#whether it's a request

[seokminfilm]

I realized tumblr cut off some of my tags on my last reblog.. but lyr i just wanted to say i am so happy you enjoyed your vacation!! and i just wanted to say i am very grateful for you. i re-read a lot of your work and they bring me so many giggles, happiness, and warmth. i love the way you write seokmin, and i always know i can come here to read something sweet at the end of the day. you are very very talented!! thank you <3

still-life is my everything atm....

thank you so so so so so much 🤍 this made me smile!! i'm grateful for you too you know...you're one of the main reasons i keep doing what i do ☹ without your support, inbox messages, and reblogs, seokminfilm/hyperdramas wouldn't be what it is. thank you again!!

[adaki]

Are your requests open? Can you draw clockwork and Jeff the killer pretty please

Ive been in this fandom for over half of my lifetime and this is the first time I’ve ever drawn clockwork it’s over.

(Side note I’ve never thought of these two interacting and I think Jeff would piss her off so bad lol)

[raycatzdraws]

LU WIND BUT HE'S A ITTY BITTY HUMMINGBIRD

Slingshot Proficiency!

+bonus doodle drafts

[daranatsus]

Get a room you two

Request by @stardusts-supervoid! I loved drawing their expressions

[capquinn]

I really want fries as a finishing the week treat but it’s so cold out and I’m too lazy to get them. But I was thinking about Quinn and pregnant reader in that situation. Quinn would give her that 🫤 look and sigh after she’s been going on and on about her pregnancy craving and no matter the weather or time of night he always goes out to get it or find the closest thing to it. He’s such a softie and drops everything to do anything for her

It starts off innocently enough — just a passing comment as you're cooking dinner.

You’re standing at the stove, stirring a pot of soup, when you spot the empty pickle jar on the counter. The sight of it stops you mid-stir, an ache blooming in your chest that you hadn’t even realised was there. The sharp tang of vinegar was just a memory now, thanks to Quinn, who had polished off the last one earlier. You stared at the jar for a long moment, then inhaled deeply as if to steel yourself, catching the faint scent of peanut butter still lingering in the air from his afternoon snack.

“We’re out of pickles,” you announce, the words coming out sharper than you’d intended.

Quinn doesn’t even look up from where he’s leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone.

“We’re going grocery shopping tomorrow,” he replies casually, like it’s no big deal. “We’ll grab some more then.”

You nod, swallowing down the disappointment. Of course, it’s fine. Quinn already does so much for you — too much, honestly. He doesn’t complain when you wake him up in the middle of the night to rub your back, doesn’t bat an eye when you cry over commercials. The least you can do is manage a craving for one night.

But by the time the soup bowls are empty and the dishes are drying in the rack, the craving is no longer something you can brush aside. It’s no longer just pickles. It’s pickles and peanut butter. Crunchy peanut butter, specifically, the kind you already have in the pantry. And the thought of it — salty and tangy and just a little sweet — is like a loop stuck in your brain. You can feel it growing, blooming into an obsession you can’t shake no matter how hard you try.

So you finally bring it up as you’re both clearing the table.

“You know, pickles and peanut butter would taste so good right now,” you say, hoping maybe speaking it out loud will get it out of your system.

Quinn pauses, plate in hand, and gives you a skeptical glance. “Pickles and peanut butter? Together?”

You nod, setting down the glasses you’ve just picked up from the table. “Yeah. Like, on the same spoon. Or maybe a pickle dipped in peanut butter,” you add, tilting your head thoughtfully.

He squints at you like you’ve just suggested something completely alien. “You don’t even like pickles.”

“I know,” you say, exasperated, “but it’s a pregnancy craving. I can’t explain it.”

Quinn smirks, a playful glint in his eye. “So, the baby’s got you craving… that?”

“Apparently,” you say with a shrug, trying to sound casual, though you can feel the craving getting worse now that you’ve spoken it into existence.

It comes up again later as you sit cross-legged on the couch, scrolling mindlessly on your phone while Quinn flips through TV channels.

“Pickles and peanut butter,” you murmur under your breath, almost to yourself and from the corner of your eye, you catch Quinn’s side-eye, his brow quirking as he lowers the remote slightly.

“You’re still thinking about that?” he asks, his voice laced with amusement, though there’s a hint of skepticism, like maybe he’s hoping this craving had run its course.

You glance up, shrugging as you bite your lip.

“Yeah,” you admit, and then, add quickly, “but it’s fine. I can wait until tomorrow.”

Quinn’s gaze lingers on you for a beat, and you can feel the weight of it. He’s studying you, half waiting for you to crack and half trying to decide if he needs to intervene now or risk hearing about pickles and peanut butter in his sleep.

“You sure?” he says finally, his tone light, but there’s something else beneath it — like he knows you’re holding back.

“Positive,” you say, nodding firmly.

And for a while, you convince yourself that it's true. That you're completely, utterly and positively sure that you can wait until tomorrow.

So you curl up under the blanket with Quinn, his arm draped loosely over your shoulders, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on your arm — a quiet, familiar rhythm that usually soothes you without fail. The TV hums softly in the background, and his chest rises and falls against your side, steady and warm. It should be enough.

