Art flucket's art and writing dump

Discussion in 'Community Creations' started by zloi medved, Oct 20, 2017.

?

I seem annoying right?

Poll closed Oct 26, 2017.
  1. Asking if you're annoying is an annoying trait!

    4 vote(s)
    44.4%
  2. Are you gonna be with those emojis all the time?

    5 vote(s)
    55.6%
  1. zloi medved

    zloi medved Well-Known Green Tea Bitch

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    Hello. I'm flucket, and I'm a very shy person. :blobpeek: I want to engage more with the community which may be a mistake. I thought I'd post, uh, creative works here?? hashtagprayforzloi
    This will be an art/writing dump thread basically.
    I apologise for my awkward personality lmao.

    This will also be an "art freebies" thread (I promise nothing and will deliver even less:sweating_profusely:). LINK to your own art, or your stories either here or in Community Fictions, and I'll draw them if I feel inspired! (You may, two years from now, suddenly receive a "quoted" notice from me. It'll be fun. Like a really belated Christmas present:blob_sunglasses:).


    I drew my own icon by the way. It has a charm about it, don't you think?
     
    Last edited: Apr 11, 2019
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  2. juniorjawz

    juniorjawz Well-Known Member

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    Would love to see your works before we can start giving you ideas.
     
  3. Noche

    Noche New Member

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    When would that be?
     
  4. Sharudeis

    Sharudeis ❖[Watching from the shadows]❖[Ashes and Dust]❖

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    Three cheers for another art thread~:blobparty:
    Don't worry too much about engaging with the community, you're doing just fine.
    Good luck with your art and writing endeavors. :sushi_tea::sushi_tea::sushi_tea::sushi_tea:
    P.S. I'll be watching this thread too. \o/\o/
     
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  5. zloi medved

    zloi medved Well-Known Green Tea Bitch

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    Hey eager beavers, and sorry! I was just sort of deciding what to put down first! It will be the tone setter for the whole thread after all... or maybe I'm overthinking it.:blob_zipper_mouth: Also I got distracted googling how to do the spoiler readmores. Ya gotta educate yourself sometimes.
    I guess given the nature of this site... here are some OCs I have inspired by Chinese novels, and my official hello~
    [​IMG]
     
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  6. zloi medved

    zloi medved Well-Known Green Tea Bitch

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    :blobokhand:
    [​IMG]

    I will post the last part of the prologue of STAW,BHIEUATDK?! tomorrow or Wednesday. After that, I will probably keep writing it in private unless people are interested.:hmm:
     
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  7. zloi medved

    zloi medved Well-Known Green Tea Bitch

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    Trying to master pixel art, but I don't think i have the patience for it.:notlikeblob: (My FO4 character, and regardless of what Bethesda's writers claim, she is unmarried and does not have any children...:blobunamused:)
    [​IMG]
     
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  8. JinVodka

    JinVodka 「 (╯°口°)╯┴—┴ So much to do but no time」

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    I give you good luck ( ^w^ )/, you have nice art and cool choices for coloring *thumbs up*
     
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  9. zloi medved

    zloi medved Well-Known Green Tea Bitch

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    Haha, thanks, I really like bright, bold characters and can be pretty over the top sometimes.
     
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  10. zloi medved

    zloi medved Well-Known Green Tea Bitch

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    I tend to just put my characters in a monochrome void, so I've been making token attempts at backgrounds lately. :blobsweat:
    [​IMG]
     
  11. zloi medved

    zloi medved Well-Known Green Tea Bitch

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    Lately my RSI has been flaring up. :blobfearful: So I've been drawing more in the crayonish cartoony style. On the flipside, I managed to get a screenshot of the perfect amount of Nuffies.
    [​IMG]
    [​IMG]
    [​IMG]
    [​IMG]
    [​IMG]
    [​IMG]
     
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  12. zloi medved

    zloi medved Well-Known Green Tea Bitch

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    “-rushed into the deadly blaze in order to save the three people still trapped inside. The PCFD have stated that without the help of Povoir City’s very own Captain Shotgun, it was very likely they would have perished. However, it’s been confirmed that the terrorist titling himself ‘Pyrogenes’ escaped in the ensu-”

    “It’s disgusting.” The old woman sitting beside Monty on the subway spat as she stared up at the screen.

