#not gonna lie i kinda like this

[lenteur]

tagged by @yoohyeontual (thank you alex ♡)

rules : my name + core into pinterest and create a moodboard from the results 🌻

tagging (but only if you want to of course): @mooninagust @psyoungs @seungkwan-s @soraenun @ssonidas @venompinks and anyone who wants to do this :)

[xzyumi]

tang dynasty miku

[xxplastic-cubexx]

obligatory beach divorce doodling

bonus rough cover redraw of x-men #41 (1995) But Beach Divorce below cut

[quimera-cami]

Request: Spetsnaz team baking something sweet.

[zivazivc]

jd's hair going from green to teal would be a cool 'maturing' thing - as well as darkening post their parents' death. like you get hints of blue to match your mother and then suddenly you have to basically fulfil that role - oop

JD and Clay share a gene where their hair goes through changes the way blond kids' hair does lol

Also how dare you about the mom part 😢 But his hair darkening because of stress could be cool and would also explain why Branch's hair is nearly black instead of desaturated blue or gray...

[radiance1]

Unintelligible chanting echoed in a warehouse. A perfect summoning circle drawn on the ground with one cultist standing before it with a group more standing behind them.

Even thought the chanting was unintelligible, it was perfect. Not a clipped word or uneven tone out of place as they all, in unison, chanted the words to summon an almighty being from beyond.

Even as interlopers broke in the warehouse, they didn't stop chanting, only the cultists who weren't chanting and were previously standing around the room, broke away in an attempt to stall.

The circle glowed a toxic, unnatural green before growing dark yet darker. A black, mist like substance spreading from its focal point and out into the bounds of the circle before twisting and twisting as the temperature rose and grew into a sweltering heat that could be felt all throughout the warehouse.

They did not stop chanting.

Even as the last of their guard fell.

They did not stop chanting.

Even as some of the cultists at the back of the group started to engage in combat.

They did not stop chanting.

Until finally, the black mist twisted into a brilliant, unnatural black flame as the heat soared and shaped itself in the giant form of a bird before larger than large wings snapped themselves open.

Black flame slide off of the being's form like water, small flickers of deceptively harmless looking flame trailed down the bounds of the summoning circle as the phoenix lowered itself.

"So we meet again." The being spoke, its very presence demanding attention and respect. Impossibly red eyes focused all of their intent on the cultist and the helm. "What do you want this time? I am quite busy, as I'm sure you should be aware."

"O'h' great one," The cultist fell to their knees, hands spreading up and out reminiscent of a prayer. "The deepest flame, the guardian of the blackest fire, rival of the-"

"Enough of that nonsense." The being snapped, scoffing as it turned its head in disdain. "I did not answer your pitiful call just to hear you praise me. Make your demand, now. I have an appointment to keep."

The cultist seemed to deflate, for but a mere moment, before lowering their hands and clasping them in front of their chest. "O' great one, I have sowed the seeds and cultivated a cult in your name through the ages, we are might in number and consistent in our worship."

"I do not need a recap." The Pheonix said, blandly. Looking utterly disinterested in the cultist's words. "Your demand."

"After all of this, surely you would not mind parting with but a bit of your power?" The cultist asked and finally, the Pheonix seemed to stare with something more than mere disinterest before snapping its head up. "Do not interfere, mere interlopers." It snapped.

The heroes froze as, suddenly, they felt held down in place.

It then disregarded them, staring back down at the cultist before him with some level of interest and clicked its tongue. "Already blessed with immortality yet you wish for more? How..." Its eyes seemed to smile. Amused. As it purred. "Ambitious."

"Please, O' great one. Just a bit. A mere fraction would be enough."

"Oh all alright," The Pheonix said, holding up a wing as it plucked off a feather with its beak. "I suppose you have done enough to be worthy of a bit of my power."

The feather flew down from its beak, encased within a ball of black flame that, as the cultist spread their arms, fused into their chest.

"Do try not to be consumed by it. As I do expect noteworthy things from you."

With that, the Pheonix disappeared in a puff of mist like fire. The circle instantly losing all vibrancy and the sweltering heat snuffing itself out.

And the heroes were free of whatever magic kept them bound in place.

The cultist slowly stood up, back facing them as something bubbled up under the back of their cloak before large, flaming wings burst through the cloth of their cloak. They slowly turned around, and the movement almost looked serene, and faced the heroes.

