#ravi cute

[mounir4]

Please don't scroll 🥺🙏

I need your help 🫂

Donate even a little. Share the donation link with your friends. Don't stop supporting us if you love Gaza and Palestine 🇵🇸🍉💔

Your support and donation will be a dose of hope for me and my family ❤️

My children have nothing🧑‍💻

I am Munir from Gaza, I have a family, my wife Rawan and my children Suzan and Ashraf

Help me so I don't lose them👧🙏

The resistance to life is non-existent, there is no food, drink and good health due to the health and life disasters that are happening in Gaza

I need your support, I currently live in a tent with my family 😞

Please help me and my family

before and after

https://gofund.me/b1c82501

[sophsun1]

Hey, Ravi's back!

9-1-1 – 6.14: Performance Anxiety

[whosoldherout]

[astraeajackson]

OMG WHY ARE PIPRAVI SO CUTE I CAN'T-

[rxttenfish]

i keep staring at this art i got from @slightly-gay-pogohammer and vibrating because GIRLS. GIRLS!!!!!!!!!!!

[simvanie]

7 Sins Legacy - generation 4 (pride)

It was Gulshan's birthday and while Supriya was decorating the birthday cake, Gulshan tried to get his toddler skills up as much as possible. Not only did Gulshan break the game's boundaries and started running through the ocean as a toddler, he also broke the movement progress bar with his 118% movement skill. Gulshan wasn't done with his game breaking antics when it was finally time to celebrate his birthday, as he showed why the game doesn't really allow you to invite toddlers to a restaurant while he tried to read the restaurant's menu. He aged up with the social butterfly child aspiration and the glutton trait.

[thekiltongrammarwriter]

🥺🥺🥰

[reyreadersblog]

PIPPA FITZ AMOBI AND RAVI SINGH, THE BEST COUPLE IDC.

[jiubilant]

cw: horror elements

He’d been a scrib of three, sticky-fingered and clinging to his sister’s skirts like an anther-burr, when first he saw a war-wasp of the Dres. In less than seven years they’d be extinct: their cliff-hives burnt, their grubs smeared across singed flagstones or speared wriggling on An-Xileel pikes. But it had been a bright morning—the dust had glittered in the air like motes of kanet, like the specks the goldsmiths blow off their tables—and the messenger from Bal Foy had circled his glorious mount three times above the marketplace, like a victorious chap’thil, before landing her in the middle of the street.

“Give her a pat,” he’d said, laughing, to the children clustering round—and the adults, too, a few merchants and house-servants whose stern faces broke with smiles. “She’s polite, my Khes.”

He ran, that scrib of three—not towards the great wasp grooming her feelers in that circle of hands, as oblivious to her admirers’ attentions as Benitah, but to a basket of comberries abandoned at a fruit-seller’s stall. The first fistful he stuffed in his mouth. The second he stretched above his head, high as he could reach.

“Khes!” he’d called, his voice shrill and garbled with fruit. He remembers the moment even now. Juice dribbling down his wrist. Dust in his throat. His little heart surging upward with that cry, as if on jeweled wings. “Khes!”

The wasp turned her alien head, broad and shining as a bonemold shield. Her feelers whiskered over him. Out flicked her wings once, twice: sheer and strong as wevet, fluted like stained glass into a thousand fiery panes.

“Hold your hand out flat, hla!” the messenger called.

He did. The mouthparts that could crush a Nordling breastplate descended to meet it. Delicately, like a lady reaching into a bowl with finger and thumb, the wasp took a single berry from his palm.

* * *

He wakes in his cold dormitory cell feeling stiff, sore, and improbably cheerful. Mzulft and its horrors, the Synod included, are behind him; it’s up to Mirabelle, now, to decide what to do with what they’ve learned. A magic staff in Hjaalmarch—perhaps the first item of import, he thinks with amusement, to ever come out of Hjaalmarch. And the Thalmor know nothing about it. And he’s rising late from a bed, not a bedroll, with the fading idea that he’d dreamed something pleasant.

“She’s stung me to the heart,” he sings in soft Velothis over his washbasin, scraping off the journey’s stubble with his shaving-knife. The ancient song comes to him in snatches, like the dream. “She’s stung me, jewel of the sky, armored queen of the valleys of the Shir”���someone raps on his door, probably one of the prentices with a question about a translation, and he takes some smiling liberties with the next line—“one moment, per favore, s'il vous plaît—”

“Break it down,” says a curt voice.

