#IM BACK POOKIES

[seabonsai]

eddsworld is a chronic illness

[soranker]

98 lovemail doodles >_<

[ataraxixx]

they hate me for my evil swag and vengeful aura

[jjoneechan]

DNAP MATCHING HAIRCUTS 😭🫶🥹

DNAAAAPPPP HAVE MY WHOLE HEART

It’s George’s turn ~👹

[zalammander-paradise]

bubbyz

[dismas-n-dismay]

Suki - Chimera Falin amv

I present before you: The Chimera Falin Edit.

[vangbelsing]

Can I be so transparent and say idc about the Neve and Lucanis ship. I'm not a big fan of it but also it's whatever so when it happens I just kinda stand there like🧍‍♀️okay??? BUT I am about to kill myself at the idea of Emmrich being with Strife and not me

[iloveacronix]

SO MANY BBGS

Ough hes so fun to draw

[spoopdeedoop]

thoughts of the new lmk poster????

saw it, jumped around my room in joy and crashed into my desk so loudly my dad came in to ask if i’d broken something

[lonesomenecromancer]

taking a break with your dearest helpful friend loop

also some doodles

[johhans]

king

[saetoshi]

you’ve lost track of the times it’s rained during the past few weeks. the amount of trials held by the chief justice have gone up, just like the chances of rain.

it was upsetting the first time it happened—your notepad getting soaked right after you’d finished getting information for your steambird column. the second time was more annoying, drawing your personal tea party to a close and leaving you drenched (and with a few soggy biscuits).

it’s a force of habit now—the familiar weight of your umbrella having become soothing rather than a burden. it almost feels like muscle memory, having to open your umbrella to shield yourself from the downpour as soon as the skies turn gray.

the rain does nothing but put a damper on people’s mood. or, at least, that’s what your neighbor tells you. you don’t dislike it, though. you don’t think you can bring yourself to do so.

there’s a certain stillness that comes with the rain. it’s calming, almost—most people who’ve forgotten their umbrellas at home seek refuge under the overhangs of the buildings, so it’s easier to navigate the streets of fontaine when they’re not so crowded.

it’s nice, almost. it’d be better if you didn’t have to work. (you’d give anything to stay curled up in bed during days like these. but you don’t think you can give yourself that luxury. at least, not when you’ve got bills to pay).

the way to the opera epiclese is nice. the aquabus is emptier when it rains. and, somehow, the landscape seems prettier with the faint mist the rain leaves behind.

it’s a little bit more crowded near the fountain of lucine. a few children run around while holding their umbrellas, jumping on some puddles before running back to their parents.

you’ve grown familiar to seeing the sight. sometimes you think this might be the reason you don’t resent the rain like most of your neighbors do.

or maybe, it’s just the sight of neuvillette standing just a few steps away from the stairs to the opera epiclese, his hand outstretched as he lets the raindrops fall onto his glove.

“you’re going to catch a cold if you keep standing under the rain like that, neuvillette,” you say, lifting your arm a little to cover him with your umbrella. it’ll do nothing, really—not when he’s already soaked to the bone.

he turns his attention to you, the corners of his eyes softening when they meet yours. he gently takes the handle of your umbrella from your hand, mindful to keep you covered from the rain more than him.

“i suppose that would be the case, yes,” he replies, his eyes focused on yours. he turns his attention to the fountain, his jaw tensing for a moment before it relaxes.

you still notice the faint crease to his brows, the slight downturn of his lips. it’s almost imperceptible—but it’s still there.

you’re not sure what to call your relationship to him. you’re not quite friends, but you’re far past acquaintances. you’re close enough to have dropped the honorifics, but not close enough to consider yourself important to him. close enough to recognize the subtle shifts to his expressions, but not close enough to pry about them.

perhaps just naming it reporter and chief justice would be better. reporter who got lucky enough to get the chief justice to open up about the court trials and proceedings, maybe. (part of you would like to ascend to reporter who gets to ask the chief justice out for a cup of tea when the rain stops).