The cultist slowly spread their hands. "I would have thought the Justice League would have handled this matter themselves, not send their younglings after me." They spoke, calm and measured and holding no feeling whatsoever. Black flame spilled from their hands as they stretched their wings.

"Come. Young heroes. You would be the perfect steppingstone to test my new abilities."

[thetomorrowshow]

love is such a drag

Chapter one: Scar's first encounter with the angel (and Grian gets to eat ice cream)

welcome to my scariana griande drag college au. this will be quite the ride from start to finish.

~

Scar spots her from across the bar.

It would be hard not to notice her, honestly. Despite the dim, almost cloudy lighting of the room, she glows, as if a heavenly spotlight is set right on her to make it clear that she just descended from heaven.

Scar sneaks glances at her over the fun green umbrella in his drink. She's sitting by herself—an absolute crime, if you ask Scar—, swishing around the little black straw in her drink. Her dark blond hair falls in gorgeous ringlets down around her shoulders, outlining her face the way a pure golden frame would surround only the most beautiful of paintings.

Her nose is small, turned up just a little bit in a peak, the bridge delicate and sparkling with a small amount of angel dust that must be left over from the aforementioned descent. Her eyes are almost comically doe-like, large and accentuated with soft pink eye shadow and long eyelashes. Scar can't quite tell what color her eyes are from this distance (brown, maybe? Black?), but he knows that whatever color they are, they are absolutely perfect.

Her lips are pink to match her eye shadow, glittery, small and pursed, as if her drink isn't near good enough to pass those delicately soft lips.

Scar hasn't even met the woman, but he wants to kiss those lips. He wants some of that angel dust to find its way onto his own lips.

Her cheeks are rosy and full, and her round chin rests on her palm as she casts a bored look around the bar.

Scar downs the last bit of his drink for courage.

He sticks the umbrella in his shirt pocket for good luck.

Then he picks up his cane and saunters over, frantically sorting through every pick-up line in his repertoire—though none of them seem to match the beauty of God's creation before him.

She looks up at him as he approaches, peering at him from under those long lashes, and now he can tell—

Her eyes are grey, but not grey like clouds, or the sea, or the bartop that her arm rests on. Her eyes are grey like the comforter on his mom's bed, like the bricks around the fireplace back in his grandpa's old house, like the silver colored pencil he'd taken all his notes in for a semester to try and prove to Cub that it worked just as well as a normal pencil (it hadn't).

Her eyes are grey like the backdrop of Scar's dreams, the firmament that rests between consciousness and all else.

And then, of course, he's right there.

And she's waiting.

There isn't a single smooth pick-up line in his brain, which is offensive if Scar does say so himself, because he always has words. He could wax poetic about a frying pan for an hour just to annoy someone, but now that his skills are put to the test he can't hold on to his wits long enough to use them.

Goodness gracious, but she's beautiful.

She's wearing something pink and small, a cut-off that reveals a slender torso and adorable bellybutton, the sleeves long and flowy but off the shoulders. Her skirt is a lighter shade of pink, cutting off just above her knees, and it looks like just the kind of skirt that she could spin in and it would twirl along perfectly with her, the kind that sort of looks like a cupcake wrapper.

Scar's always wanted to wear that kind of skirt.

How long has he been staring at her?

"Hi," he manages, readjusting his sweaty grip on his cane. "Um. Come here often?"

She rolls her eyes.

It's breathtaking.

"Sorry, worst line in the book and all that," Scar excuses himself. "Can I order you another drink, then?"

She glances at the half-full drink she's been slowly working her way through. "I'm good, thanks," she says, and Scar nearly swoons.

The angel talked to him!

And her voice! Fluttery, but something deeper underneath! Textured like a symphonic piece of music, as soft as the faux fur carpets in the back of department stores!

She's perfect.

"I'll just cut straight to the point," Scar says, trying valiantly to not feel light-headed. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. May I take you out on a date?"

She blinks.

"You don't even know me," she says, leaning back down to take a dainty little sip out of the straw.

"No, but I want to," Scar reasons. "Can I get you anything? Some chips? A little umbrella?"

"The umbrellas come with the cocktails," she scoffs. She flicks her hair over her shoulder and Scar definitely doesn't almost fall over. "I'm not in the mood for a cocktail."