    “Terrorism is the hobby of lunatics.” Monty agreed monotonously. It was only luck that Captain Shotgun, and God only knows why he chose that name, had remained as the resident hero of the city after becoming the poster boy of the Bureau. In the last twelve years he’d become a bigger superhero than Golden Age Superman. He was a bigger celebrity than most movie stars these days. Handsome, chivalrous, and of course, all about pushing for the responsible use and proper registration of superpowers. With great power comes great taxes, Monty considered wryly. In the twenty or so years since powers first started manifesting in rare individuals, the government had certainly done well in setting up the Bureau. There were no shadowy men in black suits shooting people with tranquiliser darts so they could dissect them. Just a very polite “don’t try to take up vigilantism, please”, some paperwork, a little extra column in the yearly taxes for insurance, and proper training to those whose one or two powers might actually be useful - in the case of the terribly named Captain Shotgun, super strength and endurance. He was a rare case of an “extra” - a supportive power that complemented his primary one. After all, what was the use of being able to punch through concrete if the bones in your hand shattered from the impact of it? Most people who manifested, only ended up with one, usually paltry power. Someone like the Shotgun with two were considered rare talents.

    “The both of them are disgusting.” The older woman. “Instead of locking them up, they let all sorts of them run around freely.”

    Ah.

    Well, there were people like this too. Superpowers were a recent thing, after all, it’d make anyone nervous, even if most of them are “the good guys”. Just because a cop is here to protect and serve, doesn’t make you any less nervous to be around him when he’s got his gun drawn.

    “I suppose.” Monty noncommittally agreed. In actual fact, he was apathetic on the whole situation. Superhero or monster, it had nothing to do with an ordinary man like him. The news on a TV screen was the closest he’d get to a superhero.

    The streets when he got off his stop were deserted. In the distance he could hear a car alarm. It was most likely a false alarm because of a cat, he told himself, turning his coat up to shield his ears a little from the sound as he hurried home. When he heard the struggle in the alley, he slowed his footsteps. I’m just an ordinary man, he repeated in his head as he slowly shuffled further and further forward, And they probably have a knife.

    Monty peered cautiously around the corner of the alley. It was poor timing, as the eyes of the woman met his in that instant. Her pleading look was met back with his reproachful one. What did she expect him to do? He wasn’t a superhero. But she wasn’t the only one who noticed him, as before long, the man who had her pinned by the neck turned around to stare at him. He had no knife, but a beer bottle in hand he’d smashed himself probably after finishing it off. His face was flushed red with anger and alcohol. Monty could smell it.

    The outraged man stumbled over, slurring cusses at him. The woman took the moment to gather herself up and flee out the back of the alley, leaving Monty entirely to the drunkard’s mercy. Ah, see, this is what happens when you don’t just ignore it.

    “I was just passing by.” Monty mumbled, shrinking back and adjusting his thick glasses nervously. The man grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, cursing at him.

    “Y’like stickin’ y’nose int’a’thers business, wan’ me t’cut it off?” He hiccuped out angrily, eyes completely red with fury. Monty wanted to shake his head, but was afraid the glass bottle nearing his face might do some damage if he did.

    “I was, just…” He mumbled, feeling aggrieved. When did he stick his nose into anyone’s business? Ahh, he should have just called the police. People like Captain Shotgun should be the ones to go strolling into alleys and saving women.

    “Shut up!” The man sobbed. “I jus’ wanted t’talk. To her! She won’ let me see th’kids!”

    “I see.” He answered, flabbergasted. Oh, a domestic. Monty leant his head back as far as it would go before the brick wall behind started to hurt. That was even worse. Nobody wanted to get the police involved in a domestic, in “personal problems”. That woman probably wasn’t off calling the cops. Just getting as far away from the drunk violent ex as possible.

    Monty’s response just seemed to make the drunkard angrier, as he nicked at the skin with the bottle. Monty tried not to gag at the smell of blood that always made him feel sick. His breathing came in short panicked bursts as he tried hard to smother out the smell of it.

