#i'm actually kind of proud

[chalkrub]

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waow 2024 is almost dead!!! gone too soon. feels like it’s been a big year for me art-wise for many reasons, BUT. i’m making 2025 bigger.... hopefully....i’ve made some art goals for next year which i won’t explain in detail but they boil down to 1) do more studies 2) tackle my weaknesses (backgrounds, dynamic poses/angles, uhhh lots of stuff i am a one trick pony right now) 3) get into drawing comics, all of which are in preparation for 4) take my story ideas more seriously and get started on one of the many graphic novels living in my head. i have one in mind i HAVE to complete in my lifetime or i will die, but firstly i’m gonna mess around with some little standalone svanhildr comics perhaps. goat fans rejoice. 

anyway i wasn’t meant to ramble so i’ll just say THANK YOU for the support as always!!! i’m very flattered all of these have more than 1000 notes.....crazy. thank you. muah

[nekrosmos]

Oh I'm getting NikPrice thoughts with Price being trans.

Price who transitioned early and was lucky enough to easily pass. He's tall, jaw sharp, voice deep, grew facial hair pretty quickly. It was his well-kept secret, and that was it.

And then came Nikolai. Older, smart, handsome Nikolai, who looked at Price like he was the most beautiful thing in the entire world, who stayed by John's side whenever he needed him, whose attraction to him was barely concealed. John never allowed himself to reciprocate those feelings, even if deep down he shared them. He couldn't, he didn't want him, of all people, to know.

Years, decades of this. They aged together, still alive despite everything, and the regrets grew more and more unbearable. Even then, all these years later, Nikolai still looked at John the same way, dark eyes staring lovingly at him when he thought John wasn't paying attention, a deep sadness hidden behind his gentle smile.

Even someone as stubborn as John cracks eventually, and he does, one day, late at night, after sharing a few drinks with Nik in his Black Hawke. Nik stares at him for what seems like an eternity, searching for approval in John's blue eyes, his face slowly approaching his after obtaining it, and their lips finally meet, barely touching at first, both of them shy, uncertain, the moment suspended in time, but eventually closing the gap, a gentle kiss saying more than either of them could at the moment.

It takes them a while, then, to break the silence that follows. John's hands are tightly gripping the fabric of his pants around the knees, fingers digging into them as he looks down, while Nikolai stares at him, trying to understand.

When he asks him if everything is okay, it takes everything in John to not run away. He doesn't, instead taking a long, deep breath, and starts talking.

Once done, he just looks at the floor, feeling numb, a two decade old anxiety replaced by a feeling of emptiness, almost at peace with what is to come, like a soldier accepting his death.

"I know." Is all Nikolai answers, his fingers tentatively brushing against John's, dark eyes staring at his worried face in the dark.

"You do?" Price's voice is quiet, broken, his eyes meeting Nik's, searching for an answer. The gentleness on Nikolai's face is almost enough to break him, here and there.

"I saw the scars, a long time ago. I'm sorry, John."

There is a lot Price needs to think about, a lot he wants to say, a lot he wants to do. He smiles weakly, opening his hands and letting Nik intertwine his fingers with his, the warmth of his skin almost feeling like another kiss. This time, he's the one leaning forward and placing his lips against Nik's, the Russian accepting it, a gentle hand leaving his and letting his fingers brush against Price's beard.

The two men will have a lot to talk about, eventually. For now, however, all they can do is start making up for lost time in the safety of Nikolai's helicopter.

[copper-skulls]

a secret santa gift for @jekkiefan 💚 the boys, soft and cozy with some tea

[iamfuckingsorry]

"Do you know where we are going next?" I asked ART.

Y'know what, I think maybe I don't need any more Murderbot books. I think maybe ending things here is fucking perfect and as much as I love Wells's writing I'm genuinely not sure it can get better for me.

Like, so much of the books are about MB learning how to be a person, about becoming okay with being a complete individual with everything it entails. The first thing it does once it's actually allowed to decide on its own is it runs away from it all (admittedly to go on a mission to confirm some things about its past, because it genuinely just wants to be *good*). It shoves all its emotions away as much as it's able to. Then shit happens, and it makes its first friends, makes decisions based on these friendships, goes through a lot of emotionally intense situations...

And we get to this point here. MB having zero doubts about going with ART says a lot about its relationship with ART, but it also says a lot about its relationship with its humans - it knows that wherever it goes, when it comes back, the humans will still be there. Its humans actively acknowledge its struggles with being a now-free SecUnit and MB is willing to entertain the discussions to an extent and share information about its deeply personal experiences. Hell, System Collapse ends with MB admitting it might be somewhat broken, but that's okay as long as it can keep doing its job, and agreeing to basically do counselling - this is the guy what would rewatch its favourite TV show again and again in order to avoid acknowledging it even had Emotions a couple books back.

Reading this, I know that MB will be okay. It has hopes and goals and genuinely believes in itself and it has an amazing support system that its willing to lean on for the first time in its life. I'm convinced it'll go on to do great things with ART. And that's really the only thing I need to know.