Scar leans forward. "You can ask for an umbrella with any drink," he whispers, winking conspiratorially. "I always do."

"What is it you really want?" she says, sounding almost tired, and Scar puts his hand to his heart.

"I just want to take you out on a date, I swear, nothing else," he says. "Scout's honor."

"Scout's honor?"

"Troupe 2906," Scar says, lying through his teeth. He was never a scout. Well, he did Cub Scouts, but he never made it to Boy Scouts. And he definitely didn't have a troupe. "Once a scout, always a scout."

Almost reluctantly, she giggles (a sound like windchimes softly jangling), then pulls her phone out of the tiny white purse at her side. "All right, fine. What's your name?"

"Scar," he tells her, pulling out his own phone. He unlocks it with a quick swipe, then pulls up a new contact card and trades his phone for the angel's.

"Your phone looks like it got ran over," she observes, picking at the tape on the side.

"If you pull that tape off, it goes dead."

She stops picking at it.

Scar types in his number slowly with one finger, leaning against the bar as casually as he can manage. He's been standing for a minute too long, but he doesn't want to make her uncomfortable by sitting down.

When he's finished, he passes the phone back to her, receiving his own in return.

"I'll text you," he promises.

She laughs again, nods. "Okay."

The way she dismisses him—

The conversation is clearly over, based on the way she turns back to her drink, her lips once again pursed but this time turned up at the corners.

Scar hurries out as fast as his body will allow him, which isn't very fast even on the best days.

Once he's outside, out of view of her, he checks his phone.

The contact is there, ten exquisite digits.

And her name.

Ariana.

-

"Cub, do you mind if I have someone over? I need to opine."

Cub looks up from his laptop, then flinches away when Scar turns on the lights.

"Scar, do you know what time it is?" he gripes, putting a pillow over his face.

"It's not even midnight, mister, so don't pretend like this is late. You're always up at all hours of the morning, anyway."

"Why can't you opine to me?" Cub sighs.

"You don't opine back! I need someone who will wallow on the floor with me."

Scar can practically hear Cub raise an eyebrow. "Ren?"

Scar grins. "Ren. He basically isn't even a guest, since he lives right above us. And it would only be for an hour at most!"

"Fine, fine," grumbles Cub, sitting up and setting his pillow to the side. "Call him. But I have a quiz tomorrow, so this better be quick."

Ren's over within five minutes, a two-liter of diet pepsi in one hand and a bag of candy in the other.

"Leftover Christmas candy, my dude," Ren says, tossing it on the floor. "You said you need to opine?"

Scar carefully lowers himself to sit on the floor, then flops down onto his back, his arms splayed out dramatically.

"Why are we doing this in my room?" groans Cub.

"I've seen an angel," Scar declares, and his heart flutters just the slightest bit.

"Ugh."

"Ooh!" Ren says, sitting cross-legged on the floor. "Tell me more."

"I was at the bar in Aquetown, right?" Scar starts, adjusting his arms to look more dramatic, one thrown over his forehead. "The good one. The quiet one."

"Right," nods Ren. "I know it well."

"And there she was," Scar says reverently. "The angel."

"What was her name? What happened? What did she—"

"Her name is Ariana," Scar breathes, the name as sweet on his lips as he knows her kiss would be. "She's perfect."

"Did you get her number?" Cub asks boredly.

Scar scoffs. "Of course I got her number! We're going on a date."

"Oooo!" Ren teases, slapping his shoulder. "My man has a date with a pretty girl!"

"She isn't just a girl," Scar says dreamily. "She's an angel. You should've seen her, Ren! If God himself turned up and told me that there had been a mistake, that she was supposed to be in heaven, I wouldn't have even blinked! She—"

"Yeah, she's a beautiful angel, we get it," interrupts Cub. "Can you do this in the living room?"

"What color are her eyes?" Ren asks.

"Grey . . . I've never met anyone with grey eyes. Not like those."

"What did she say? Is she into you?" Ren shakes his head. "What am I saying? Of course she's into you! Who wouldn't be?"

Scar. . . .

Scar hadn't even thought about that.

He'd just been so preoccupied with getting a date with such a perfect woman, he hadn't even thought about whether or not she might want one with him.

What if she secretly hates him?

What if she just told him yes to get him to go away?

