#THAT PARTICULAR LINE

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

License to Kitty.

[clarisse-doodles]

inspired by this post, in which Damian does not know what Vine is

[beif0ngs]

alright look, i just wanna know who is the writer that came up with the dumbass idea of replacing the line “Ever since I lost my son, I think of you as my own” with “Lu Ten would have been proud to have you as his father” in this scene for the Netflix live action series???

[avesque]

inside

pairing: ao'nung x reader

For a hunter, driving spears through fish bothered Ao’nung more than it should have. It was something about the piercing of skin, the quick flush of pink-stained waters that too callously left no trace. The action of it – cutting through the body – violating the sanctity of in and out.

Today, he made a promise to say the words explicitly. Your two feet dance in the reef’s low tide before submerging completely. No hesitation, just numbingly cold waters straight up to the thigh. The feeling of his hot hand tightly woven in yours made you feel that way – lending the power to jump in headfirst like a dare he gives, but is too scared to take. Ao’nung tightens his grip and nervously makes a call for his ilu.

“Let me guess." You puff out your chest like a boy from long ago once did. "‘If I want to live here, I have to ride’.”

His lips loosen at the jest because, frankly, his voice doesn’t sound like that - but more compelling is your cute laugh that bubbles through the ocean surface. He sucks his teeth, shakes his head like he regrets tugging you by the fingertips out of your marui pod a few moments after eclipse – he knows he doesn’t – and finally lets his eyes give you a warm once-over. “Eywa, you are aggravating.”

If it's a lie, that's for him to know. Though, if the devilish grin you wield like a weapon is any indication, then something tells him his walls never stood a chance. To that so-nourishing ground that willed water to move when it shifted, his armour was so breakable. You were made to seep through it.

“Try it,” he murmurs, shoving his spear into your palm. “Like I taught you.”

Shakily, you take the tool and bend forward into the water. Ao’nung’s arms quickly wind around your waist, keeping you steady, grounded. You make a sudden thrust of the weapon that impales into nothing and feel droplets of water smack emptily against your face.

“Fuck, that was bad." When the chuckle escapes his lips, Ao’nung winces. He hadn’t meant for it to sound so harsh, but it did, and it always seemed to.

You narrow your eyes. Irritated, he can feel it. But the water licks where it stings, fish swim together in rhythmic circles, and his laugh is pretty.

“Watch it, fish boy. I taught you that word.”

He bites his lip. The water is no longer hot, and fish tickle at his feet. “Did I use it right?”

“Yes, teacher’s pet, you’re the perfect student,” you roll your eyes. Grumbling then, “apparently, only when it comes to bad things.”

Pinching at your hips, his hands spin your body around so that your chest heaves for his eyes to see. He places a chaste kiss on your collarbone. Looking up to meet your eye-line, he reasons, “you only teach me bad things.”

“Yeah? Well, they suit you.” A playful bite to the hook he threw first, but something about those words makes Ao’nung ache on the inside. Suddenly, he jolts and lets his hands rest at your back, your body falling until it teasingly hovers just a few inches above the water.

“Do they?” His lips turn all the way up. Eyes twinkling at the precariousness of your position and your pretty face of shock an unintended bonus. He plays the game – makes the empty threat of dropping you. “Think carefully.”

Seconds later, laughter explodes from both of you. Vibrating against the water as your fists come up to slam against his chest and squeals of ‘they don’t! they don’t!’ sloppily soothe Ao’nung’s anxiety. He pulls you up and your hands cup tenderly at his soft cheeks.

“Say something nice.” You whisper. Ao’nung feels dizzy from the warmth in your stare. His casts his eyes down, not wanting to be seen. Not knowing how to release the words that are stuck in his throat. The truth that scratches. The sickening vulnerability of insides clawing their way out. He is hiding, his forehead pinches, and you notice it.

“What’s on your mind, pretty boy?” Eyes closed, he leans into your touch. Then he brings his hand behind your neck, gently pushes until your head rests against his hard chest, and all you can hear is his heartbeat hammer, hammer, hammer. You trace the pretty ‘X’ of his sternum.

