#wip: over and under

[bixels]

Posting a sneak-peak of this now because I'm about to be In The Shit school workload-wise, so this'll take me a while to finish.

Doing some character design exploration/expression sheets for Celestia and Luna. Figuring out Celestia's weird ass anatomy while I'm at it.

[baconplasm]

(hands them over)

[late-draft]

Just sharing some process and colour experiments.

[royalarchivist]

Pac: Oh, Nenê... How cute... 🥺💕

After dying to an atomic creeper in a cave and stressing over potentially losing all his items, Pac returns home to set his spawn and receives a sweet surprise:

His cat falls asleep on top of him and purrs when he goes to bed :')

[cenpede]

Trips and falls and all my metal gears fall out of my pocket…

[gods-perfect-idiots]

❤️💛

[tamelee]

Panel redraw (sorta). Based on this ask, hope you and the one who suggested this panel- 🫣💕 like it. I'm not sure if it turned out well..

Bridge scene ⃩/Naruto's resolve

[lynxxpaw]

working on something super self-indulgent because if etsy wont give me aym and baal charms then im gonna make them myself

[savrr]

Arjuna . Dhanañjaya (धनञ्जय) – one who conquered wealth and gold .

[gingiekittycat]

Help me with my WIP y'all

[robotsafari]

i made a lil nobody underling for Naminé. for fun.

the Oracle isnt much of a fighter but when backed into a corner it can use a confuse-like spell that gives you immense brain fog for a while. you wont forget anything long term but those who pursue it will forget why they were even chasing the Oracle in the first place and hopefully move onto something else.

[vanmarkus]

Inspiration Saturday 🎄

Aaand this would be the aforementioned second christmas fic; the rough draft is already done and it's just over 2k so I expect it to total out somewhere around 3-4k. Anyway, please enjoy this tiny snippet:

Buck sat in the waiting room, his eyes vacantly following the line of fairy lights running under the edge of the reception desk. They flickered every now and again.

Well, not just every now and again, but every thirteen seconds. Buck counted it out 67 times already.

He just started again, but he only got to six when he heard the voice he was waiting to hear for nearly 15 minutes now.

tags under the cut 💛

I was tagged by the lovely @daffi-990 @thewolvesof1998 @watchyourbuck @disasterbuckdiaz @giddyupbuck thank you my dears and for all the bunch of people tagging me for FIF too mwuah 💛

✨no pressure tagging: @malewifediaz @spagheddiediaz @jesuisici33 @jeeyuns @ladydorian05 @steadfastsaturnsrings @eowon @heartshapedvows @nmcggg @rainbow-nerdss @jamespearce9-1-1 @evanbegins @eddiebabygirldiaz @theotherbuckley

[wikiangela]

fuck it friday

tagged by @daffi-990 @thewolvesof1998 💖

this time a bit more of the cheating fic - istg normally I'm not a big fan of those but this is soooo much fun to write haha (especially this buck, idk, i'm having a blast haha)

prev snippet

___

“Wha- Where-” Eddie mumbles, confused, and Buck panics even more. Does Eddie not remember? That would be- worse, probably. Then he’d absolutely have to tell him, and he’s not ready for that conversation. Buck’s eyes are glued to the ceiling, but he feels Eddie moving off of him, propping himself up into a sitting position, his weight and warmth disappearing from Buck’s chest. He doesn’t immediately miss it. He swears he doesn’t. “Oh, fuck.” Eddie whispers after a moment, and the way his voice sounds so shocked and horrified, it’s safe to say he remembers. Or he figured it out, what with both of them being naked in bed and all that.

“Mhm. Well said.” Buck swallows hard, and licks his lips, and then he remembers getting to taste Eddie last night, got to kiss him, got to trace his lips all over his body, and- is he on fire right now? How is it this hot in here? He needs a cold shower. He needs to- he doesn’t want to, but he needs to scrub Eddie off of himself. Well, he does want to. He has to want to.

“We, um-”

“Yep.” Buck doesn’t let him finish. “That happened.”

“Shit.” Eddie exhales loudly, completely moving away and sitting up, making sure to take enough covers to cover himself from the waist down, but not too much so that Buck is still covered too – as if they didn’t see it all already. Buck still doesn’t look at him. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean- I mean, it’s not like I didn’t want to.” he rushes to correct himself, and Buck just needs him to shut up and not make this worse. He can’t hear that Eddie wanted him. Though maybe that makes this whole thing better? (...) “I just didn’t want it to happen like this. I’m sorry.” he repeats, and Buck can see him shake his head out of the corner of his eye.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @gaydiaz @diazass @thebravebitch @silentxxsoul @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @arthursdent @diazblunt @911onabc @eddiediaztho @housewifebuck @gayhoediaz @rogerzsteven @watchyourbuck @monsterrae1 @ladydorian05 @honestlydarkprincess @wildlife4life @theotherbuckley @weewootruck @loserdiaz @underwater-ninja-13 @hippolotamus @eowon @jeeyuns @disasterbuckdiaz @forthewolves @hoodie-buck @giddyupbuck @lover-of-mine @spotsandsocks @exhuastedpigeon @fortheloveofbuddie @jesuisici33

[warper-in-training]

I will finish this one i will finish this one i will finish this one o swera i will fi.ish it

[iiscpr]

if i only could id make a deal with god and id get him to swap our places

[revelisms]

A few Arcane HCs I haven't quite gotten to in my fics, but have been running in the background while I'm writing:

Jinx's and Vi's dad was an inventor: clever as a fox, boisterous and sly, smoker's gravel on his words. He sang when he drank, and he got angry: at himself, at the ceaseless cycle of working the mines, at a world he felt trapped in. He did his best, though. He was loving and kind, always driving ahead: vowing to make promises the world wouldn't let him keep. Powder (Bluebird, he'd call her) was his little girl. They'd tinker together when she was very young. She doesn't remember him much, but she misses him. Mirrored against Vi, against Vander, against Silco, is always Papa.