"No, it's okay," Ren says quickly, patting his arm. "Don't cry! She's totally into you, dude! Don't even worry about it!"

"What if she isn't?" Scar asks, the hand thrown over his head moving to tug at his hair. "What if I was bothering her? What if she gave me a fake number?"

"No, dude, it's not—"

"Scar," Cub says, kneeling down on the floor beside him, "look at me."

There are already tears welling up in Scar's eyes when he looks up, straight into Cub's dark, unyielding eyes.

"Any woman would be lucky to have you," he says seriously. "If she was lying, that's her loss. Got it?"

Reluctantly, Scar nods, wiping away a tear with the heel of his palm.

Cub claps him on the shoulder. "Now get out of my room."

-

"Mumbo! Mumbo, you're never gonna guess—"

"In here!" Mumbo calls from their shared bedroom.

Grian shuts the front door and locks the deadbolt, then dashes down the short hall—past Pearl's empty bedroom—until he arrives at his own room. He shuts and locks that door behind himself as well, then leans against it, hands splayed on the old poorly-painted wood.

"Mumbo," he breathes. "Mumbo, it happened."

Mumbo is lying on his stomach on the floor, sleep shirt riding just a bit up his back from clear readjustments of position. He pushes his laptop a bit away, shuts whatever textbook he'd been studying, and rubs his eyes.

"You look cute," Mumbo says when he's done rubbing his eyes, blinking blearily at Grian. "Is that a new skirt?"

Grian stands up straight for a moment, twirls it back and forth. "Yeah, it's one of my new favorites, I think. Do you like it?"

"Looks great," says Mumbo. "Good show tonight?"

"It was fine, but that doesn't matter!" Grian falls back against the door again, letting himself slide all the way to the floor. "Mumbo, it finally happened. A man asked me out."

"No way!" Mumbo cheers, sitting up. "Like, legitimately? He thought—"

"He thought I was a girl and he asked me out!" Grian says. "This is the best day of my life. Nothing can top this."

"After—wait, after the performance? Or before? Because you think he'd know, after the performance, that it was drag, but maybe—"

"Oh, no, no, no," Grian waves him off. "This was at a different bar. I stopped by that one in Aquetown—you know, the dead one?—just on my way back, to try and get a decent drink before heading home. And he just came over to me—Mumbo, he called me the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen."

"Dude!" Mumbo waves his arms around like Kermit the Frog. "I think—I think we need to celebrate! Break out the ice cream, dude, because it's time to throw a party!"

Grian just breathes slowly, chest lifting and falling dramatically. He feels just like a girl in the movies after kissing her date goodbye, only better. More giddy, if that’s possible.

It's getting late, though. He should probably slip out of his heels, take out his hair extensions, wipe off his make-up, take off his boobs, change into pajamas. . . .

Or he could go eat ice cream in their tiny kitchen with Mumbo and animatedly recount every moment of the night.

Which is how Grian finds himself eating ice cream in their tiny kitchen with Mumbo, animatedly recounting every moment of the night.

"He has a cane," Grian remembers suddenly, halfway through telling Mumbo exactly what he'd said for the third time. "It was one of those old-fashioned ones. With the golden handle?"

"Okay, so he's, like, the rich heir of a mansion," Mumbo nods. "You could do a lot worse. Unless he was old—was he old?"

Grian shrugs. "I don't think so. He looked pretty young—he had a scar across his cheek, actually, kind of like—like this—"

He traces along his own cheek, starting from his jawbone, curving up a bit almost to his nose.

Mumbo frowns. "A scar? I think—"

The front door of the apartment opens, and in trudges Pearl, kicking off her muddy boots.

"Pearl!" Grian says excitedly, holding out his scraped-up plastic bowl, a couple of bites of melting ice cream still left. "We're having ice cream to celebrate!"

Pearl drops her blue backpack on the floor of the living room (right beside the front door, the dead carpet there dividing it from the tiled entrance space that leads into the kitchen). She looks first to Grian, then Mumbo, then the carton of vanilla ice cream on the kitchen counter.

"Sounds like a party!" she says, sticking her hands in her hoodie pockets. "You both look nice!"

"Oh! Um, thanks!" Mumbo says, while Grian does a little spin, his skirt lifting in the air (not that Pearl can see, standing on the other side of the counter as she is).

"A man asked me out," Grian tells her. "While he thought I was a woman!"