    “Put him down, sir.” A soft voice came from the mouth of the alley. To the stranger, seeing the scrawny and pathetic Monty currently hyperventilating as a man held a broken bottle to his bleeding throat, it would probably seem a dire situation. Who was stupid enough to walk in on that?

    The answer was a tall man with brown hair neatly brushed back in a stylish wave, broad-shouldered, narrow waisted, and wearing a tailored suit that just complimented such a superb frame further. He was a man to whom the word “chiselled” applied so perfectly, it would seem criminal to ever associate it with anyone else. His features were marble, his eyes alabaster. He looked far too expensive to be in this neighbourhood, standing in this alley, talking to this drunkard.

    “Another fuckin’ busybody.” The drunkard growled, spittle dribbling down his chin and flying onto Monty’s face. The drunkard laughed dryly, every part of his sorry figure insulted by the extravagant arrogance of the man in front of him, pushing him to switch targets in his rage. Monty slid down to the filthy scum-slicked ground of the alley, holding a hand up to his neck to try and cover up the stench wafting up from there, too busy gasping for air to pay attention to the fate of the heroic idiot.

    There was no need to, it turned out, as after a faint grunt he saw the drunkard go flying past his vision, landing heavily and rolling to a stop at the other end of the alley. It was only lucky he was so drunk, as the damage would probably only be a few fractures. As Monty considered things coldly, the light of the streetlamps spilling into the alley were momentarily blocked by a figure crouching over him.

    “Hey, can you hear me? My name is Jude Winchester. Look at me.” The voice too soft and sweet to match the towering frame ordered. Monty looked up obediently, and the man gave a relieved exhale of air. “After I’ve assessed the damage, I’ll call an ambulance.”

    Monty blinked dizzily up at the face now so close to his own, and with a start he realised he knew it. The aquiline nose, the lips neither thin nor thick, with its perfect cupid’s bow, the lantern jaw and strong browline. There were faint crow’s feet at the corners of his baby blue eyes that he didn’t know of before, and since he wasn’t smiling, the dimples in his cheeks were invisible, but it was all there otherwise.

    Large warm hands closed over his own, gently peeling them off his neck. Monty shrank his head into his shoulders, blinking rapidly as he realised what he’d just said. Calling an ambulance over a small nick!

    “No! It’s fine. It was just a shallow cut.” He insisted hurriedly, trying to wave the man away.

    The other man’s brow wrinkled, furrowed in the centre, clearly unconvinced. Monty smiled weakly, stretching his head out and wiping some of the blood off his neck. “Look, already stopped bleeding!”

    “Hmm.” The man seemed about to insist once again, but eventually sighed. “All right. I suppose I should take that thing over there to the police station. If you need help again, here’s my business card.” He pushed a slim piece of off-white card into Monty’s hands, red smears of his blood half obscuring the name. “Don’t hesitate to call.” He anxiously pressed, refusing to let go of his hands until Monty nodded numbly.

    Jude stood upright, walking over and hefting the unconscious drunk over his shoulder as lightly as a bag of feathers, nodding once more to Monty before crossing back toward the mouth of the alley. Monty was dizzily staring at the business card, still on the ground, causing the man to once again ask if he needed help.

    “No. I’m really fine.” Monty gave another weak smile, standing up shakily.

    “...call me if you need it.” He insisted again, and then walked out of the alley as he pulled out his phone, no doubt alerting the police to his arrival. There was the sound of a car door slamming, then an engine starting as a car pulled away. Jude had a car. That felt somewhat absurd.

    Monty looked down at the card again, with only Winchester and a few numbers visible beneath his own blood. In a hollow voice, he muttered to himself, “But a winchester is a rifle, not a shotgun.”




