the art that started this conversation. "Kid over in pre-op. Was upset watching his mom writhing around. Passing a stone," you supply with an exaggerated whisper, as if telling him some scandalous secret.

John grins, soft again. "You'll be good at it, then."

"Pardon?" you ask absently, watching as his heartbeat seems to flutter weakly. 

"Said 'too round for scrubs,'" he chuckles. "Good job, mama."

You scoff, scandalized, but when you turn to him you find he's got that far off look in his eye, a sharp contrast to the lucidity of his speech. That does it. You tut, leaning over him to check his forehead with the back of your hand. And outdated practice, sure, but still useful in a pinch. He doesn't feel overly warm, but his focus has slipped back into that slight haziness, blissed out and vaguely absent, staring a good half a foot below your eyes.

"Mr. Price -," you start but he interjects.

"Just John, love."

"Sure. John. Are you feeling okay?" 

Eyes crinkling again, he gives you an unbearably soft smile, at odds with everything you've managed to glean from his chart. "Never better, doll."

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