“Nothing. Just you.”

Perhaps for too long, the two of you sway together in the water. When the coolness of it sinks back to your ankles, Ao’nung’s spear is back in your hand, and there is a certain clarity in the way he keeps you cradled inside his arms.

It is in the pearls he keeps in his pockets for your collection. In the meatiest bites of fish that he leaves to the side for you to eat later. In the warmth of his body ghosting yours when you finally catch a fish - in the way he taught you - spear right through the inside.

It is his love, inextricably. The action of it. Inside everything.

reblogs/tags are appreciated <333

[fangirls-just-want-to-have-fun]

Brennan is just fucking with us at this point because what do you mean in the the span of less than twenty minutes he both made the conscious decision to have Evan snuggle with Sam (and thus that ENTIRE scene) and then also dropped the line "There are things that are so worth protecting that they are worth killing for." I know he knows DAMN WELL

[padmestrilogy]

x

[sillysundial]

Mini Bugbo animation

Bugbo belongs to Bensilly on YouTube!

[chongoblog]

U N J U S T I F I A B L Y I N A P O S I T I O N I ‘ D R A T H E R N O T B E I N

[canisalbus]

I love the way vasco is drawn and shaded, my favorite is always the highlight on his nose <3

Thank you! It's such a small thing but the little highlight at the tip of their noses is actually one of my favorite details to draw ´v`

It doesn't do anything per se (besides making their snouts look a bit moist I guess) but it's usually the last thing I add when drawing their faces and it's such a satisfying final touch.

[demaparbat-hp]

Want to know what I believe? It's right here

Dig a little deeper and it's crystal clear

.

(WIP)

[essektheylyss]

Fearne had, in true Fearne fashion, wrapped herself like a personal pashmina around Dorian, which left Orym to curl into his chest.

They had slept this way dozens of times before. Fearne’s blackened fingers wrapped tightly around his forearm as she snored loudly into Dorian’s ear. Orym’s head rested on Dorian’s bicep, his arms folded together between them, and his bare feet were gingerly resting upon Dorian’s thighs just above the knees, as Dorian had coiled enough to let Fearne’s fuzzy leg stretch over his hip. They were exhausted, and this was familiar, and he should’ve been fast asleep.

But Orym’s mind buzzed.

Fearne had always been a strong source of heat, but now she was a furnace, and even without covers it was too warm. But Fearne was not the reason why Orym’s skin burned where it met Dorian’s.

He was a fucking grown man. He was fully capable of admitting that.

Admitting it didn’t change it.

Neither did it change his awareness that Dorian had been too still for the past hour, his breath too precise and measured to be natural as it fell upon Orym’s hair. Orym was not going to presume that the cause of this was the same thing afflicting him; there were plenty of other reasons Dorian would be lying awake tonight.

“My family will find your brother,” he murmured finally, and Dorian’s breath wavered for just an instant before he regained his composure and returned to his measured, singer’s breathing. It was so slight that no one else could’ve noticed it, but Orym noticed. “You said there’s a body— the Tempest can bring him back, or Fearne, honestly—“

“I know,” Dorian answered, and this too was so faint that no one but Orym could’ve heard. “I know,” he said again, as though this one was only to appease himself.

“Do you think… do you think any of Opal is still in there?”

“I don’t know. I could barely tell what was in there—“ he cut himself off. “I couldn’t even help my brother. I think Fy’ra Rai might’ve… she must’ve seen something. I hope so,” he added, inhaling, trying to capture an airy tone that he didn’t fully manage. “The Spider Queen doesn’t deserve her. She doesn’t deserve anything.”

Orym had nothing to say to this. He hadn’t cared what the gods did or didn’t deserve in weeks, but now he could see the vein of fury that sharpened Dorian’s edges. It didn’t frighten him the way it had frightened him months ago, when things had been simpler, when there was not a war to be fought. It simply saddened him. “I’m so sorry about Opal,” he said, after the silence had lingered. “But I’m,” he breathed out a single dark laugh at himself, his selfishness, “I’m real glad it wasn’t you.”