The door crashes open. He makes a startled, absurd swipe with his shaving-knife at the first of the intruders—black robes, beaky buttons that glint gold in the firelight—before a burst of magic shivers through him like heat-lightning. He hears a thump. Himself, he realizes with belated surprise, hitting the chilly floor.

“Is he immobilized?” the voice asks pleasantly.

A chorus of subordinate voices, at least three: “Yes, Secretary.”

They’ve never gone this far, thinks the man on the floor, struggling to budge limbs that have gone rigid and heavy as kedge-anchors. Something’s emboldened them at last. A heavy-gloved hand dips into the neck of his nightshirt and fishes out his Company chain.

“Justiciar Ancano was right!” the young Dominion agent attached to the hand exclaims. He dangles the pendant in the light. “East Empire Company. A factor’s clerk. A pleasure, Master”—he squints at the inscription on the copper, above the tarnished ship—“Ramo, to properly make your acquaintance.”

That’s right, the clerk thinks. They’d bungled his name on the thing. Probably in the records, too. A laugh escapes his spell-sealed lips as a stifled huff.

“Kick him,” the pleasant voice suggests. “Oh, cousin. To scribble and scrape for the mayfly enterprises of men!”

Someone does kick him. He finds himself facedown on the hearth, seeing nothing, hearing creaks and thumps and curses as the Thalmor toss his room. One rummages through his sea-chest, takes something out, slams it. His ewer shatters. Floorstones scrape in protest as they’re pried up; the thieves’ Altmeri chatter grows excited, then. They must have found his papers. The clerk scrabbles through his mind for what little Altmeris he knows—

“Closer to the fire,” says the pleasant one in Cyrod, perhaps for his benefit. The clerk’s heart petrifies like his limbs. “He fell. A terrible accident. Put his cane—yes, there. As if he’d been trying to reach it.”

Someone drags him closer to the hearth. Flings his arm into it like a peat-brick. The heat bakes his hand. “I can seal his heart-valves to be sure—”

“Don’t be a fool,” snaps the pleasant one. “That shrieking cat who heads up Restoration would notice. Let us defer, out of respect for our cousin, to Velothi custom—”

The click of the closing door.

The silence.

He can breathe, the clerk thinks, breathing fast. He can blink. Involuntary motions, then, are not suppressed by the spell—only those that he wills. Sitting up. Crying out. Smothering the fire nibbling, with increasing interest, at his sleeve.

It was once said of the war-wasps of the Dres, he recalls with faint amusement, that the venom of their stings worked much the same. One was advised, perhaps as a way to bide one’s time before the end, to battle the enervation in increments: try wriggling a finger. A toe.

Something pops in the fire. The cell begins to smell of smoke and singed hair. He wonders whether the jerk of a limb exposed to flame, to that sharp, betraying sting, is involuntary—no, it seems not. The pain scourges his arm, his ear, the side of his head.

A finger, he thinks, concentrating all his awareness of his body into the palm of his lifeless hand. A toe. A terrible accident, they’ll say when they find him. Don’t think it. Hold your hand out flat, hla—

A strained rap on the door. “Magister?”

Relief crashes through him where the magic holds him fast. His thumb twitches free of the spell. It makes less noise than a crumb of peat shifting in the hearth.

“Magister,” calls the voice, dear and strangely small, “the—the Master Wizard, she wants you in the quadrangle—”

“Brelyna,” a familiar brogue interrupts, “J’zargo does not think he’s in.”

Her voice rises nearly to a wail. “Where is he, then—”

They’re going, the clerk thinks, gripped by a panic more searing than the flames climbing his sleeve. His hand jerks. It hits his cane, which the Thalmor had propped so tellingly on the fireplace-jamb.

The cane wobbles. He holds his breath.

Then, with a magnificent scrape, it clatters to the floor.

A silence.

“Is it unlocked?” asks Brelyna.

The creak of the door. A gasp. The panicked squeak of boots. Then someone throws the contents of the washbasin on him: a shocking blue chill, like a plunge in pack ice. He breathes out. His shaving-knife swirls past his head on a runnel of suds.

“Turn him over.” J’zargo’s voice, sharp as claws. “Is he dead?”

“I don’t think so.” Magic crackles in the air above his head. “I, I think he’s—didn’t Master Neloren show us how to dispel this? Let me try—”

Something heavy and sluggish evaporates from the clerk's bones. He stirs with some difficulty, blinking soap from his eyes, and finds himself in a circle of worried hands: J’zargo lifting his head, Onmund buffeting the last of the fire, Brelyna slapping his ridiculous half-shaved face.

