#But with a distant relationship

[driftingballoons]

While Dusknoir and Grovyle argue about what to do with the baby, Celebi takes matters into her own hands

The mystery continues

[timetravelsong]

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬; 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫.

𝐖𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝟏𝟓 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝: “𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫“; 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬.

excerpts from a book I’ll never write

[alliebirb]

v old art meme i found in my files, w/ mana!!

[rblxmaxxing]

📂 BM DUMP havent done one in a While

stuff that was Done around the first week of may or so C: (this made me realize how awfully inconsistent i am with drawing him good Lord)

[hajimedics]

A BEAUTIFUL MARRIAGE WITH NO DIVORCE

[elysian101]

To be with you is all I want.

[soveryanon]

What about eating your own beanie, Mr Clown.

EAT YOUR OWN BEANIE

[bastardofharrenhal]

ppl wrongfully get on sansa's case for calling jon her half brother. she isnt calling him slurs! shes not calling him a dog or a horse or a bastard, shes calling him what he is! her half brother!!!!!!!!!!! yes sansa can be classist yes she likely was influenced by cat's view of jon yes she can be rude but getting miffed that sansa calls jon what he technically is to her is weirdo behavior

[gruvu]

I love how young Shermie and Stan interact, it's so sweet to see the two of them, but we don't see much of Shermie and Ford? I can see Shermie offering to help Ford with his homework, only to have Ford help him with his own.

As sweet as that scene would be, Shermie was a moody teen and an older sibling.

Very envious and kinda pissed off at Ford for being a "Know it all." and a "nerd". Sherm straight up did not want to hang out with him. He didn't want to be compared and obviously at times Ford was favored by both parents and overshadowed him and Stan both. Not saying he didn't love his younger brother but they did not have much of a friendship throughout growing up. It really isn't until later that Sherm tries to reach out. I think after Stanley's "death" he reaches out. Not fully realizing it's Stan.

[paracosmicka]

being in a relationship must be so embarrassing thank god I’m a naturally distant and isolated introvert, like imagine having to explain the pile of peeled skin that mysteriously appears on the bathroom floor every night to your partner…. awkwardddddd

[kald-dal-write]

Lowk SOTR makes the series worse and people praising it like it’s a puzzle piece are morons who can’t understand how retcons nor narratives work.

Like that it has currently 4.7 Stars on Goodreads is insane to me, like....you guys have no issues whatsoever with this book...like really? Even from just a "technical" stand point with the prose, dialogue and pacing??? (Score will probably change soon in like 6 months or so, because a lot of those 5 star reviews came in before the book was even out but still)

But yeah this being the "missing puzzle piece that explains everything" is just....not true? The story works fine without it. Like even TBOSAS added more interesting thing to story to see the early years of the games. And a deeper look into Snow as a character because from the books alone, we know nothing about him, so getting inside on him was interesting.

Honestly main reason I liked TBOSAS even as a concept is because this was a prequel nobody asked for, so it felt like truly the quote people constantly throw at Collins with "I only write when I have something to say" But yeah back to SOTR, I will just say.... not everything needs an explanation, especially small mundane things. Like what did it really add to the story learning that the "Sweetheart" nickname is actually a super tragic reason behind it and it's because Katniss reminds Haymitch of a dead girl he never mentions in the trilogy

Like that Haymitch has this connection with Katniss before even getting to know her kind of ruin the relationship for me, I've always liked the idea that he finally got out of his self pitying spiral of alcoholism, because he realized he truly had a fighter in his hand and someone he saw himself in and getting the chance to save a younger version of himself. That was at least my take on them.

BUT NO, she is actually the daughter of his best friend he never mentions to her, like even him finding some connection with her because she had Maysilee's pin is more meaningful because that is established in the main books and we the reader can just put those two things together.

How does it make Haymitch a better character if the only reason he bothered to finally try was because of Katniss being someone he should care about, idk can't people just care about each other for being themselves instead of it being because of some past relationship

Don't know if I'll go as far as to say everyone who enjoyed the book are morons, but I think some of them will probably benefit from actually thinking more critically about the media they enjoy Ironically enough

[bikefuckersoftheworldunite]

Vale&Sete

2003/2005

[age-of-moonknight]

“Khonshu: Strikefile,” Moon Knight: Fist of Khonshu (Vol. 1/2024), #0.

Writer: Jed MacKay; Penciler and Inker: Alessandro Cappuccio; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Cory Petit

[gingermintpepper]

“Your hair’s gotten longer.” 

It’s conscious effort that keeps him from tucking the strands behind his ear, from taking the knife at his hip and shearing it all off. He keeps his stance focused, attentive, there’s little else he can do when he’s taken so completely after his mother when it comes to his hair. His father scratches his chin, the clouds of his beard snaking about his finger like mist parting for mountain-peaks. Ares’ chin is still child-smooth. He can feel the tickle of his over-long fringe against his soft jaw. There’s no heart in his chest, but still he feels as though a pulse is lodged in his throat. 

Father sighs, put-upon, disappointed, and Ares feels a slight tremor start in his calves from holding himself so tense. “Well done, Ares. Go clean yourself up and get some rest. Phoebus will want to look you over later.” 

He should be ecstatic to be praised by his father. Over-the-moon with joy. There should be pride emanating from every pore of his body, the blood on his skin should be sweeter than ambrosia. 

Instead, he bows, manages a soft ‘thank you, Father’ around the lump in his throat and immediately flees the room. A mild ‘make sure to trim your hair’ hits the back of his head like a spear through the skull. He almost wishes the great door had slammed on his foot so he would have reason to feel this horrid in his retreat.  

