cowplantstew

[eeveonaartz]

Working on Rosii's redesigns,, Here's a blorbo-

Oh and if yall see Rosii's full name is just Rosii Oceola now. It was a mouthful before so I took out the last name- and just made Oceola her last name. I think that improved it.

[skeletoninthemelonland]

"Got you! Ha ha ha ha ha!"

[cherylblossom]

#our badass 12-year-old Demigod child going up against the God of War

[bitegore]

Zionists want you to conflate Judaism and Zionism. Zionists want you to believe that Judaism cannot exist without Zionism and that all Jews are Zionists. Zionism would have Jews believe that a Jewish state is the only way that they can be safe from antisemitism and will point to any instance of antisemitism as proof that Zionism is the solution- so Zionism wants gentiles to be antisemitic in their support of Palestine. They want you to conflate all Jews with Zionism and the state of Israel, and they want you to treat all Jews regardless of political affiliation as the face of Israel. Antizionist Jews exist, and incidences of antisemitism ostensibly acting against Zionism will not help dismantle the forces propping Zionism up.

Don't do their work for them.

[hauntedbythenarrative]

me since I was 11 yo

[mingsolo]

cute hongjoong in pink (+ jjoongrami) for @potatomountain ✸

[allmythologies]

greek & roman mythology

[sigsfigs]

Mazey with locs, I love you so!

I LOVE HER TERRIBLY!

[ukelele-boy]

the idea of Ares going to therapy instead of Apollo is funny

[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.)

[pennielane]

happy birthday abbey road sorry george hates you

[sol-thorne]

Sometime ago Jay Herrans mentioned that Epic would make a great animated show and my brain fried.

Presenting Epic: the animated God Games, or at least how it looks like in my head and with my designs.

Open them to see the crispy good quality.

Will probably draw more because I need to draw Hermes being chaotic and bouncing and Poseidon being downright terrifying.

Update: there IS more now!

[my-name-is-apollo]

My toxic trait is that I usually end up liking the characters that fandom/community excessively hate on and deny them the nuance and understanding that they readily give to other characters (who are often just as terrible lol). Sometimes I do it out of spite, sometimes because I feel sorry for them and sometimes because I start appreciating them genuinely.

[cherylblossom]

“The sea does not like to be restrained.”

[peeta-mellark]

PERCY JACKSON & THE OLYMPIANS 1x08 "The Prophecy Comes True"

[go6jo]

personally suguru is very no shirt + plaid pajama pants to me idk. when hes out of the shower and his towel is around his neck and his hair is damp and spilling down his shoulders and back, still a little clumpy when he squeezes it with his towel, his pajama pants low on his hips... then he gives u a little smile like ":) fancy seeing you here" when he runs into u post-shower at the common area by the dorms (he forgot his claw clip there) (but not really bc satoru told him you'd be studying late there so he came anyway)

( — soda bottle anon )

and he'd look so good, too. suguru is confident in his body, all sharp edges and well defined lines as if he were carved directly from stone, a statue of mars, the god of war himself, owning the scars on his chest and showing his chiseled muscles from years spent practicing and, consequently, exceeding at the martial arts, a self-made master of combat. the water droplets get caught in every crevice of his body, lingering on the dip of his collarbones then tracing a path down to his toned abdomen, slowing down as they outline every curve of his abs, down his v-line and hipbones.

anyone who looked at him right now, leaning against the doorway would've been enthralled by the sight, a godlike figure standing upright in all of his glory - mars, the god of war but also virility and sex. anyone would've readily fallen at his knees, eager to worship him but you barely even spare him a glance as you mumble a quiet hello with your nose still stuck in between the pages of your textbook.

suguru is hardly upset by your distractedness, or the lack thereof, he hadn't expected you to fall for such a cheap trick, he knows you, knows you're better than to care for such superficialities. you barely so much as bat an eye when you're both sat on the couch on movie night and he lifts his shirt over his head to tug it off of him when he mumbles something about how you're room feels like a furnace in the summer. and you show absolutely no inhibitions when the shirt he's wearing during practice is doing an awful job at concealing his body underneath it as it clings to his sweaty torso like a second skin, he tells you to not hold back and you don't. he thinks you always look entirely too tempting, chest heaving in the aftermath of your little rendezvouz, beads of sweat falling down your body and little pants escaping your parted lips. and it's all his doing. he does, however, feel your damp skin grow hotter when he slings an innocent arm over your shoulder, singing words of praise about how proud he is of you. and he means it. everytime. he thinks it's alluring really, how much more confident you've grown with each practice. you're strong and stubborn and there's always a smug smile that forces it's way to his face when you've got him with his back against the ground, looking down at him with a glare akin to that of a predator, as if you're about to devour him. he wouldn't mind it if you did. he feels you shiver under his touch when he brings your feet to rest over his lap, your body splayed out on the couch as he kneads on the sore muscles of your legs, soothing any pains you might've had, lifting both of your legs up to his lips, one at a time, to press a feather-light kiss to your slightly scraped knees. he knows what gets you going, knows the way to your heart is though lingering touches and attentive gestures, quiet words who are meant just for you whispered to your ear.

so, instead, suguru walks up to you, drying his hair on the towel wrapped around his neck and stopping once he finds himself standing behind the chair that you're sitting on, his body hovering over yours as he peeks above your head into the book you're reading "anything i can help with?"

you tilt your head backwards to stare up at him, eyes meeting his at last. “if anything, i think you might be more of a distraction when you’re dressed like that” and he would've thought that he might've had some effect on you if it weren't for the chaste smile that you cast him, not a hint of provocation in your voice either, just a light hearted joke.

he inches closer to you, reaching an arm over your shoulder to trace his index finger under the many words written on the page, eyes scanning over each paragraph as his other hand holds his hair up to prevent any water from getting on your book. he squints his eyes a little to focus on the tiny letters on the paper and you remain staring at him, a fond smile on your face as he looks so adamant on understanding the subject you're reading on. your cheeks grow warmer at how he's behaving so casually within such close proximity, as if being this close to you just feels right, familiar even. though you're just friends, intimacy comes so naturally to both of you, you should've been accustomed to it by now but everything always feels new with him, exciting.

and when his eyes shift to meet yours with a smile, you shouldn't feel the way you do, not towards a friend, anyway.

"have you, by any chance, seen my hair clip laying around somewhere" the pads of his thumbs sooth over the darkening skin under your eyes and you close your lids at the tenderness of his touch.

"oh-" you take a moment to think and your eyes widen in realization as you look down again to show him the claw clip that has been keeping your hair in place this entire time. "you can take it"

but he just pats your head once, beckoning you to lift it up "its alright." he retreats and the comforting smell of honey and star anise starts to fade away the further away he goes. your shoulders sulk instantly. “you can drop by my room when you no longer need it.”

and you're not immune to the way his voice deepens ever so slightly, his words strangely seductive as they leave his lips, body growing warmer at the prospect of what those words could've meant were you two in a different situation. you're also not entirely indifferent to the way the muscles of his back stretch under the layer of his pale, delicate yet tough skin as he finishes drying his air with a towel. you wonder what his muscles would feel like under your hands as you smooth them down his back, you imagine he would shiver when the tips of your finger brush against a sensitive spot then he'd let out the quietest of moans as you massage the soreness away. you want to feel him under you. feel his every dip, every ridge on his body. but you think that's too much to ask of a friend, you dwell on the thought that, if you were lucky enough, later tonight, when you meet him at least, you'll get to indulge in sight of him a little more.