“how was the trial today?” you ask, reaching into your pouch to pull out your notepad and a pen. part of you wishes you could feel bad for missing it, but you’ve never been one for the spectacle of the courtroom. it’s inhumane, you’d argue—how people’s grievances and crimes are exposed for the whole nation to see as if it was nothing more than a play.

neuvillette adjusts his grip on the umbrella, his eyes focused on you. “difficult,” he says, his tone measured. he blinks, and for a moment you think you hear the rain fall a little harder before it turns into a drizzle. “the evidence procured by the attorneys was not as sufficient as they had originally thought.”

the light, hurried scratching of the pen against the paper fills the air, barely audible with the sounds of the raindrops pelting down on your umbrella. you glance away from your notes to look up at him. “that sounds messy,” you muse, pursing your lips.

“quite so,” he solemnly nods, his grip tightening around the handle to keep your umbrella from swaying with the wind. his lips press into a fine line, “it ended up being far more complicated than i had thought it would be.”

you nod, acknowledging his words as you write them down on your notepad. he inches infinitesimally closer to you—enough for you to notice when a droplet falls from his hair onto the ground, but still far away enough for you to not consider burdensome.

it almost makes you smile, how mindful he is. always a gentleman, you think. it fits him—not as chief justice, but as neuvillette. part of you wishes you could write that in a column, if only for the rest of fontaine to be privy of the surprising gentleness the chief justice possesses. but you don’t think you will. (it’s a piece of information you wish to selfishly keep for yourself).

he angles the umbrella, his eyes focused on the top of your head as you organize your notes. the sun faintly peeks through the clouds, letting the soft orange hues of the sunset shine through the drizzle. his eyes study your face while you’re unaware, the corners softening the longer he stares at you.

“what did lady furina think of the trial?” you ask, your eyes drifting from your notes to his face. the troubled expression he was sporting when you first saw him is gone, replaced by some sort of warmth you can’t describe.

“she found it less entertaining than the previous ones,” he says, his tone losing that firm edge to it. he adjusts his grip on the umbrella’s handle again, making sure to cover you properly even if the rain is starting to let up.

“what about the attorneys?” you continue, tapping the tip of your pen against the paper. “what was their reaction when they realized they weren’t properly prepared to defend their client?”

“i will get you the court records for the full description,” he says, his eyes flitting to the people around the fountain of lucine. his grip on the handle eases when he sees the others start to put their umbrellas away. still, he makes no move to do the same with yours—not until the light rain stops completely.

his eyes flicker back to yours, the corners of his lips quirking up into the hint of a smile, “but, it seemed like steam was coming out of their heads.” he pauses for a second, a faint pink dusting the tips of his ears. “those were lady furina’s words.”

they’re not. you’ve interviewed him for long enough to tell when he adds an observation of his own. (still, you’ve never pointed it out to him. it’d be a shame if he stopped giving them out if he knew you were aware of this habit).

you softly hum, smiling in amusement, the corners of your eyes crinkling, “you want me to include that on the column?”

“preferably not,” he clears his throat, returning to his stoic façade. still, he can’t help the way the corners of his lips quirk up again slightly. “let that be our secret.”

“alright,” you whisper, the amusement in your smile giving way to a slight fondness. “it’ll remain between the two of us.”

“i’d hate for our dear lady furina to be branded as a gossip,” you add, your eyes drifting to the sky. a soft hum leaves your lips, your hand peeking out from under the umbrella. a hint of a smile tugs at your lips when you realize it’s no longer raining.

“it would be most unfortunate,” he says, his tone soft as he watches you. he lowers the umbrella, giving two firm shakes—the way he’s seen you do it before—before closing it.

