#it might turn out ok

[radioroxx]

this is kerdly 2 me. btw

[pinacoladamatata]

blink and you'll miss it moments around skyhold....

[deimosatellite]

[xxplastic-cubexx]

Hi!! Your Cherik is so good and gorgeous 🤩🤩 If you don't mind wanna try to draw some Fall of X Cherik please?

thank you so much !!

i have a couple of ideas relating to the fall of x period specifically since theres. A Lot i wanna play with, so i hope this lil thing may be a satisfactory start :]]

and the obligatory bonus:

[anatomical-puppet]

u shouuulld draw me a lil Alchemy :)

alchemyyyyy 💖💖💖

[hoshiina]

pairing: narumi gen x gn!reader (no prns)

summary: he's always thought that anyone would do if he just wanted to find love but he realizes you're the one he wishes for, inspired by pop song by yonezu kenshi

warnings: some profanities from narumi

wc: 1300

Narumi Gen hated a lot of things, but one of his least favourites of all time was "true love". He despised when people would describe their love for another as "true love". It couldn't possibly be that serious. Just say you loved your partner. That was probably the extent feelings got to anyways— you just so happened to like each other at the same time. To him that was plenty of a feat alone, why would you have to make it sound like more than it is? For the sake of love? Ridiculous.

To him, that was truly all love was. If there was someone who liked him when he happened to like them too, that was enough. No need for years of pining, no need to get attached to some unrequited love. All that noise about love and destiny surely wasn't all that necessary.

Now, this wasn't to say that he didn't wish to find love— because he did. Like any other person, he truly wished to be loved. It was just that what he had in mind wasn't some deep pure love that'd last forever, nor was it a promise for eternity. He just wished for a light-hearted "I love you" here and there with someone he found special.

And for that, anyone would do. He'd find someone who fancied him along the way, and hopefully he'd like them back. That was all there was to it.

This meant his plan for finding his partner was sitting around and waiting. As horribly lame as that sounded, because he was Narumi Gen, this wasn't that hopeless of a plan. So, that's what he did. He'd go around saving people and doing his duties (to the absolute bare minimum) while making sure he was constantly trending, hoping that one day, someone would like him.

Today he was standing around for a solid five extra minutes after he defeated the honju with ease, hoping the media would snap some nice pictures of him, or he'd finally charm someone this time.

"Captain, you ought to stop that," you said. "It's rather embarrassing, you look desperate now."

"Oh, would you shut up," he said. "You're ruining my good name!"

You snorted. "What good name," you scoffed.

"I'm starting to think its your fault I'm not charming anyone. Perhaps if you didn't stop me every time, someone would have found me by now," he said.

"Yeah, right. Captain Ashiro seems to be having no issues charming people and I've never seen her try to," you said.

"You little shit," he said.

"Besides they're going to be utterly disappointed if they think this is what you're like and then they find out what you're… actually like," you said, and he was starting to think you wanted him to fire you. "It's okay. Someone will see how you're actually lovely at times soon."

"What?" he asked, shocked by what you said.

"What?" you replied, confused.

"You— you said lovely," he said quietly. Suddenly he felt flustered.

"Oh," you said, looking away and avoiding eye contact. It wasn't like you didn't mean to say that, but you didn't think it was that big of a deal. Rather, how flustered he sounded took you by surprise. “Well, you’re a little lame but you’re a good guy. Like you pretend you only do it for the media, but I know you’re always checking the alleyways that don’t have as much surveillance just in case, and checking alleyways isn’t something a captain has to do. And we both know the media isn’t writing about anything you do there. Things like that.”

“You never know!” he said, and you snorted.

“Alright then,” you said. “You do you, Captain.”

“I will!” he said back, trying to sound proud.

A week had passed and here he was, doing what he always did after arriving fashionably late to the scene and taking all the kaiju out in a matter of minutes: standing around trying to look good. Because he wanted love, and anyone would do. Anyone who liked him was supposed to do.

...

And yet he wished for you.

He wished that when he woke up, the first thing he would see was you. He wished that you'd smile at him everyday with love and genuine joy the way you did to others, and he wished that you’d smile that way to him alone. He wished that after a long day, he was the one you came home to. He wished from the bottom of his heart that you would always be safe and no harm would ever come your way. He wished that your days were filled with laughter and smiles and he knew he would risk his life to protect that.