Jinx has her own routines with Dustin, Ran and Lock. When she first came into their crime posse, the three of them held her at arm's length, skittish at venturing too close to the boss's ward. Slowly, though, they all took her under their wings. Dustin taught her how to throw knives, and how to dance—not gracefully, of course, but lively, freed, fun. Ran taught her how to sharpshoot, and how to cook steamed sweet-doughs with her favorite fruits. Lock taught her how to throw a punch, and how to strum a folk-fiddle pretty enough to make it sing. She's closest to Dustin. He doesn't talk much, not sincerely, but there's a lot they can relate to. If she ever needs someone to sit with, he's her second-choice. They'll sit at the bar together, prattling over their music and painting designs on their nails.

Silco has tattoos—several, in fact. Most are hidden beneath his clothes. Jinx and Sevika both have caught glimpses, when his sleeves are rolled up. On his left arm is a leviathan that cords its finned tail from the inside of his elbow to a set of gaping jaws over his shoulder. A painter's dozen litter his back: patterned motifs, a sweeping snake of sea-kelp, death's-head moths split by glistened daggers, a devilish star. Hidden on the underside of his right arm is a sliver of ink: a bleeding eye caged between fanged teeth. Most others have been smattered with scars, over the years: bullet wounds, knife slashes, shrapnel.

Sevika occupies a rare state of limbo among their crew. She's seen flavors of vulnerability Silco has bared to no other, and has laid down her shields, in turn. One would be unwise to call them lovers—their tastes in all things, down to preferred partners, skews polar opposite. But they have weathered similar hells, and know how to navigate them. Silco knows that she will cry when her rage burns out, and only then: a Vesuvius that takes years to boil up and over. Sevika knows that dragging a hand over Silco's nape, palming slowly into the dark quills of his hair, will make him jitter on his feet: a conflated snap-reaction of hackles raised and walls crumbled. They have shared meals, baths, beds—and, on few occasions, rooms at the brothels—but they are a partnership that leans towards wedded servitude before it ever greets affection. Still, they are intrigued by each other. A mutual curiosity at the layers that unfold, if one only dares to look beneath them.

Vi sees herself first as Powder's sister; Jinx saw Vi first as her own mother. Their relationship has been weighted by this ever since the bridge went up in flames. Vi remembers their mother vividly: how she hummed folksongs when she worked, made them warm stews and stitched their clothes with bright thread; Jinx remembers only a shadow, a lovely voice, and Vi's hands—hands that had Papa's anger, that smashed things and threw them far, far away, kicked and shoved and roared, fizzled out to quiet, frustrated apologies. The cannery fire wasn't the first time Vi had let her anger get the best of her, but it was the most explosive. She's held the shame of it with her, her whole life—and it's a fear Jinx has never been able to detach from.

Despite this, Jinx is touch-first and speak-second. She was always a tactile child—even more-so, after everything. Ironic, then, that she's so often sewn at the hip to a man who's, on the surface, touch-averse and impeccably clean. He's had to peel her off him like glue, more than once, leering at the soot stains she'd leave on his suit. (Child...you do know how to bathe?) But it brings out a quieter, forgotten part of himself, that closeness. He's tactile, too—something long staved off by his betrayal, by the nature of his position, by the violence he enacts and commands; but memory makes easy habits. It's not uncommon to find him making room for her at his desk; letting her nest in his arms while he lounges on his office's chaise, a book in hand; sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with her, folktales murmured late into the night, until her eyes stutter closed, her comforters tucked lightly over her shoulder. And all of it isn't Vi, to her—but it's a shadow of something Jinx remembers; a quiet warmth, a tired voice, a face she's forgotten.

Silco has had many drift in and out of his life, over the years; mentors less-so than bloodied beacons. With Vander, it was a young, prickling, heartached obsession—a desire to prove, to be seen, to be worthy. A manifestation of all his childhood ails, emboldened to their ugliest frenzy. Vander goaded; he chased rooftops and leapt from ever-greater heights; his ambition soared as far as his body could take him, as long as it took for someone to fall behind in the chase. But Silco could outwit him, outpace him, with strategy and scheming—the two of them unstoppable, unmatched, and enmeshed with unbalance. A hound on a killer's leash; a killer baring the hound's teeth. After the betrayal, Silco spent months in the reclusive company of the doctor. Science became a second language, and Piltie business rode on its coattails. The doctor got him through back-door loopholes into Topside medical labs, bartered connection with tutors in law and policy and business, and laid the foothold for investment. Silco's penchant for wordsmithing a crowd and eye for industrialization did the rest.

As a byproduct of the doctor's work, Jinx inevitably crosses paths with Viktor. She learns of him from afar, early-on in her settling in at the reacquired Last Drop. A little errand of passing off reports from Silco to Singed and back again leave her ogling Viktor's work, at every chance. He wants nothing to do with her, at first—until she prattles off her knowledge on chemical reconstruction, shows her inventions, wins his favor. They become good friends, over the years. In the aftermath of Fishbones' explosion, he's one of few who make active efforts to see her: they'll sit at the banks of the Pilt and share fishcakes, pickled cabbage, and thermoses of black tea. She'll talk shimmer varients; he'll talk chem-augmentations with Hextech. Together, they'll compile their shared notes in a tome she dubs Hohenheim (Hohie, for short). It's one of her most treasured possessions.