But it’s not.

The thought of that perfect salty-sweet combination gnaws at you, persistent and unrelenting. You try to distract yourself, to focus on the show Quinn seems semi-invested in, but every passing second feels like the craving is growing claws, digging deeper into your resolve.

You take a deep breath, glancing up at him. His profile is soft in the glow of the TV, his expression relaxed, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he absently strokes your shoulder. He’s content, comfortable. You almost feel bad for what you’re about to do.

Almost.

“Before I say something,” you start, your voice tentative, measured, the prelude to what you know is a plea, “just remember that I’m carrying your baby.”

Quinn doesn’t even blink. His lips quirk into a small smile, his thumb pausing mid-circle on your arm.

“Our baby,” he corrects gently, his tone warm, teasing, like he knows exactly where this is going. Of course he knows. He always knows.

You hesitate for a beat, building up your courage before blurting, “I’m really, really craving pickles and peanut butter.”

His head falls back against the couch, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he drags a hand down his face.

“Baby,” he says, his voice full of mock exasperation, “it’s pouring outside. You said it could wait until tomorrow.”

“I thought it could,” you insist, sitting up straighter, as if that’ll help your case. “But I’ve been thinking about it since dinner, Quinn. I don’t think I can sleep until I have it.”

He looks at you, his brows furrowing just enough to show he’s debating his options, though you both know there’s only one.

“I wouldn’t ask unless I was desperate,” you tack on, your tone earnest as if that might tip the scales further in your favor.

Quinn exhales a long, dramatic sigh, one that would almost sound convincing if not for the way his lips twitch at the edges, betraying the affection underneath. There’s no real frustration in him — just the soft resignation of someone entirely smitten, hopelessly incapable of saying no.

“You haven’t even asked me anything yet,” he points out, tilting his head as he meets your gaze, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a flicker of amusement he’s trying not to show.

It’s infuriatingly endearing.

“Will you please go get pickles?” you ask, your tone so sweet, so endearingly earnest, that he doesn’t stand a chance.

That gets him.

His lips twitch, fighting off a grin, as he pushes himself to his feet, stretching with a dramatic groan.

“The things I do for you,” he mutters under his breath, the corners of his mouth betraying the tease.

He disappears down the hall, and you hear the faint shuffle of a jacket being pulled off a hook, the jangle of keys being found. When he returns, he’s already slipping his arms into the sleeves, his shoulders settling with the kind of resigned acceptance that says he knows this is his life now — and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He moves toward the door, stooping to pull on his sneakers, the drizzle outside faintly tapping against the windows. Just as he’s tying the laces, he glances back over his shoulder, one brow quirking in that playful, knowing way that makes your heart squeeze.

“Anything else while I’m out?” he asks, his tone warm and teasing, like he’s already resorted to a grocery list. “Ice cream? Chocolate syrup? A gallon of peanut butter to get us through the next week?”

You laugh, shaking your head as you peek over the back of the couch.

“Just the pickles. And maybe… the good kind?” You ask innocently, like maybe you’re asking for too much at this late hour.

Quinn groans, a sound full of exaggerated exasperation, but the grin tugging at his lips gives him away.

“The good kind,” he repeats, his tone dripping with mock seriousness, like the words themselves are some great inconvenience. “I’ll see what I can do.”

But there’s no hiding the fondness in his eyes as he steps closer, moving behind the sofa. He plants his hands on the cushions, leaning over until his face is just above yours. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin with a quiet kind of devotion. Then, he presses a kiss to your temple, lingering just long enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the steady comfort of his presence.

“You owe me for this,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to that warm, teasing tone that makes your heart flip.

You tilt your head toward him, grinning as you meet his gaze, your affection spilling over. “I’m giving you a baby, Quinn.”

He exhales a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes like he’s indulging some monumental injustice. But the way his lips twitch, the faint curve of a smile tugging at the corners, gives him away.

“Yeah, you are,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself, his thumb brushing along your cheek in a gesture so instinctive, so achingly gentle, it makes your chest tighten.

There’s a flicker in his eyes of pure adoration that doesn’t even try to hide. It’s the kind of look that says a thousand things he never could — about how much he loves you, how much this life you’re building together means to him, how he’d cross any distance, brave any storm, just to see you smile.

And then he huffs, a soft sound somewhere between affection and surrender, before leaning down further, his breath warm against your skin. His lips brush against yours, soft and deliberate, the kind of kiss that’s all tenderness and quiet longing. It lingers, unhurried, his hand cupping your cheek as if to keep you right there, as though this moment is his anchor before he steps out into the cold.

“Be right back.”

[sleepy-light]

Butler Ragatha and a doodle

[mischefous]

*cough cough* possibly… Legend whump? Him having a panic attack?

*sneezes*

*looks down at my screen*

-oh hey!...oh dear...someone better get Legend a blankie and some warm milk🥹

[velvetwyrme]

(for the RQs) You like Transformers, you like Undertale.... what lies at the centre of these 2 things? Mettaton (or Swap!Napsta) as a transformer, of course :3 I just think that's something you might have fun with haha ^^

requests closed!

i DID have fun with this one thank you!!