It was so unlike him in a way he absolutely hated. True love was supposed to be nonsense and someone being ‘the one’ was supposed to be some dramatic line in a movie. It upset him, that he was so utterly fond of you. Yet, no matter how much it upset him, it didn't change the fact that he was, and he couldn't deny it anymore after trying to ignore it for the full week.

So here he was, acting stupid again, hoping that you’d scold him again or tell him he’s embarrassing himself, because that’s what it’s come down to. He just wanted another reason to talk to you.

But you wouldn’t come to stop him after 10 whole minutes.

“Why aren’t you stopping me?” he asked, irritated.

“Pardon?” you asked, utterly confused.

“Why aren’t you telling me to stop?” he asked again. He was aware how silly he sounded, but he was pissed off that you meant so much to him so he had to take it out on you.

“Because you told me to stop last time??” you replied. “I thought you were going to keep this up until you found yourself a partner.”

“You’re the one who told me to find someone that saw how I was…. lovely…. at times,” he said, but said the lovely very quietly. Remembering that you had described him as lovely made his cheeks burn and he’d rather die than let you see that.

“I mean, yeah. I do think you should,” you said.

“Don’t you notice, though?” he asked quietly, avoiding eye contact. There was a moment of silence.

“I do,” you said, and immediately he looked up to face you. You had a grin on your face and you looked so proud— you looked like you had won a game. Oh, how he hated you.

“You’re so annoying,” he said, and you raised an eyebrow.

“Rich coming from you,” you said.

“So, do you—,” he started to yell before cutting himself off. Carefully, he tried again. “Would you please… uh… be mine…?”

Oh, this is so embarrassing, he thought. Perhaps you’d laugh at him, but he wanted to do this properly, or at the very least try to. He’d be far more than just stupid to mess this up now. He was finally in love.

But your laughter never came. When he looked up your eyes were wide and you looked so flustered, but soon you had the most beautiful smile on your face.

“I would absolutely love to,” you said.

So he kissed you right then and there, because there was nothing he wanted to do more at the moment.

He laughed a little.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

“No, nothing,” he said.

There was no way just anyone would do— it had to be you.

[mazken]

brush test slash rendering practice with ayem

[mintypsii]

PENlS EXPLOSION SPELLLLLLL

more of them because they won't get out of my head

version without the text

[myokk]

my favorite bookworm

[inklessletter]

Oh, sweet summer boy. You seem to be feeling that you are exactly where you're meant to be.

And if you're observing the sky from the very same heaven, then you might be right, angel.

🌷

Keep trusting the process with me, yeah?

[bacchuschucklefuck]

Riz has counted four casseroles this week alone. Five, if one goes by the method of cooking, but Yelen's scary when she's crossed, and calling her burek by its proper name is important to her, so Riz does her the courtesy and doesn't include it in his mental tally.

He holds the tupperware over his head to keep it out if the way as he takes careful steps over the piles of notes in his path. The dockman case just closed, relevant documentations handed over to relevant personnels, evidences dealt with as needed; all he has lying around now is just record of the process and traces of himself thinking through it. Unsurprisingly they still haven't invented a surface more convenient for people under five feet who like to pace to put pieces of paper on than the ground.

Actual records go into the case folder with the other documents. Anything else with at least one side still blank is going to the school kids in the block - they chew through an astounding amount of paper just learning arithmetic. The rest is for the recycling basket.

Later. It's his mandated lunch break right now.

Riz sits down in front of the corner file cabinet. In an office often overrun with papers and strings and sometimes even thumbtacks, he's never really managed to clutter up this exact square of surface like every other ones. Ever since the bottom drawer rattled for no discernible reason a day long past, his eyes have always just kinda decided to slide across the space without acknowledging it.

It's years out, now. Riz doesn't know why he thought it such a big deal anymore, back then. He wasn't scared, he doesn't think. Not anymore. Maybe just uncomfortable with the idea that certain things persist despite all efforts to change.

He opens the tupperware. Dame Carabelle's experiment greets him with enough spice in the aroma alone to knock out a small mammal. When he chopped the vegetables for this casserole he couldn't really imagine the eventual heft of it, evident even through just these few ladles' worth, maybe weighing heavier for being still warm. His folk eat more through the smell and the textures and the aftertastes than the taste itself. His folk's meal is really the cooking rather than the eating. The eating is the meal's end.

"Hey," he tells the file cabinet's bottom drawer. "Um."