[loverboybrightsideghost]

one of my favorite clark headcanons that i have (that is completely unsupported by canon) is that he's transgender by kryptonian standards. martha and jon kent raised him as a boy and as he grew up he never had any reason to doubt it at all, he was like yeah i'm a boy, makes sense. and then he gets to the fortress of solitude for the first time and it turns out how Gender works on krypton was just Different enough that clark doesn't really fit the kryptonian standards of whatever he was supposed to be. bonus points because this makes him feel like even more of an outsider as a kryptonian, even if he's the last one left.

[lixenn]

OCtober 2024 day 18: Swap

Swapping Dan and Dave's sense of style 🫡 Have a Chief that actually puts an effort in his appearance.

Btw I also swapped the tattoo placement, the vine is actually on his foot (at least I have it there for now I might change placement in the future, Dan's ink isn't fully established yet) but for this design I wanted it somewhere visible. It's supposed to imitate a choker like thing that I was too lazy to draw lmao. Otherwise his hair is actually supposed to be black with purple highlights but it kinda... turned fully purple in my rendering so he just went full on Dave 👍

[realest-nilou-kinnie]

and while i'm on the subject, Leona is actually NOT lazy or arrogant or selfish at all but some of yall are not ready for that conversation lol

[krscblw]

i finally finished the blanket i crocheted for my cat!! will he use it? probably not. but i am excited nonetheless

[cowabungacarl420]

just a boy hangin out with his cat

[lord-squiggletits]

Y'know another point on the "Pharma isn't a Functionist" scoreboard (not that I haven't thoroughly debunked that by now but whatever) is that a preoccupation with hands isn't something unique to him.

The entire practice of empurata involves removing a mech's face and replacing their hands with claws, so literally Cybertronian society has always had a sort of judgement/taboo around hands (skillful forged hands, dirty/criminal claws). Even if Pharma were actually obsessed with his hands which he has a right to bc they're part of his body and belong to him so it's less obsession and more a fear of his bodily autonomy being violated, you can't use that to immediately declare him a Functionist when there are other cultural reasons that having one's hands removed is considered terrifying/dehumanizing and was historically used as a method of punishment and visually distinguishing someone as a criminal who should be socially ostracized.

Plus Pharma is a doctor and has only ever been a doctor his entire life, everything he is or has ever done is tied to being a doctor and being a doctor relies on him having his hands. Of course he's going to be proud of his hands or be upset when they're taken away, because having his hands taken away is, literally and symbolically, taking away his identity and the thing he's best at/most proud of being able to do.

[as-days-fade-and-nights-grow]

Now he'll play God, because your God just lost His touch

Season 6/7 Castiel with the Purgatory souls and Leviathans and stuff :33 the lyrics are from Losing His Touch by Jack Off Jill.

WIP by the way!! (Maybe. I don't know if I'll finish it really. I wanted to ink it traditionally and stuff but I forgot my sketchbook with the good pages :()

[astranauticus]

orv sketchdump while i try to recover from midterms burnout

[iraprince]

Hiii, i love your stuff and kinda from a distance really look up at you for, in my perception, being able to express yourself without giving a fuck. Thats sick dude, Im so so afraid, of absolutely everything, its nice to think like i might grow into someone less apologetic of my existence. Nice to see people just being yknow

hey, thank you, this is really really nice. the secret that is probably not a secret is that i am also deeply afraid a lot of the time lmao -- but less than i used to be, and in ways that feel less stifling and self-suffocating, if that makes sense.

like, it used to be "i'm scared that if i express myself the way i want to, everyone will find me obnoxious, so let's just sand those edges down to be safe" -- now my fears are more like "now that i'm expressing myself in a way that feels natural and real, i'm afraid that it's all stupid/vapid/not worthwhile or meaningful" (<- specifically abt my art) or "i'm happy that i talk and act the way i want to now, but what if it makes me impossible to befriend," etc etc etc. which still feels bad and puts me in a funk a lot of the time but at least it's a fear that comes After/in reaction to doing stuff, rather than a fear that STOPS me from doing stuff, you know? like, it's evolved into a kind of fear that's less in my way.

anyway. i believe you'll experience something like this, because wanting to grow is the first step of growing. the fact that u hope or wish for something different means you're already on your way. to fewer fucks!! or at least distributing the fucks u give in a way that serves u better

[ruvviks]

// wip day.

i'm working on a new project that is (for once) not connected to any of my bigger original universes, so i thought i'd share some of the writing i have for it! taglist down below, feel free to take this opportunity to share your own wips (in a separate post of course) if you have any!! the first part is a sort of introduction to the story, from the perspective of main character marshall! the second part is a snippet from a scene much further into the story, to kind of paint a picture (for both you and myself lol) of what the setting and the tone of the story is gonna be like. it's a bit different writing than what you're used to from me so please take a moment to read the warnings first!! warnings >> blood, cult, death, implied cannibalism, gore, religion, violence

God won't speak to me.

He spoke to my sister when we were eleven, her howls echoing through the backyard of our childhood home as the venom of a wasp spread quickly through her veins.

He spoke to my mother the day we buried her oldest son, the hem of her alcohol-stained dress torn where it had caught on the thorns of a blackberry bush she had blankly passed through.