"Well, of course he did! You make a very pretty girl, Grian."

"Yeah, but you have to say that. You're my sister. He called me the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen."

"Awww," Pearl coos. She comes around the counter, pulls a chipped bowl out of the dishwasher (used to dry dishes, not wash them) along with a spoon, which she uses to load some ice cream into the bowl before sticking a spoonful in her mouth.

"What was his name?" she asks around the ice cream, words muffled.

Grian frowns. "I don't remember. He didn't write it in the contact. That isn't important, though—he asked me out!"

"Are you going to go?"

Grian freezes.

Is he going to. . . ?

"Oh no," he says, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. "I—I didn't even think about that."

"Think about what?" Mumbo asks, scraping his spoon along the side of his bowl.

"I don't want to go on a date," Grian says. Oh, this is dreadful! "I just liked the attention! What do I do, Mumbo? I gave him my number and everything!"

Pearl scoffs. "You gave him your number? You're basically required to go on a date with him. If you give a man your real number, it means you're interested."

"Did you tell him you'd go on a date with him?"

Grian cringes. ". . . Maybe?"

"Grian!"

"I can't help it!" Grian defends. "I love flirting, you know that!"

Mumbo covers his face, bowl abandoned on the counter.

"Grian," Pearl bemoans.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. . . ."

"Well, we'd better hope he's a creep!" Mumbo says loudly, face still buried in his hands. "Because then you don't have to feel bad about ditching the date!"

"Was he nice?" asks Pearl.

Grian shrugs helplessly. "I guess? He tried to give me a drink umbrella."

"Oh. So, very drunk."

"No, I think he just wanted me to have one."

"Goodness, Grian. You've got yourself in a bit of a situation," Mumbo says, finally emerging from his hands. He looks into his bowl, frowns at the lack of ice cream.

"Maybe he'll forget about it?" Grian suggests, but his heart isn't really in it.

He doesn't have much hope. Not with the way the man had talked to him. No, he's probably just set himself up for a month of progressively creepier and more disgusting texts until he blocks the man and files a 'do not contact' directive with the school.

Assuming this man is a student.

What if he's, like, an old man? 

Like, thirty?

Okay. This is too much.

Hopefully, he just doesn't text. Then Grian won't have to worry about it. Which won't happen, but he can dream.

"We can talk more about it tomorrow, all right?" Mumbo says, tossing his bowl in the sink. "It's getting late. And G, you should probably put your, er, appendages away."

"My bosom?" Grian says, raising an eyebrow.

"His tittie-tatties?" Pearl suggests.

"My breastily breasting boobs?"

"His badonka donk—"

"Please just get them off the counter."

[raticalshoez]

i'm having hyperfixation drought so i did what i did best and created a crossover episode

[taruruchi]

EVERYONE, DRUM ROLL PLEASE!!!!!

INTRODUCING THE ONE, THE ONLY......

Mama Ashengrotto <3333 (ft. Taruchi)

Yup!!! I came up with a design for her (and her husband 🫢)!!! And I intend to make a separate post for both of them, basically showing off how they look instead of a silly drawing like this one jdkdlsd so look forward to that! (Fair warning: I'm also suuuper busy so idk exactly when I'll get to that uhhh unless yall steal my notebook <3)

[flowerakatsuka]

@/girlymatsu suggested i draw shin-chan kuroba and i'm easily influenced soooooo—

[callofdudes]

Hello dear, are your requests still open?

If so, how would Konig and Ghost react to their s/o having a secret, hidden tattoo? They would find out either by accident or when they're all alone, in privacy.

Really love and enjoy your writing, keep up the great work!

Requests are open and received warmly! Thank you for indulging, haha ☺️

CW: Slightly mature. (No sex or nothing but it's heavily implied.)

Ghost

He tried not to stare. Oh he really did. Simon don't stare. You're creepy! When are you not though? Simon, don't let him play devil's advocate. Damn you. You and you're... You're... Everything!

It had started roughly two hours ago. You and Ghost had gotten back from a very long mission out in the plains and were rushed to medical for attention to your wounds. However, upon being patched up the nurse had told you not to rub anything on your severely cut up shoulder, so you wore a tank top when you were released for your briefing. Maybe it was delusion. He'd hadn't been sleeping and he needed food. But clear as day he noticed it when he looked over at you.