It's the anniversary. Riz doesn't know the exact date of his dad's death; nobody currently alive does. He and Mom both use the date of the funeral, though as he moved out to Bastion and then got more directly involved with Interplanar he hasn't really been going to Dad's grave as much. Doesn't seem like very efficient use of his time, catching a train or borrowing a car or spending a whole spell slot on going somewhere he knows Dad isn't at. They're sorta coworkers now. They talk on and off every other week between missions. When he goes now, it's just to clean up the place, keeping the landmark tidy and respectable.

Without that work to mark the date he doesn't really know what it serves anymore. But he still remembers it. Still takes note, absently or not, when it comes around.

There's not really a good way to tell the drawer that. Riz looks for another way to start the... conversation, hopefully. The question at play, he'd guess, is why he's doing this. He's been pretty content ignoring all the rattlings and the knocks from inside and the times it sits slightly ajar without him ever opening it himself; hell, he still uses the three drawers on top of it. Space is fucking precious in Bastion.

Precious enough to finally fix this damn drawer so he gets his turn to use it? Riz asks himself. Is that what we're getting to? Then he dismisses the thought - he didn't manage to fix it the times he actually tried, let alone-- now. When he doesn't really care that much to.

That's probably a good place to start. "'s fine if you keep being in there, turns out," Riz says.

The lunch hours are quiet in the block, sleepy and bright with the brief window of sunlight that manages to break through roof overhangs and extended balconies and laundry lines and climbing vines. Riz's work isn't loud here (the loud parts happen away from his office, if everything goes right), but the fragment of early summer heat reflected in the steady warmth his meal still carries compels him to lower his voice even more. It makes the words feel intimate, in a way he's never been familiar with - if he says something he just says it. He doesn't whisper. If he gives his friends something, he gives it open-palm. He's found out, along the way, that people usually don't think of rituals and courtesies the way he does.

Small voice for a diminished monster. "You know why I think so?" Riz asks. "Because almost two decades ago you kidnapped me and almost killed me, and now you rattle a drawer in my office."

It doesn't sound as much like a taunt as Riz wanted it to; the drawer has made a lot of noises again this morning when he checked the calendar, and he was definitely annoyed at it. Now, though, facing it like this after cooking the whole morning with more grandparents and peers from the block than he can count on both hands to cater for a tenant union meeting, he thinks the annoyance has morphed. Changed shape.

It has the shades of something like pity. Riz is not prone to pity, and especially not at these kinda matters. It's slightly maddening that he coheres perfectly outside of this one spot. That he commands his spaces, except for a drawer.

He puts the tupperware onto the floor between himself and the cabinet. "I know we're aware it's the anniversary," he says at the drawer. "You do this every year. You make a ruckus every time I decide to go do my job instead of mooching off my friends' aircon, and every time I get an invitation to some stupid social thing I want to turn down, and every time one of the old people tries to introduce me to a child or a nibling, because being a bachelor over thirty is weird," he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have three fucking jobs. I love doing my fucking jobs. I'm forcing funds into infrastructures. You're never leaving, are you."

The drawer vibrates lightly. It's a very, very mild acknowledgement, considering the history of reactions Riz has gotten from this thing. Riz thinks it's emanating joyous agreement, or satisfaction.

It only sharpens the pity. Riz doesn't like that, but it's how it is. That's, ultimately, the lesson he's been taught over and over and over again, just by existing as himself, turned every which way by space after space that don't see him eye-to-eye: it's not like he'd quit living over any of it. It's not like any of it can sand off these fundamental pieces of him.

He's outgrown a lot of things, he's found out. Again, and again, and again. A childhood home, a yearly trip, a monster.

"'s probably scary for you, huh?" He asks. "Because I left."

He thinks he hears joints creak that sound like you did. Probably the way a scorned lover would say it, in a movie or a yellowback. He has no more connection to the idea than he did as a kid. Less, because it doesn't even scare him.

"That's what it is, right? That it's the anniversary, and I'll never be like Dad." He raises a knee from the floor, pulls it back closer to him. Slings an arm over it. "You love to remind me. The thing is, Dad also left. He loved Mom and he loved me, and none of us wanted it to happen, but it still did. Because love does fuckall to make anyone stay on its own."

He's long past being bitter about it. It's just the facts. Once upon a time he looked into the future and the specter of his friends' happily-ever-after casted lightless, fathomless shadow over him. Love, marriage, that kind of devotion, to a fifteen-year-old with more solved cases than friends seemed so eternal. Final.

But you can only watch your friends build up apps' worth of jilted lovers for so long before getting over it.

