#system scribbles

[synoviid413]

the lack of catboy hal fanart in this world must be corrected and by god am i on a mission

[hattersarts]

rebound ship

(one youtube video was recommended to me and then i read fic for like 4 days)

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

*peering down at my own genetic sequence* uh-huh uh-huh bold choice bold fucking choices my friend

[feeshu09]

Shen Jiu to Shen Yuan in every shen bros / shen twins dynamic ever

[gatoiberico]

parfait pals

[22ratonthestreet]

@jacquelying yeah

[izel-scribbles]

so uhhh how do we think john's gonna tell arthur after part 43

[ciearcab]

woe, vash be upon ye

[timethehobo]

Sketching tonight. He’s really taking over my brain.

[surreal-duck]

suffering from a disease called i need to draw things that are extremely corny every once in a while or i may spontaneously combust otherwise (incurable)

yeah

[synoviid413]

can a catboy and a catgirl really fall in love?

[dubbedcorn]

Shen Qingqiu wants to believe, so, so badly, that the one before him is the disciple he taught. But fate has been a real bitch about sticking to its predestined course, so would this world even allow for his Binghe to be able to return this early? He weighs all these conflicting thoughts in his tired mind in the space of a scant few moments. He can’t tell. He can’t tell.

go read through the eye of a needle by funeralstrut. right now.

[feeshu09]

SJ is such a mood.

[sangrefae]

suddenly became possessed by the need to draw them being a bit freaky . tastefully cropped bc i don't want tumblr to get my ass

[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.

[sixpennydame]

Hi Sailor I hope you are doing good

May I request prompt no 15 from smut dialogue for Levi?

Thank you!

Hi San! Thanks for your patience with this. You are my last Smut Scribbles request, so I hope you enjoy.

Skin

15. I can’t get enough of you

NSFW - Minors, do not interact

Levi Ackerman loves your ass.

He’d never admit it out loud, but it was the first thing he’d noticed about you. Now, as you lie naked on his bed, the light of the early morning casting lines along your curves as you lay on your stomach, he can’t help but touch you. His fingers run down the bumps of your spine, then his lips, touching and kissing until he reaches your soft, round bottom.

He lifts your hips and positions himself behind you, your ass on full display and a sight he never gets tired of seeing. Sometimes, it’s a hard slap of his hand against your raw flesh as his cock thrusts into you; other times, it’s his face buried between your cheeks, caring little about breathing when his tongue is plunging deep inside you.

But the adoration of your body doesn’t stop there. He loves the feeling of digging his fingers in the meat of your thighs. He bites and sucks, knowing that he’s the only one that can mark the tender skin leading to your center. His nose brushes the course hairs of your bush; it’s musky smell so undeniably and irresistibly you, it’s impossible for him not to want to taste the sweet nectar that lies underneath.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he says, and he means it.

And you’re just so damn soft, he can’t take his hands off you. They move from your hips to the curve of your waist as you ride his cock into oblivion. Your beautiful breasts bounce in rhythm with your bodies: yours soft and curvaceous and his muscular and angular, muscles tense and contract as you both climax.

He’s never understood or appreciated the nude sculptures or portraits in the great museums, but when he looks at you - your curves, your lines -

—he gets it.

—//—

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