Some of my old arts, many are on Pinterest. I haven't drawn him for a long time.. Most of the time I can't draw him idk. I promise there will be new arts 🥹
more doodles part 26445658753435.8 + bonus shion bc it was his bday the other day
[translations for what izana was saying from left to right:]
Taho = filipino drink, usually consumed during breakfast
tangina mo, kapal ng muka amp = fuck you, you have a thick face (that's the literal translation. it means u have no shame, or the audacity of this bitch or something), amp (shortened for amputa = bitch)
gago ka ba = are you a fool? (i think? im not sure, some ppl say gago means asshole i.e. 'gago ka' - ur an asshole)
I've been seeing a disturbing number of "queer safe spaces" describe themselves as things like "femme & them" and even worse "she+," conflating femininity & nonbinaryhood. cease this immediately. say it with me: nonbinary people are NOT women-lite and it is extremely violent and straight up incorrect to imply that all they/thems are fem adjacent. this is erasure and this verbiage does nothing but make gnc and nonbinary spaces unsafe for masc and male nonbinary people. nonbinary, genderqueer and other third gender people can be and are masculine and men, we can be hes as well as shes and theys, stop allowing yourself and your peers to view nonbinary as woman/femme-lite, signed a butch nonbinary person.
Lucifer TDIAPT is so funny to me it's like. He's 4'10". He's the oldest member of the main cast by 9,500 years. He's legally a minor. He's the main character's burnout older brother. He's the main character's weirdo little brother. He ourple. He loses every fight he gets into. He owns the nicest set of clothes out of any of the main characters. It's a maid dress. He's the narrative's most specialist little boy. The narrator fucking hates him. He gets put in a closet when company is over. His mom is god and his dad is the devil and nobody gives a shit, him included. He gets a clone/twin in the second to last book. The clone is god. He's from the moon. He has more stakes in the plot than literally any other character and an unrelated high school girl gets twice as much screen time as him. He's wanted for domestic terrorism. He plays animal crossing.
Harvey skyrocketing in popularity among stardew fans solely because of that Hozier song is so funny to me because it makes me feel like we are playing 2 VERY different games. Harvey is not "I'd rather take my whiskey neat my coffee black and my bed at three" he's a walking ball of anxiety dork of a man who probably goes to bed at 10 pm every night. If anything, the roles should be reversed cuz I KNOW the farmer is a freak.
This moment is so beautiful and tender. The way Xie Lian looks at Hua Cheng when Hua Cheng is so calm, put his arms around Xie Lian, giving him his everything ❤️
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should I do a filled version? might need to make the hearts smaller to make it cuter. anyway, I used these on a recent event of mine, but thought I should just make it for everyone.
There's a subdued and tired 'where's my princess?' echoing in the hallway as he slips off his shoes, tossing them haphazardly onto the rack to trip over in the morning, by which he'll curse out loud as he slips over them, his lanky body leaning against the wall.
You don't answer, and it strikes him as odd that you're not there to run and jump into his arms the second he walks in like he's used to, all eagerness and love that has you pressed to the wall in a heated kiss on instinct.
'Princess?' he says, and his head comes around the door to the kitchen where you stand with your back to him, the clean dishes neatly piled as you scrub with a determination that has your hands sore.
He knows.
'You good?' and his arms come around you, his mouth finding your neck, your jaw, your cheek, cold and tense and he stiffens in unison with you.
'yeah.' clipped, and he frowns, the crease of his perfect brows tickling your collarbone. His hands slip further down to your tummy, where the cold water drenching your skin has him shivering.
'Pretty girl? Your shirts wet.' matter of factly, and he's reaching over to switch off the taps and turn you around to face him.
You still, a minor resistance and you're pulling back to keep at your chore. 'It always gets wet when I'm washing up.'
He searches your eyes, finds the answer there in the unwavering gaze still locked onto the soapy water in the sink, your hands roughened by the water.
'I'll go get you some fresh clothes.'
'You don't need to.'
'I'm not asking you permission sweetheart,' he says, firmness and love that has him understanding you wordlessly. 'How long have you been standing here?'
'I'm not sure. A few hours maybe.'
'I see.'
A wordless hum, and he strokes your cheek, bloodied knuckles that have your eyes welling despite your inner protestations.
You're not sure how it happens. He dries your hands, holding them firmly as he leads you to the bedroom where you stand, a little adrift, a little confused as you always are when this happens, and reaches into the wardrobe to fish out a fresh shirt of his and shorts of yours. You watch him, still in his suit, his gun flashing every so often as he bends to pull your shorts down. Socks too, your favourite ones, that he slips onto your feet, a kiss to each ankle that has your eyes pricking with tears.
He's more serious than usual at times like this. He asks if you're sick and you reply in the negative. He feels your forehead and pulls your shorts on, his hands gentle, skimming along your sides, a firm and reassuring touch along your back, his fingertips tracing your spine.
'arms up sweetheart.'
You lift them and pulls your wet shirt off, replaces it with one of his own, fresh and clean. The relief is palpable and you nearly sag against him when he pulls you, just like that, to his body. As if you could melt, as if you could fall right through him.
'Something happen while I was gone?' he says and strokes your hair, one big hand that's warm on your cold skin, the other resting on the nape of your neck.
'no, no it didn't.'
'And you're not sick?' he says, his lips to your forehead, your arms rising to rest on his back, so big and beautiful.
'I'm not sick.'
'Hm. Just one of those days?'
'Maybe.'
'I see.' And he reaches behind you for hand cream, squeezes it out before massaging it onto your skin.
You cry. And he never mentions it, never says anything as your tears slip down the grazes on his skin, bruised knuckles now hot, the red of previous grazes stinging slightly from your tears. He hums, massages your hands, kisses the back of each one before holding the bed covers open, inviting, wordless.
You slide in, still crying and he strips before he slips in behind you, warm covers tucked up to your chin. He always waits and you love that about him, love that he's patient enough to hold out till it makes more sense, that he takes direction, initiative that comes from love without you asking.
You fall asleep soon after, your tired sniffles giving way to soft sighs, and he slips out of the bed again, for the kitchen, where he rearranges the cutlery and cleans, discarding your wet shirt And dirty laundry, ready for you when you wake again.
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