His eyes wandered over your bruises and scuff marks while you gave a rundown of the events to Price. He caught his eyes on the deep ink lines that bonded with your flesh. How each stroke felt so deliberate and beautiful. He didn't know you had any kind of tattoo. And upon closer inspection he felt his heart rate quicken.

"Ghost? Can you confirm?"

Ghost snapped his head back on Price and nodded. "Affirmative. While there was no information we found the base and swept it clean."

Price clicked his pen. "Well, two men in hostage, seven dead and no evidence as to the man behind these happenings..." After a minute of pondering he looked up and clicked his tongue. "Thank you. The two of you are dismissed."

Simon looked back over at you, only to see you smiling at him. He followed you toward the door of the small office and exited into the main hallway.

"So, some food might do us both good eh?"

Simon looked at you. His gaze shifted downward to your arm. "Ghost?"

He reached out and took your wrist in his hand. You hissed with the movement of your arm, forced to turn into his pull. His other hand landed on your bicep and flattened the skin on your muscle. "Ghost?" He looked down at the tattoo in utter silence. After a full minute his eyes shifted up to you questioningly.

"Oh, yeah, I guess I never showed you did I?"

Ghost shook his head and ran his fingers over the tattoo. Deep ink traced prestine lines over an imaginary skull to create a pattern strikingly like the mask he wore. Deep, dark eye sockets started back at him and a rigid tight jaw were placed on the opposite end of a noseless shape. Imprinted were the words "Ghost Team" in soft ink.

That went straight to his dick.

"You like it?"

Ghost nodded. He didn't know you had a tattoo. Let alone of his silly little team you were all a part of. "You hid this from me?" His voice deepened. You gulped. "No. I showed Soap and the others. You were out, I must have forgotten." He smiled under the mask, his eyes crinkling and gleamed. He released your arm and nodded. "It looks good on you sergeant. You should show it off more often."

You smirked. "Is that some sort of message, lieutenant?" You teased.

"Depends. Think you have that sort of effect?" You wiggled your eyebrows. "I have all the effect I need." He leaned in closer and for a split second you felt your heart rate increase. His warm breath was barely repressed under the mask. You both stood there in silence and then Ghost turned around. "Keep it bare Sergeant!"

"Only for you lieutenant~"

He rolled his eyes and chuckled. You had downright marked yourself with him. His mask was engraved on your arm. His name was on your skin. He breathed out heavily and shook the weight off his shoulders. You had branded him into your body.

Damn it. That was downright hot...

He would make sure to show your tattoo lots of extra attention when you were alone. AKA like three minutes from now because he has a problem you need to fix.

König

König ran a cloth under his mask to wipe the sweat from his face. He's thrown his shirt over a fence post long ago. He walked around in his thick cargo pants and did his tasks in the blazing heat. When he found you training on one of the mats outside of the training warehouse he felt a sense of joy run down his spine. You waved over at him. You yourself had stripped down to loose knee length shorts and a sweatshirt.

"Want to go?" You asked.

"prepare yourself." He jumped up onto the mat and dipped under the ropes. "Sure big guy." You shot back.

He scoffed and moved into a fighting stance under the hot sun.

You made the first move. You raised your leg and kicked him hard on the forearm. He grunted and blocked. He slammed your foot down and pulled you in by the wrist.

"you're sloppy."

"it's hot out." You slammed your boot down on his and broke out of his hold. You retreated back over to your corner of the ring and waited for König to make a move.

He barreled toward you and attempted a tight hook. You dodged underneath him but he was ready. Before you could roll away he grabbed your ankle and tugged you back toward him. He slammed down against you and held you against the ground. You kicked out your pinned left leg and tangled it around the one König pressed up against your hip. Your right leg was caught in his large hand, rendering you stuck.

You panted. The heat was getting to your head. König relaxed in his victory.

Your shorts slipped up and rode your hips in your scuffle, giving König a new and fresh gaze to your thighs. He had briefly looked when he examined your position, and then he noticed the thick black lines in your skin.

His breath hitched and before he realized what he was doing he was moving your shorts up. "König?" He felt his tongue dry when he saw the beautiful design on your thigh that disappeares up your hip. The black ink composed with blotches of color here and there made his heart clench. It looked beautiful. He never knew you had a tattoo.

And trust me, he'd notice if you did. He'd mapped these lands many times before.

