#he actually looks strong!

[airyairyaucontraire]

A small detail I enjoyed in The Sea Beast, which I'm rewatching this evening: when the hunters shoot at a beast with arrows, the order given is not "fire" but "loose." You hear "fire" a lot in movies with historical or old-fashioned fantasy settings when archery is used in battle, but it's anachronistic/inauthentic - "fire" should be used only with firearms. Pre-firearms the order would be "loose" (these days mostly used as an adjective for the opposite of tight but can also be a verb meaning release) or "shoot."

[hinamie]

yuuji smiling and sukuna making a face like That did u really think i wouldn't do a panel redraw

[kikker-oma]

Wind has some role models🤭

[ehliena]

I see all the Titans didn't know about the Batman being Batdad AUs, but what if they knew and thought that the Robins were biologically his?

Wally: Dude, why is your last name Grayson and not Wayne?

Dick: Because Bruce isn't my dad?

Wally: Really?!

Dick: You've known me since we were kids!

Wally: I thought it was just a rebellious thing and that he's your biological dad, what with the hair and the eyes and your siblings.

Dick: They're (mostly) not his either. In the biological sense.

Wally: *shock*

[puppyeared]

id fumble him so bad

[wispscribbles]

Just gotta say I’m absolutely delighted you don’t give ghost chiseled ass abs, that man needs all the strength he can get and the meat on his bones feels much more realistic/healthy than him having vanity esc muscles :)

Manifesting your days are well!! <3

Big. Big man. Mountain to climb :)

Hope your days are well, too! Thank you <3

[randomminty]

On break..

[ineed-to-sleep]

So I've had this wip sitting in my folders for months now and decided to ressurect it to satiate the urge to draw these two again

[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.)

[arealtrashact]

i LOVE how you draw homelander with fangs

I love that the man who plays him has unusually sharp teeth. I tend to draw characters with fangs regardless of if they have them or not but in this case, I have some substantial reference to point to if someone asks me why I draw him like . . . this

[beeshoesometimesdraws]

Pretty boy Lunar

He’s very fun to color :)

[p4nishers]

no really ALL im saying is if aziraphale was infront of ME and me only and even gave me a smallest amount of attention i would've already confessed right there. wouldn't have taken me 5 minutes let alone 6000 YEARS. nuh uh. especially if he slutted me out while dressed like THAT in 1793 or rizzed me up in 1941. i may be oblivious but im not dumb as fuck and i would've taken THE FUCKING HINT. unlike SOMEONE. ugh if only i was in crowley's place this shitshow wouldn't have taken more than aziraphale's eyelashes to flutter once and i'm done for the wedding is already in full swing oh lookie here a priest appeared completely out of nowhere how odd how mysterious!! anyway we must not waste this opportunity let's just get over w it for completely normal regular reasons YEP!! nothing to see here just a perfectly regular every day wedding !! like come on man atp u gotta blame urself for wasting opportunities like that

[worstloki]

there is a difference between being born to a throne, maliciously vying for a throne, stealing a throne, and having a throne thrust upon you when you are already in the midst of an identity crisis. And I fear Loki's place in the line of succession has people unable to differentiate between any of these

[blaithnne]

CBS Ghosts is my new guilty pleasure so take my new OCs. The Blanchet family were distant French cousins of the Woodstones who visited the house in the early 1900s, only for a violent house robbery to take the life of their youngest daughter, Mercedes, and her loyal self appointed guard dog, Horse. Only 8 years old, it takes some time for Mercedes to understand her fate, and for some time she’d be very distressed that her family seem to be ignoring her. On the bright side, the other ghosts are there to try and make things easier, though the misfit collective have a hard time caring for a child given their circumstances, and conflicting ideas on how best to raise a little girl.

Of all the ghosts, she is closest with Thorfinn. He has a soft spot for the little girl.

[oceanwithouthermoon]

ive come to realise that i dont actually hate kubokai, i just hate the way people write them

[annabelle--cane]

biting this scene. sinking my teeth right in.