He spoke to my father the day he put the barrel of a .44 in his mouth, reenacting what he had classified a sin for all the wrong reasons, his trembling finger on the trigger strong enough to rip apart the last tendon holding our family together yet not to finish the job.

I was eighteen, when I was found on the river bank near Overture, Louisiana, the sharp end of a jagged knife plunged deep within my side and my bloodied hands clutching the cross necklace of my brother, my breathing akin to the ice cold shallow water grazing at my ankles as I stared up at the star-spotted sky with glazed over eyes, blue chapped lips shaped in the final hum of a prayer.

A black abyss stared back, a strained vacuum without comfort, leaving me with a plea unheard and the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.

And God did not answer.

'Gotta dig… Just gotta dig. Gotta get 'em out of there… Gotta take 'em home…'

The physical distance between Marshall and the grave did not muffle the continuous mumbling, the shaky voice of the young priest clear as day like a whisper directly in his ear as the eerie silence looming over the church's cemetery left him with not much else to focus on. He knew he should turn around and leave, at that hour of the night— get back in his car and return to Posey in the motel, get some sleep while he still could— yet curiosity held him tight within its grasp, and each step he took pushed him closer into the wrong direction.

'Just the bones… Just the bones…'

The man was hunched over, back turned towards Marshall and partially obscured by the few last rows of gravestones stood between the two of them. His neck twitched— a sudden and unexpected movement at an angle Marshall did not hold for possible, yet it had happened entirely too fast for him to clearly see.

'Hey, is everything alright?' he called out; well against his better judgment, hairs on his forearms standing up straight as his feet carried him another few inches closer to the priest.

And the closer he got, the more he wished he had listened to himself.

If he had just turned away, he wouldn't have had to notice the unusual and unplaceable noises bubbling up from the priest's direction. He wouldn't have had to realize the priest was sat next to a coffin, yet to be lowered into an undug grave. (A curious practice, but Marshall was not one to judge— Overture'd had to endure a rather tiresome series of curiosities as of late, and an unburied corpse in the middle of bumfuck Louisiana in the midst of a yet to be explained power cut would be the least of its problems.)

'Just the bones…. Gotta dig… Gotta bring 'em home.'

'Do you need help?' Marshall persistently asked, his voice muffled by the thrumming of his own heart in his eardrums while his eyes trailed over the coffin— splintered and shattered at the lid, the glimmer of the distant church lights barely enough to reveal the outline of an axe resting on the dirt at the priest's ankles.

'Have to do it, there's no other way. Gotta dig, gotta dig, gotta dig—'

'Hey!'

Marshall should have never stayed in town.

He realized that now, as the priest's obsessive muttering came to a sudden stop forcing Marshall to hold still too— yet he had already approached too closely, and realized that no dirt had been dug in at all, and realized that the priest's hands were instead stuck inside the coffin repeatedly plunging deeper and deeper into the rotting remains of the corpse inside, once white vestment covered in blood and gore and he stared up at Marshall with a faint glow in two milky white eyes and with a wide grin exposing bloodied and shattered teeth, much akin to a predator looking at its next prey.

'Just the bones,' he repeated, the nodding of his head nearly belittling— as if to convince Marshall this was how it was supposed to be, as if to convince him the Word of God was not to be neglected and his fate as a sinner was a gift to the Divine Light and as if to convince him as long as he would not struggle it would all be over soon.

'Gotta dig.'

Marshall could not move, lamb to the slaughter as the priest rose to his feet with the axe in his hand.

'Just the bones! Gotta take 'em home.'

taglist (opt in/out)

@velocitic, @deadrlngers, @euryalex, @ordinarymaine, @gurathins;

@mojaves, @shellibisshe, @dickytwister, @mnwlk, @rindemption;

@ncytiri, @calenhads, @noirapocalypto, @florbelles, @radioactiveshitstorm;

@strafethesesinners, @fashionablyfyrdraaca, @aemondtargeryen, @radioactive-synth, @katsigian;

@estevnys, @elgaravel

[tonya13art]

Yoooooo this is the holiday season, the season of giving GIFTS and this picture is a gift for the most beautiful @sinish-tem I hope you like it!!!! Much love

[enbysiriusblack]

i'm not really a barty fan, but he's still very interesting to me (from how i see him)

like. him growing up with a very distant and abusive father and a very caring mother. him getting into ravenclaw house, the same house as his father, and getting scared he'll grow up to be just like him. and so he starts rebelling. he gets detentions, he gets angry at teachers telling him what to do, he gets angry at the fact he still loves learning and listening in class and reading and revising and getting good marks because it means his father will be happy and think he can still control him and is still on his way to being him. but he can't help himself- he loves learning too much. so instead he befriends slytherins, notably a rosier and a black, the kinda people his father despises and is publicly against. and his father talks about and works on getting higher up in the government with his anti-death eater agenda and so barty starts getting into the small wannabe death eater circle at school. and then he gets to go to his first meeting and he gets the mark and he gets to go on missions and his father can't stop him, can't control him anymore, and he doesn't even realise he's lost his son until barty's getting arrested.