“i will get you the finalized court records by sunset tomorrow,” he says, holding the umbrella out to you. “would that work for you?”

you nod, placing your notepad and pen inside your pouch. your fingers brush against his gloved ones as you grab your umbrella, a small jolt of electricity shooting through your hand. “that’d be great.”

neuvillette’s eyes soften once again, a soft hum rumbling in his throat. “i will give them to you over dinner, then.”

you blink, the tips of your ears burning at the implication of his words. your heart races in your chest, your eyes meeting his. “dinner?”

“if that works for you, as well,” he says, softly clearing his throat. your heart skips a beat when you take notice of the faint flush to his cheeks.

you can’t help the smile that grows on your lips, a pleasant warmth filling your chest the longer you gaze at him. (he looks unfairly pretty with the sunset framing his face, you think).

“it works perfectly well for me,” you say, your voice hushed. your smile widens when you recognize the relief on his face, your heart fluttering in your chest.

perhaps, your relationship of reporter and chief justice is not such a bad label. (at least not when it means you’re the reporter who’s going to get dinner with the chief justice).

[gunsatthaphan]

🫡 🫠

[oldrockformations]

Something about Caitlyn telling Jayce “hextech may keep us alive, but it’s not what will save us” and how that relates to Viktor.

Like Jayce’s immediate reaction to hearing that is just deflating and looking at the ground and I can’t help but think he looks guilty???? He has just directly defied Viktor’s wishes, using hextech to keep him alive and Jayce knows it. In keeping Viktor alive, Jayce may have doomed them all. Viktor watched the hexcore kill Sky. He knew the potential for harm it had, and he tried to warn Jayce. And Jayce didn’t listen.

When Viktor finally wakes up, Jayce is too relieved at first to realize something about Viktor is different (aside from his new look ofc) Where as before, Viktor’s eyes were full of adoration when he looked at Jayce, now he looks conflicted. When Jayce, a man he loves dearly, hugs him, Viktor doesn’t seem to know how to react. He almost looks like he pities Jayce.

That line Viktor said, “I sense a charge. A potential. A recursive impulse.” He should feel cold, but he doesn’t have the capacity to anymore. His body is trying to replicate what it knows it should feel, but it’s doing so with all new material. It gives Viktor an echo of what he should be experiencing. And it seems that doesn’t only apply to his physical form. His very being has been altered by the hexcore.

So when he hugs Jayce back, it’s the same thing. It’s an echo of who Viktor was before he was changed. Muscle memory. It’s what Viktor is supposed to do in the situation, because the Viktor before loved Jayce. And just like the cold, he’s feeling a replication of the affection he felt. His reasoning is intact, he knows he should be feeling affection, but the way he feels emotions has fundamentally shifted.

Viktor should have died. He should have died of his terminal illness, but he survived using the hexcore. After Sky though, Viktor realized his mistake and he knew nothing good would come of the hexcore. Viktor should have died again in the explosion. He knew he was going to die anyway, and he had accepted it at that point. Only Jayce hadn’t. Maybe, if he had, Viktor would have been able to die as himself and be at peace. But that didn’t happen. Jayce, in keeping Viktor alive, has given him a fate worse than death. The hexcore has taken away who Viktor was, and left his body behind. The Viktor that Jayce knew is gone, and what has survived is either a shell of him, or something else entirely.

[demigod-of-the-agni]

Cloud, internally: I am suave. I am cool. I am the epitome of grace. I kill without mercy, I fight with the strength of a hundred men, I am one of the underappreciated greatest. Shinra is filled with dumbasses, but I am the very few who still retain good cognitive function

Cloud, in front of a large crowd: uh

[generalsdiary]

Moze x Jiaoqiu

warnings: none

word count: 900~

description: just them being domestic (pre-2.5 events)

moze is the type of husband who always cleans, keeps everything neat, he will run (quite literally) anywhere and do any errand without complaint, nothing is too hard or difficult for him. he is v protective, „I promise I will bring him back“, nothing is stopping him from getting his husband back, he is confident in his abilities, to the point he isn't even worrying. he always attentively listens to jiaoqiu’s ramblings, his full attention on the foxian. he will eat anything jiaoqiu puts before him, no matter his preferences. uttering simple praises after the meal and never letting his husband clean up.