“Hlai,” he rasps, laughing, trying to raise his arms to fend them off. They’ll beat him to death. Ai, a terrible accident. “Hlai, I’m not a rug—”

“You look a rug,” snaps Onmund, terse as ever. The clerk recalls that he’s wearing the nightshirt patterned with fleurs. “What happened? Who spelled you?”

The less they know, the better. The clerk flexes his hands, then his face, breathing with great care around the boot-shaped ache in his side. “Shouldn’t you”—the fire’s ghost gnaws his arm when he bends it, and he winces—“be in class?”

“In class?” Onmund sits him up so roughly that they nearly knock heads. The boy’s hands, the clerk realizes with a start, are shaking. “We were in class. Don’t you know what’s happening outside?”

Brelyna sits back in the mess of hearth-ash and washwater, rubbing her crumpling face with both hands. Her voice wavers like a shrill flute. “I thought you were dead, too.”

“Too?” The clerk, blistered and dripping, stares at his pupils. “Who’s dead?”

A muscle jumps in Onmund’s ashen face. J’zargo flattens his ears and looks away. It’s Brelyna, choking on overwhelmed tears, who answers.

“The Archmage,” she sobs. Outside, muffled by the dormitory walls, a scream pitches above the cries of gulls. “The Archmage.”

[organicmatter]

the cutest guy ever

[deluweil]

This is not a preference over others (it totally is)

BUT CAN WE GET RAVI BACK? REGULARLY?

I miss him and he fits into the baby brother and crap giver so beautifully,

He and Albert were by far my favorite guest stars. I wish they stuck around.

[thelonelyshore-if]

MC brings home a stray kitten; How do they RO's react and what do they name it if they keep it?

Beck: is a little hesitant--they don't have much experience with cats--but warms up fast. You'd find them trying (and failing) to teach the kitten tricks lmao. Would name it something like Diesel or Harley.

Croft: would be excited but nervous that it wouldn't get along with their cat, Bones. So long as the cats played nice they'd be thrilled. Would suggest something cute and a little edgy, like Raven or Ghost.

Jay: looooves animals, so would be pretty happy even though they're more of a dog person overall. I think they'd name the kitten based on its appearance--so maybe Daisy for a white kitten or Storm for a gray one.

Perri: wouldn't know what to do with it and would be nervous about being a Bad Pet Parent, but eventually get excited. Probably would find food names cute and silly--Pancake or Mochi or Spaghetti.

Ravi: he wouldn't be thrilled that you brought it home without running it by him. He'd feel kind of wary. He likes cats, but owning one is a different story. Eventually you'd come home and find him sleeping with it curled up on his chest though. He'd let you name it, but if pressed he'd go with something simple, like Boots or Whiskers.

Yasmin: she also would be a little put out at first. These are the sorts of decisions you make together. But then she'd go out and buy a ton of cat stuff--despite her frustration she'd love the little thing. She's fond of animals with old people names, so she'd say Maurice or Gertrude or Millicent.

[simvanie]

7 Sins Legacy - generation 4 (pride)

With three young children, her demanding job as politician, short nights, and her never ending need to clean the entire house, Supriya's energy need had finally dropped completely. Even the amount of coffee she drinks daily, that could be considered more than the recommended daily intake, no longer made a difference.

[mounir4]

Please do not scroll 🖐️🛑

I need help 🙏

Donate to me, even a little. Share the donation link among your friends. Don't stop supporting us if you love Gaza and Palestine 🇵🇸🍉💔 Your support and donation please I hope for my family ❤️ My wife Rawan, my daughter Suzanne, and my son Ashraf My children have nothing I am Munir from Gaza Help me not to lose physical Resisting the destitute life, as there is no good food and drink due to the health and life disasters occurring in Gaza

before. and. After

https://gofund.me/b1c82501

[iolitemoth]

some qpr Legend + Ravio, partly because they won’t leave me alone (affectionate) and partly because i have a series featuring these two that i wanted to draw for! also, happy birthday @breannasfluff! you said you wanted ravioli for your birthday, so i hope you like it!!

some variations under the cut cause i wanted to try a few different things!!

[warpedpuppeteer]

Wanna read a fic of Ravi complaining to Albert about Buddie like "how do they not see that they're flirting with each other? they're basically married! it's insane" while missing the fact that Albert's been flirting with him the WHOLE TIME they've been talking and Albert's like "yeah I wonder how 😐"