He ran his hand over the skin and shuddered. "König? Are you ok?" You felt a smirk tug at your lips when he finally looked back at you. "Huh?"

"you seem lost." You patted his large hand with your own. He looked back and felt dread freeze him in place when he noticed how his hand caressed the part of your thigh the tattoo covered and his nails dug into the flesh hungrily.

He almost squeaked. He attempted to get away quickly and tangled his legs tighter with yours. He fell onto his back and pulled you with him. You chuckled and leaned over him.

His pants tightened, making him groan uncomfortably.

"Like it eh?" You stood and pulled up the clothe. You turned your leg toward him and gave him a good view of it from below you. He whimpered in embarrassment.

Your smirk widened when he briefly looked back to see the beautiful tattoo again. All the details and intricate lines that were so delicately laid down. the detailed scales along the body of a king cobra. The way its eyes seemed to pierce him with their color. Each scale seemed to flow off your body and the ink seemed to drop with little crystals off the end of it's long body.

It must have hurt when you got it. To think someone placed such a beautiful design on your body. There of all places. He got to his knees and caressed your knee. "When did you get it?"

"Before you came back from your mission."

His heart sank into his hips. "Es sieht absolut umwerfend an dir aus, Lamm." It looks absolutely stunning on you, lamb.

Admittedly he made you pay for waiting three days after he returned to show him. That tattoo will forever make him go feral.

Nom nom if you know what I mean. 😏

Simple little edit... I lost imagination for the tattoo design when I wrote König and just never came back to it. @thychuvaluswife pointed this out and there is now more description. A photo too because why not. Don't mind the fact it's blank of color lol. (Do you know how hard it is to find a man with a hip tattoo? There are like none 😅)

[maarigolds]

Me and the bad bitches I pulled by being autistic

[rainyjackalope]

I have hired this thing to stare at you

[flippyplush]

some ferns (and finns kinda)

[rumblecrow]

"Magistrex and his Righthand Man, Spiff"

An old painting of a kingdom that seems to not exist in the reality of this world, not once of trace of history have mentioned anything about this kingdom nor anything about the king, the only information are their names that have been inked in the back of this canvas. Historian theorized that this painting is made before Magistrex becomes a crown to be. It is rather uncommon for a king to be painted with their righthand man, so the best bet that the historian can make sense of this is that they are simply close friends. There is no art of Magistrex with a crown, nor any other arts that depicts them in any part of the castle. This is the only art, the historian could find. From an old burnt down library.

It seems both of them have been erased by time itself.

A very normally detailed painting with no symbolism whatsoever.

( please click on the painting for better resolution, idk how to fix that, this webbed site just be doing things )

[valzhangism]

i know i said i was happy about how mel's story went, but the more i think about it the less i'm sure about that. this is very much connected to how the themes of classism and wealth disappeared in s2, but mel in the beginning was the epitome of piltover. she wanted to advance piltover to prove herself to her mother. to "put piltover—" and by extension herself, "—on the map."

she wanted wealth just to have it. and i'm not blaming her for anything that happened, especially with hextech! she, just like jayce and viktor, could not have known what it would lead to. i mean yeah heimerdinger said so but who the hell listens to heimerdinger? but anyway i think mel changed throughout s1, much in thanks to jayce. by the end she's become more cognisant of the mistreatment of zaunites. she's the first to vote for their peace. she was a good person all along but now she knows how to act on it. it's also seen more in s2 act 1. when she covers her painting with gold, it's symbolic—she won't act according to what her mother might think. she won't let her desire for approval dictate her anymore.

so somehow i wish those themes were. continued, somehow? like again they were dropped not just with mel but the whole show and it makes her story a off to me. there's no meaningful commentary on war or classism or how her ideology stands opposite to her mother's. like some people have said, it feels like she doesn't have much agency, even if she is really cool. and that to me is a shame because agency felt like her thing. "to shape your own destiny" as she says to jayce in s1. i know her collaborating with the black rose (but not fully joining them) and learning magic is supposed to represent becoming independent from her mother, taking her own path, but some other aspects of her character were thrown away... the more i think about it the more i'm thinking they kind of #girlboss-ed her a little bit. maybe to sell another champion. i can't help but feel like even though i enjoyed seeing her on screen, the payoff didn't feel proportionally satisfying compared to her setup in s1.