... i also had to break out the "how to draw planes" book and spent a lot of time squinting at other transformers designs dhfjchsj,, i dont know shit about vehicles or how to design transformers but i did my best :>!!

id usually write my design notes in an image but i am once again out of battery so yall get bullet points (about Mettaton)

the white/pinkish lines on Mettaton's chest and wings are intended to be kinda shaped like an M

his visor is also intended to mimic both the shape of his hair (over his eye) as well as the shape of his wings in NEO form

also, the visor always shines just so, and obscures his eye, but the other eye can generally be seen, unless dramatics call for his visor to be entirely opaque LOL

theres some joke to be made here about Mettaton's box form just being just a G1 styled version of this design lolol

the plane he turns into is a Lear Jet 23! the reason for this is: i saw this page in the book i mentioned and just went YES. METTATON.

(did you think i was joking about the how to draw planes book? i was not. i own this book. i got it for $2 lol)

originally he was going to be a fast car of some sort but then i remembered i also know fuck all about cars, and if hes a plane then i can give him thruster heels.

also his windshield is kinda shaped like a heart <3 that and the white lines being shaped like an M on his chest were incidental and i just leaned into it

... the lines on his head were also slightly inspired by Stealth Bomber!Megatron from the IDW comics because. Mettaton. Megatron. self explanatory.

[luvfy0dor]

incest and pedophilia isn't sexy

[tgtbata]

i gotta whole lotta lovin' on the tip of my tongue

[rayactive-factory]

You drew sonic in a dress can you draw shadow in a skirt?

hi! two fun things about this ask: 1. i've only posted a sonic in a dress here once, but you'll never guess one of my all-time favourite subject matters (hint 1, hint 2, hints 3 and 4, hint 5, hint 6,,,). so i was very happy to see this in my inbox lol, thank you! 2. you sent it on a day i was meaning to post a shadow in a skirt actually!.. but then i saw this ask and was like, "no, i have to answer first!!!!" so here we go:

[waterghostype]

what the water gave me by florence + the machine but it's jay and nya

But oh, my love, don't forget me When I let the water take me

im editing this post to put a fixed version here bc i dont like the one i posted but i kept it up for too long

[numbuh424]

near dressed up as a mad scientist ?

they're gonna have to evacuate the spk headquarters after this ☠️🧪 thank you for requesting!

[daily-basil]

Otomerson's Pursuit AU is one of the most well-written, dark and emotional fics I've ever read. It doesn't center around Basil but like the rest of the cast his brain is absolutely fascinating to pick apart,,,

anyways. Here he is

[t00thpasteface]

patron request for hawkahy with a Live Trapper Reaction. i leave the precise interpretation of that expression up to you

[smileposting]

alright so based on That One Ask Yugo Posted here's my headcanon-theory-vision-thing of what the drain is/means: so, drain has a very Negative connotation within the context of the story. In General, for something to go down the drain is for something to be wasted, and for something to be wasted is to serve no use to the Bigger Picture — ergo, it is not Unreasonable to assume that the drain as a theological concept in great god grove's universe is shorthand for "the place where things that the world No Longer Needs go." this could be people, technology, concepts, entire species, etc.

given the amount of historical anachronism we see within the grove itself, it's very possible that there really is no rhyme or reason to what goes down the drain and what does not, but there are still people both in and outside of the grove who ascribe some kind of moral value to it, i.e. "well if you're here then you must have done something to deserve it because the alternative is Much scarier to think about." if the bizzyboys being from the drain is meant to prove that there are other sapient beings in there, then i imagine this could apply to the drain's residents as well. i'd say it's even possible that the grove exists in direct opposition to the drain, even if unwittingly, given how much of GGG's story is about the importance of preserving history and art, no matter how grisly or seemingly incomprehensible. either way the grove doesn't seem like the kind of place that's very keen on determining value based on usefulness, nor do its gods seem like the kind of pantheon that would come up with something like the drain. it's possible that the drain is older than even them -- i suppose i'd have to find whatever in-game info there apparently is about it to confirm lol.

anyways it'd certainly explain a few things -- again, the fact that every area seems to be in a different time period, the second-eldest god being a passionate historian, inspekta and capochin's whole [gestures vaguely] everything, even inspekta ascending to godhood in the first place. of course the bizzyboys were a legitimate organization once upon a time. but all i'm saying is that if i was a deity ruling over a land in which archival As A Concept was this vitally important thing no matter how "useless" the things being archived were considered, and one day i met a guy who literally pulled himself out of The Place Where Things Deemed Useless Go and organized a lil army of guys who are Also from the place where things deemed useless go so they could run around my land and help people, thereby telling that place to go fuck itself and that they are in fact, Not useless -- i'd be impressed. i would in fact be like "hey have you considered running in the God Elections bc that's metal as fuck." it may not have been what he needed in the end but like i see how we could have Gotten here is what i'm saying.