"You know what I learned?" Riz tells the drawer. "Love doesn't make anyone stay. Project management does."

He stands up, and picks up the tupperware of Dame Carabelle's casserole, that he helped make, that he helped share with a block's worth of neighbors and members of a community he's at home with, and goes sit at his desk to eat. "Last chance to get any," he drops an offer over his shoulder as he walks away.

He doesn't eat all of his share in one go. What he's spared he leaves on the desk when going outside for a smoke break. Baron looks the exact same as when he saw them last, when he catches a glimpse; they haven't grown at all. They aren't there when he comes back inside, but the leftover has gone days-old cold, like someone's sucked the future out of it.

[melfruit]

new stuff is in the works!!but for now have some older jade art 😁

[doctorho]

this one is for eveyone who needs some extra love around these times.

Viktor knows better than he'd like that life isn't always...pretty. Or simple, or easy, or fair. No matter how hard most of Piltover seemed to pretend that there was something magical in the midwinter turnpoint that made everyone suddenly forget the suffering and misery and the complexities of real-life situations, he knows that's not the case.

Which is why he doesn't ask stupid questions when you stay at the Academy over winter break. He doesn’t pry; he doesn’t need to. It's evident enough in the way you preoccupy yourself with work that it's something you'd rather not discuss. You're focusing harder than usual, and he's familiar enough with what that precarious, tight-knuckle grip on being okay.

And Viktor?

Well. Viktor's more than happy to be a distraction.

When he gets to the lab, mid-morning, you're already there. He's not exactly surprised; he'd anticipated this. Maybe even hoped for it. He'd worked with you for a while now and grown exponentially more attached to your company - not that he'd told you the extent of his affections. But he'd get to that. Hopefully.

He came prepared with two warm drinks and still-steaming pastries, and he silently starts unloading those to the common desk that had been designated as the makeshift kitchen of the room.

"Good morning," he says casually, "I brought breakfast." He thinks of adding if you want some, but upon reflection, doesn't. There's a fine line between respecting someone's free will and pushing them to make good choices, and he's currently erring hard to the side of I don't know if you've eaten anything yet today but you definitely should.

You only hum in response, not lifting your eyes off your current project.

In response to this, he hums back and tilts his head, studies the organized mess on your desk; circuit boards, either half-assembled or half-taken apart, he's not sure, stripped wires, a steaming soldering iron. Your hands, shaking a little.

He places the drink intended for you on your desk, just annoyingly out-of-reach, and waits for you to look up.

"When was the last time you ate something?" he asks, holding up the pastry now that he has your attention.

"Why does that matter?" you ask, reaching for the takeaway cup on the edge of your desk. Viktor leans the handle of his cane to block your reach, which makes you look up at him. Properly.

"Just trying to determine if I should make you take a lunch break while I'm bothering you, or if the pastry will suffice."

He lifts his eyebrows, waiting for you to answer.

You shift in your seat. He can hear your back crack in several places, and not in the pleasant type of way.

"Last night," you answer, leaning back with a sigh.

Viktor reaches over to turn off your soldering iron. "Lunchbreak it is, then. These can be dessert."

"I'm fine-" you start, and he lifts an eyebrow.

"I don't believe you," he says, completely casually, "I think you're pushing through low blood sugar to get this-" he gestures towards the desk, "finished, and I can tell you it's much easier to make mistakes when you aren't thinking clearly."

When you're quiet, he continues, picking up your coat and offering it to you. "You can trust me on this," he says, "I have more than enough experience."

You take a deep breath and sigh it out, feeling somewhat like a toddler.

"I promise you can go right back to poking at this later." He adds, and you slowly take the jacket from him.

"Good," he says, I know a place.

It's a careful dance, and he knows this; he doesn’t want to push you. But he's been there, and he doesn’t want you to suffer more than absolutely necessary. And he really does know a place.

He re-packs the drinks and the pastries, and you follow him to a nearby cafe-and-drink-cart that's serving small steaming dishes outside. They're serving small steaming cups of - stew? Soup? And warm bread filled with different things, and you hadn't really noticed it before, but now that you were looking at - and smelling - the food, you were starving.

By the time you've registered the selection, he's already ordered for the both of you, and then the guy at the cart is offering you a brown paper bag and Viktor is moving again, and you take a few hurried steps to catch up with him.

"Where are we going?"

You can see him smile before he answers.

"Well," he says, "I was thinking we could take advantage of the great hall being empty, and eat there." He turns to look at you with an eyebrow raised, "I can only imagine how displeased the Academy Staff would be if we risked dirtying their marble floors with common food."