    Monty arrived home feeling quite rattled, and vaguely betrayed. What happened to 'superheroes had nothing to do with me'? If there was anyone up there, they had a nasty sense of humour. Monty didn’t have aspirations to be saved by a superhero, he was just an ordinary person who wanted to live quietly. He quickly pulled his clothes off, then washed the blood off himself. Damn, even if it had stopped bleeding, it still hurt to get stabbed in the neck. His clothes had his blood all over them now, so he’d have to bump laundry up a day to deal with it as soon as possible. Checking the clock, he realised he’d still have time before work if he did it now, so he pulled a warm sweater on, threw his clothes into a plastic bag, and headed out the door. The laundromat was practically across the road, one of the main draws of his apartment building.

    Monty double checked the pockets of his dirty clothes for loose change, finding the bloody business card that’d already browned.

    Annoying. Really, beating up a sad drunk who just wanted to see his kids (even if it was clearly for the best he didn’t). How was that heroic? And then calling an ambulance over a little blood!

    Well. Monty rubbed his neck. No, it had been more than a little but how silly all the same. A man who wore a suit that expensive might not blink twice over casually ordering an ambulance, but Monty had no private health insurance. He didn’t want to rack up thousands of dollars in hospital bills over a little cut.

    Feeling increasingly annoyed, he shoved the card into his pocket. Call who? Go run into some burning buildings instead.

    The machine began tumbling, the water pinking as the not yet entirely dried blood was soaked out of it. Monty sat down heavily on the hard metal bench, watching its hypnotic circles. When the boredom of it all hit him, it caused him to turn to Candy Crush, and when he ran out of lives, he began to pace, once again reprimanding smug handsome heroes with no real world experience in his head. Not everyone had endorsement deals to supplement their income! Jerk! Arrogant! Monty was just an ordinary person, he worked in a call centre!

    He angrily shuffled over to the vending machine, hands shakily shoving coins into the slot, still muttering to himself. His fingers, sweaty from the humid air of the laundromat, dropped his spare change, sending them flying, a few of them rolling over the floor and under the vending machine.

    “Damn.” He cursed, squatting down and peering under the machine. Did he have enough change left? No. Besides, there were a couple of quarters under there too, and it pained him to give them up.

    The laundromat was deserted, so he hooked a hand underneath the vending machine, and lightly lifted it up, casually reaching his hand underneath to swipe up the coins.

    “Out of his damn mind. Who’s going to pay a ten thousand dollar hospital bill when they’ve got super healing?” He muttered, setting the vending machine down, slotting in the last few coins and punching in for a chocolate bar.

    After counting the floor tiles a few times over, his machine ground to a halt with a sharp chime, announcing it had completed its cycle. Monty pulled them out one by one, blowing a scorching warm breath of air over each piece, immediately drying them out, then scrunched them up and threw them back into the garbage bag, carrying them over his shoulder back to his apartment building.

    He arrived at work ten minutes early, at which his supervisor yelled at him before sending him out on coffee orders. There weren’t a lot of cafes open at 7 P.M., so Monty had to walk three blocks, and then carry them three blocks back and hope the night chill didn’t cool them down before them. Luckily, a few heat breaths, and they remained steaming. When he arrived back at the call centre, someone had turned on the squashy little TV in the break room. Three of his coworkers, including his cubicle mate, Aaron “All My Friends Call Me Moses” Mosely, were watching a news report announcing Captain Shotgun’s successful capture of the pretentiously titled Pyrogenes.

    “Dude’s like, fucking awesome.” Moses commented, sitting under the vent as he smoked.

    “More like fucking sellout. See his latest billboards? He’s whoring it out for Rolexes now. What, like everyone don’t just use their phone nowadays?”

    “Naw man, he’s like, a government worker. They don’t get paid shit. Can’t like, blame the dude for like, wanting a little extra on the side. Right, Monty?” Moses laughed, taking the chai tea Monty handed to him.

    “Dunno.” Monty responded listlessly. “Not like it has anything to do with me.”

    Laurel sneered at him over her inspection of her new manicure she paid for out of the monthly bonus she won for Star of the Month, for the umpteenth time in a row since she started sleeping with their supervisor. Despite them being peons in the same dead end job, she had an open contempt for her coworkers, holding herself above them for some reason.

    “How surprising. Monty doesn’t have anything to add to a conversation. Monty, how come you always just say ‘dunno’ whenever people talk to you? Is there anything you do know?”