Phoebus Apollo is waiting for him in his infirmary. 

He’s gilded as ever, gold from crown to heel. Perfect like the statues they carve of him in his temples. He has a smile for Ares when he sees him, a crinkle at the edges of his pretty eyes from the weight of his joy. Ares is waiting to see the crack in the marble, to see if that’s the chip that’ll reveal his fangs.

“Brother,” he greets, and his voice is warm - like the arms that embrace him, his voice is so warm, “Welcome back. I’ve heard you’ve done well.”  

There’s a tremble in Ares’ fingers he hadn’t noticed before. Strain from carrying his sword for so many days, a throb from wounds he hadn’t noticed he’d accrued. “Heard? There’s already gossip?” 

Phoebus blinks, disarming, demure, coquettish, “But of course,” and Phoebus’ voice is honey to Ares’ gravel, the juxtaposition is grating on his skin, “It’s Olympus. The gossip began long before you set your course.” Those warm hands lead him further into the room, bodily sits him on the chaise, pulls his helmet from his head. It’s all one, unbroken motion, “It’s summer alas, so I could not watch your war myself, but I hear it was quite the decisive victory.” 

A thousand thoughts run on horseback through his mind then. 

Did Father overhear some terrible slander that pre-emptively disappointed him? Was Ares’ victory merely a rumour, a bet his father hadn’t bothered to take? Was the gossip more enticing than the stark truth? That Ares wasn’t some child toddling about in the shadow of his sister, that his sword and spear weren’t merely for show - he’d think such a thing would warrant celebration. Not -

“Oh my,” Phoebus is in front of him, pleasant warmth more sticky heat with how close he’s pressed himself into Ares’ space. From this angle, Ares can see the multi-coloured flecks of his eyes, like shards of golden glass suspended in ichor. From this angle, with his hand so gently holding his hair, were Ares to blink too hard, he’d swear Phoebus looked just like his mother. “Your hair’s grown long again.” 

He pushes Phoebus off with such force that he bangs into the wall. It’s Phoebus, it won’t make even the impression of a scratch on him, but Ares wishes it would. Wishes he’d hit his shoulder or crack his neck or hit his head just hard enough for all that perfect, gilded gold to bleed. 

“I’m only here for you to heal me,” the tremble in his hand extends to his shoulder now. He flexes and unflexes his palm. Gods what he would give to just have a sword - “Don’t waste time with the pleasant-work.” 

Phoebus huffs, adjusts the fit of his himation, “...Only because we’re meant to be celebrating your victory.” He crosses the room in two great strides, his hair a swirling tempest behind him as he gathers his poultices and wraps. “The only reason I’ll not throw you from the window is because we are meant to be celebrating your victory.”  

There’s not enough acid in his tone for this to truly be a fight. Ares’ jaw clenches, he bites out a terse, “How benevolent.” 

“Aren’t I?” He’s got nectar and his sutures in hand, that focused look falling upon his face when he switches from overbearing busybody to Paeon of the Gods. “Now strip unfaltering Ares, let us see the measure of damage done to your indomitable flesh.” 

(Somewhere between the fifth set of stitches and the gentle frown that crosses Phoebus’ face when he notices the persistent tremble in his fingers, Ares pins his eyes to the far wall and asks, “What does it mean when Father says ‘well done’?” 

Any other sibling would mock before they gave a true response. Any other sibling would laugh and dismiss it, would say that praise is praise and any lingering ill feeling is just the worst of the war still fogging his mind. Phoebus does not answer immediately. He doesn’t make a single sound. The question settles like fetid water between them, unignorable, the scent right there on the tip of the tongue yet firmly unacknowledged. Ares closes his eyes and tries again to settle his squirming so he does not interfere with Phoebus’ work.  The metallic snip of scissors cutting thread breaks the silence. Phoebus bids him to sit up and slides his warm palms up his back until his fingers tangle gently in the ends of his hair. He twists the dark red strands until he’s gathered it all into a neat handful, holding it loosely as he switches his scissors for his shearing blade. “You should know it was not praise,” Phoebus says softly. The first of Ares cut hairs fall like viscera from his head. Phoebus treats each cutting with the sacredness of a blood-sacrifice. If he focused on the moment of tension right before the blade cuts though, Ares thinks he can imagine the agony of his sister’s sacred birth. “It is acknowledgement. Father thinks you’ve done well so he says ‘well done’.”

Gently, Phoebus releases him. Ruffles his head so all the extra hairs fall like red rain to the floor. Ares runs his fingers through the ends now curling against his ear. “Has he ever told you ‘well done’?” 

A laugh, warm and gilded, “No, and it would not make you feel better if he had.” 

Ares swallows down a thousand different questions. Phoebus wouldn’t answer them, he’s infuriating like that. Instead, he clenches his teeth, the phantom of Father’s dizzying tangle of grey cloud-hairs persistent in the corner of his eyes. “Cut it shorter.”

Phoebus doesn’t protest. He never seems to say a word when it really matters.)

[clotpolesonly]

ya know, we spend so much of the series in the POVs of 1) Ronan, who hates Declan, 2) Ronan's friends, who hate Declan because Ronan does and also routinely see Declan at his absolute worst when fighting with Ronan, and 3) Declan himself, who is a sopping wet miserable little man with self esteem issues and an incurable sense of alienation from others, that i genuinely forget most people like Declan more than Ronan

[solisitude]

I feel like I can just always tell if a person has siblings or not based off of their opinion on the black brothers