at night he cuddles with him, being the big spoon, holding his husband close, face buried in the orangey pink hair. like a touch starved kitten, he gravitates to him during the day, always hugging him- backhugs are his favorite. jiaoqiu always smiles, a sparkle in his eyes with each embrace. moze is often quiet, very thoughtful- usually ending up blunt in his words but not cold, never cold. the care and love for each other shown in the soft words, gentle embraces and lingering gazes. moze doesn’t do causal touches, his hands don’t wander to jiaoqiu’s soft tail, or even softer ears, or to caress him. he doesn’t want to overwhelm his husband or make him uncomfortable. yet when they stand close he bumps his nose against his. and when he is so so tired he rests his forehead on the shorter man’s. recharging, seeking comfort, love. luckily for him, his husband knows his main love language is physical touch. jiaoqiu bringing his hands to cup his cheeks, thumbs caressing the rough skin. he misses the smile that brightens the foxian’s face, his eyes shut relishing in the sensations. such a sensitive and responsive man. jiaoqiu is the only person moze allows to touch him, to drag those soft fingers across his scars, through the silver hair, to see him shirtless. he is the only one with whom he makes and keeps eye contact. moze is the type of husband that even without being close jiaoqiu can feel his touch on him. sitting across him, over a hotpot. lilac eyes on him. full of love. as if he is caressing his husband’s cheek at that moment. making jiaoqiu’s chest feel warm from the feeling of such a silent expression of admiration.

on the days jiaoqiu voices that he feels tired a quick response is given in turn “I can carry you.” a blunt, straightforward, and the same offer every time. he is more than happy to carry him + he enjoys showing off for his hubby. not caring for the public opinion or any observers; it doesn’t even cross his mind, jiaoqiu’s happiness the only thing on his mind. sadly, he is always rejected (occasionally making him pout). moze doesn’t even know why (painfully obvious why, the rare blushed jiaoqiu further confirming it). shadows are his safe haven, but jiaoqiu is his peace. they fill each other's needs, like puzzles fitting together, completely domestic in their behaviors; perfect for general feixiao’s safety and well-being. despite working together they don’t get tired of each other. work is work and their house is home.

coriander is not allowed under this roof and no big lights are ever on. when they have guests, jiaoqiu compensates with many small lamps, fairy lights, and a bunch of candles. unscented ones. otherwise, they would clash with the meal. sometimes, jiaoqiu will light a scented candle, but it won’t be lit for longer than an hour, otherwise, he would get overwhelmed due to how sensitive his nose is to smells. moze being the clean freak, and insistent on maintaining really good hygiene and not strong perfumes so he can do his job perfectly would just make jiaoqiu purr if he could. type of husband truly only for him. jiaoqiu is quite a social butterfly and he drags his husband with him, who will grumble a bit and then go along, and behave politely to the best of his capabilities. moze cannot read a room to save his life, short in his sentences and straight to the point despite pondering his words prior, they end up always coming off blunt. he means no harm and what he says is usually of little matter, and none of it holds any weight to him when all he needs is to hear his darling chuckle or gaze at him and all is well in his world. the only result he could possibly ever wish for.

and when they kiss? the lighting and shadow with fire and spice? the I talk a lot, flirtatious, rarely flustered with I listen to you with heart eyes, mainly unaffected but you make me smile. well… they keep it private. such actions feel too personal and intimate for them to be shown in public and given for anyone to see on display. they hold it too close to their hearts, it matters in a different way to them. something near and dear. they won’t be caught showing pda, not even holding hands- well they rarely hold hands either way. it is behind closed doors and in the privacy of their home that their lips meet, and hands wander, leaving soft touches in intimate places that they’d never do in public (unlike many others). it means too much to them.