    Monty gazed at her blankly, seemingly lost in thought.

    “Fifth grade math.” He finally answered.

    “What?”

    “Everything after that never stuck.”

    Moses started laughing, despite there being no humour in Monty’s monotonous delivery. Laurel seemed upset at apparently being made a mockery of, rolling her eyes.

    “Whatever. You’re just a nobody in a shit job.”

    “Mm.” Monty agreed. He was, after all, just an ordinary, everyday person.
     
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  13. Akesato

    Akesato Well-Known Member

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    :aww: I love your painterly style //keeps staring
     
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  14. zloi medved

    zloi medved Well-Known Green Tea Bitch

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    Aaaah, thank you! They take a lot more energy and pose more strain on my wrist so I can't be as prolific with them as I'd like.

    Also howdy I caught a summer cold and am now in the process of slowly dying ausgdghghg. Here's some old art for the sake of posting something new!

    [​IMG]
    [​IMG]
     
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  15. zloi medved

    zloi medved Well-Known Green Tea Bitch

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    I present to you....

    a yolkai.:blobwhistle:
    [​IMG]

    Anyway on a serious note, here's a drabble about a mobster OC, with an accompanying image.

    [​IMG]
    “We’re here.” Lyle said from the passenger seat. He always rode up front, next to Marco, unless they had company he had to attend to. He’d dryly told Marco, the first time he’d slid into the seat beside him and been met with a startled look, “I’m just like a dog. I like the view. Woof.”

    The building they’d pulled up at was one of the apartments owned by the family. It was an old one, brick and mortar, with iron cast windows. Marco had been here before. Just once before.

    He jogged his way around to the passenger side to open the door for Lyle, but the other man was already stepping out, cigarette by now in his mouth, one hand digging for a lighter while the other dismissively waved Marco away. He cupped a hand around the end of the cigarette, a flicker of warm orange light, followed by a stream of smoke as he puffed it into glow.

    “Just get Rosco.” Lyle ordered, already making his way over to the warehouse. Marco swallowed, doing as he was bid. The boot of the car was silent, but he was wary, opening it with one hand while keeping the other carefully on the blackjack in his inner lining pocket. He’d have preferred a taser, because there was something decidedly less intimate about them, but Lyle preferred he didn’t electrocute them. In his own words, “A broken arm is easier to work with.”

    Just like he thought he would, Rosco leapt the moment the lid of the boot came open, though he should have known he wouldn’t get far with his arms and legs tied. Marco was naturally big though, sturdy, and easily pushed Rosco back down.

    “Pluh-ll-llll-lease.” Marco begged softly. Please, don’t make me hurt you.

    Rosco screamed (Lyle didn’t use gags, said it was because he didn’t want them accidentally choking, but it was probably because he liked the screams), leapt again, and Marco held his breath as he brought the jack down on his shoulder. There was definitely a crack. Probably his collarbone. Marco had strong arms.

    Strong arms, good for lifting the prone and whimpering man out of the boot, good for carrying him like a sack of flour over his shoulder, good for taking him inside and up the stairs, to the room at the end of the second floor hall. Good for sitting him on the chair, the one with the leather straps. Then, after unbinding him, good for tightening those straps over his wrists and ankles, firm and tight.

    Someone had already lined the room with plastic. The walls. The floor. Even the ceiling. Neat. Lyle didn’t mind it messy, but their benefactor, well, he liked things neat.

    There was a tray near the chair, covered by a sheet, with some very suggestive lumps underneath. Marco had looked under it last time, just a glance, but not this time. He didn’t want to see what was underneath this time. He looked sadly at Rosco.

    Rosco was nice. He’d never made fun of Marco for his stutter. He had kids, and liked to show their picture to Marco. Once, when he’d won big at the horse races, he’d given Marco a twenty, for no reason except that he had the money to give. Marco really wished he hadn’t been a snitch.

    “G-ggg-guh, gg-guh,” He tried to say, but good-bye didn’t come to him.

    “Unless you’re planning to stay for the show, I’d like you to let me get on with it, sweetheart.” Lyle drawled from behind them. Rosco went pale, first praying, then bargaining. He’d saved up. He’d been putting money away, for the kids, but Lyle could have it all. If he let him go. If he told the family he was dead. If he just please, please, didn’t hurt him.