"Oh, really, you can only imagine?"

He shrugs, grinning. "Are you insinuating I have experience with matters such as these?"

"Yes," you answer, opening the paper bag to study its contents while you walked.

He hums in answer. "I am shocked by your accusations." He says, then, clearly fighting a smile, "I would never get caught breaking such a boring rule."

You smile now, too. "Right," you answer, "only the interesting ones."

The way he glances at you and smiles is more than enough of a response.

He stops at one of the long tables at the grand hall, and as he shrugs off his jacket and sits down, you place down the paper bag and do the same. He starts unpacking the contents of the bag, focused, placing down steaming bowls with a spicy scent to them, paper-covered wraps of something, utensils, and smaller bowls of... something colorful. Spices? Toppings?

Viktor opens the containers one by one, making the contents of the single takeaway bag look like a pretty impressive feast.

And you study him as he moves. Careful, confident in his movements, calm. While your insides felt like they were trying to hide, and had felt like that for... a good while now, he was calm like any other day. A rock-solid presence in the otherwise empty room.

"Are you not going to ask me?" you ask, "why I'm working through the winter break."

Viktor's only imminent reaction is the gentle lift of a single eyebrow.

"No," he answers, casually, and it sounds simple when he says it like that.

He meets your eyes, and that feels simple, too; because he is here, too.

It doesn't have to be any more complicated than that. He unwraps a folded paper napkin with careful fingers, and then places a steaming-soft bread in front of you.

You look at him for a moment, and then take a bite of the bread. It is soft and warm and heavenly, and when you taste the stew-soup-something, it's like it warms you down to your soul. You eat in silence; but it feels like there's a gentle bubble of understanding surrounding you.

You hold the warm bowl, and slowly, your hands shake less and less. The tension around your head gives away a little, too.

"Do you like the snow?" Viktor asks, and you follow his gaze out the window.

"I probably shouldn't," he continues, "the cold isn't exactly gentle on me. But it is pretty, I can't deny that."

You hum in answer. "Yeah," you agree with a small sigh, "it is beautiful."

His eyes meet yours, and he tilts his head.

"Do you want to break another rule?" he asks, something michievous curling at the end of his words.

You tilt your head in response. "A more interesting one?"

"Infinitely," he responds with a smile, and you're already on your feet.

And that's how you end up breaking into the roof of the Academy with him. Or, it's probably not technically breaking, since he has the keys, but you definitely aren't supposed to be in there, so that's what it feels like.

It also feels... breathless. And not just because it feels illegal, but it's... it's beautiful, and he holds your hand in the dark stairway and doesn't let go when he guides you to the expanse of the roof, and there's snow floating down all around you-

and for a moment, it feels like you're the only two people in the world, surrounded by a gentle blanket of snow and silence.

Or... not-silence. There is a song softly floating through the air, like it's being reflected in the snowflakes all around you.

And Viktor is offering you a hand.

You furrow your brows as your head catches up with your heart. "Are you asking me to dance?"

"Would you say yes if I was?"

And that was the question, wasn't it;

would you?

Your head tries to butt in with should you, but... something still-soft and light in your heart comes in way too solid with a yes.

Yes, you would.

So you take his hand, and meet him halfway to an embrace. He pulls you close to his chest, and the dance is as gentle as the snowfall around you; just a soft sway from side to side, breathing in sync with the music.

And Viktor isn't sure if this is a good idea, but... you look like you're further away from that edge now, no-longer shaking, and... he hated seeing you in your head that deep, and if he could do anything to help you find your way back to yourself, he'd do that.

It feels a little selfish, this dance, but... it was difficult to justify that when you were in his arms, breathing calm and even.

"I really am fine," you tell him quietly, and he runs a hand up your back slowly. You swallow. "Or I will be, at least."

"I know," he breathes out, and he means it.

You close your eyes, and believe it.

[qronost]

More YTTD doodles

[bugtoast]

So i was looking around tumblr, and i found @squidflavoredsoup 's posts and like??? y'all i didn't know i wasn't alone in having this weird triangular guy in my house!!

seriously though, what is he even doing here???? how'd he even get inside???? where did he come from, cotton-eye joe???

[fearandhatred]

the cucumber aziraphale to the bestie @crowleys-bentley-and-plants' tomato crowley!! i got really into it for some reason so it's way more detailed than i intended it to be lmaoo