    “Marco.” Lyle’s voice was soft. Marco turned his head away, unable to look at Rosco. The next time he saw the man, he wouldn’t be recognisable. He already knew. Just like last time. Just like next time.

    “I-I’ll tuh, ttt-t-t-tuh-tak-kk-kuh-k-take thhhhhe duh, dd-ddoor.” Marco mumbled. Lyle was in the process of rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, his jacket already hanging off the hook on the back of the door. A butcher's apron was on the hook next to it, one of the old fashioned leather ones, the type with pockets. It was old, well-worn. Well stained. Lyle usually just hosed it down afterward.

    The door was just plywood, but it felt heavy when Marco closed it. He stood, stony faced, in front of it, hands folded over his front. Keep a poker face. As long as you focused on keeping your face calm, you didn’t think about the noises.

    You couldn’t buy Lyle off. What he did, he did for fun. Money couldn’t buy you that kind of happiness. You couldn’t beg him, move him with tears or photos of children. It just made it more fun for him. Soon, the begging would stop. After that would come the crying, muffled sobs, because Lyle had a reputation, and everyone thought they knew what was coming. It was like readying the broth before the stew, waiting for it to come to flavour. Eventually the screams would follow, raw and animal. There was no room left for words, no point. Only shrieks that came from somewhere primal, pure instincts of fear and pain. They always scream eventually, Lyle had promised Marco. But the screaming wasn’t the worst part. The worst part came afterward.

    Rosco didn’t take long. Rosco was nice, a bit player with kids who suddenly started thinking about what kind of a father he was, and what kind of environment he was raising his children in, that’s the reason he was here. That’s what Rosco was, so he didn’t take long at all.

    It was after the screaming. When there was nothing left in them. When tiredness had took over, when everything inside them was spent and even the urge to scream was gone. For Rosco, it was an hour before the silence. Silence, broken by soft gurgling. Awful silence. By the time the silence rolled around, Marco always broke. Biting down hard on his lower lip, stony faced but unable to stop the tears flooding down his cheeks. He’d ball his hands into fists so tight his gloves would creak with the strain. In his mind, he’d repeat apologies, desperate, miserable, broken apologies, to the men in the chair, to God above, to the man he used to be before he became the man he was now. He’d have a whole silence to fill with them.

    Finally, the door behind him opened, and Lyle stepped out. His hair was a mess, slick and sticky with sweat and blood. He looked like a man in the afterglow of a good orgasm. He was that kind of monster. He looked at Marco coldly, jerking his thumb at the flesh and bone left behind inside the room.

    “You can take care of that. Don’t worry, I took the face off, so you won’t have to feel like you’re looking at an old friend.”

    Marco wiped the tears, and silently stepped into the room.
     
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  16. zloi medved

    zloi medved Well-Known Green Tea Bitch

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    Been working on some Christmas YCHs to get some extra cash for the holiday. A couple of them for an updates sake:
    [​IMG] [​IMG]
     
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  17. zloi medved

    zloi medved Well-Known Green Tea Bitch

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    Here's the recording of the stream I did of the next YCH. :blobpopcorn_cool:

     
  18. Rumby

    Rumby Rumbly Tumbly

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    Ahh what nice art!!
    Do you have anywhere else you post art so I could follow like Deviantart, Instagram, Tumblr, etc ?

    (And my signature has links to my toyhouse which features my art and characters ^^ ; Though pretty sure almost all of the links in my siggie have my art so LOL )
     
  19. zloi medved

    zloi medved Well-Known Green Tea Bitch

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    Eyyyy sorry for the late response, the whole Christmas-NY week is a busy one for me. I have a dA but I don't update it often, only really polished stuff usually.
     
  20. zloi medved

    zloi medved Well-Known Green Tea Bitch

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    I've been away from home for the past few weeks, but when I got home I decided to invest my time in doing dumb screencap redraws of TGP with my own characters.

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    Blitz, Ripple, eminence grise and 2 others like this.