Dorian’s laugh matched his own. “I suppose that is a silver lining.”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Orym admitted. It was easier to keep his voice from cracking at a whisper. “I’ve thought about seeing you again so many times— I wish the circumstances were better—“

“I’m here,” Dorian said, for the second time today. “The circumstances tried very hard to make even that impossible, but— I’m here.”

Orym pulled his arm gently out of Fearne’s grasp and raised his hand to Dorian’s cheek. It was too dark to see the tinge of lavender against his skin, but Orym could feel the warmth bloom beneath his fingers. He still couldn’t bring himself to attribute his friend’s insomnia to anything so self-serving as his own, but perhaps it was one factor.

He pulled his hand back. Was there a flash of disappointment in Dorian’s eyes? He couldn’t tell in the dark. But he brushed his fingers together, drawing upon the wellspring of life within the ground beneath this hastily-erected encampment. The Hellcatch looked like a barren wasteland to most, but that life was still present even here.

Perhaps not now, but after a rainy season, the valley would bloom with wildflowers. The seeds waited in the earth for their time to sprout. Life went on, even in the darkest of places.

He produced a small stalk of life from his hands, and held out the tiny bundle of forget-me-nots to Dorian.

He should’ve said that they were for Cyrus, to remember him by. He wanted to say that they were for Dorian himself, that a day hadn’t gone by that he hadn’t thought of him. He didn’t speak at all as Dorian’s hand wrapped around Orym’s, pinching the stem beneath his fingers but not letting go.

“Orym,” Dorian breathed, looking from the flowers to his face. Then a strange expression came over his face, a wrinkle of consternation as he stared into the middle distance. “Fearne, are you braiding my hair?”

Orym lifted his head an inch to peer past Dorian’s ear. He had noticed that the snoring had stopped, but he’d been too caught up in the conversation to process it. Fearne’s wide eyes stared back with perfect innocence, her hands indeed weaving Dorian’s hair into a loose braid.

“Just pretend I’m not here,” she whispered quickly. “I’m totally not here.”

When Orym dropped his head back to Dorian’s arm, he was met with a crooked smile. It was not meant to be disarming, but it disarmed him anyway.

“Just like old times, eh?” he said, but his hand was still around Orym’s.

Carefully, Orym moved to tuck the flower behind Dorian’s ear, bringing both of their hands with him, and then laced their fingers together instead. “No,” he said, and tucked his head so that his brow rested against Dorian’s chin, and pressed their entwined hands to his lips. “But I think that’s okay.”

[da-cti]

This line from the Invictus poem by William Henley seemed extremely fitting for season 2 Arthur. Alt version without the black borders under the cut

[russian-spider]

after charles screamed you abandoned me at erik in dofp i think they should have angry kissed tbh

[wellntruly]

If you read the novel Catch-22 (1961), about U.S. Army pilots & sundry stationed on a Greek island during World War II, you will encounter this off-hand description during the period where Yossarian is hiding in the field hospital:

At which you will either pause worryingly, or you’re normal.

I am not normal, because I have watched the television show M*A*S*H (1972-1983), about U.S. Army medical staff in a mobile surgical unit during the Korean War, and which features a character called Hawkeye Pierce, who frequently looks like this:

Now this bathrobe, iconic simply, appears red to the observer. However, deep into the run there is a line in which Hawkeye refers to it as "purple"—great consternation. But film cameras and light waves being what they are (capricious, devilish), it could very well be maroon in life. It could very well be maroon. It’s what I assumed after that comment. But what I'd never asked was, what is it made out of? Is that corduroy, could it be corduroy, could this be—

Oh noooooooo!

Why is Hawkeye the only one who is wearing the robe of patients from the last war, I ask you! Is it for the METAPHOR. To make me YELL. Did the costume department make it for him, or did they just already have one on hand in the WWII storage? Wait it wasn't real was it? Where is it, where is this robe!

Well babe, it’s in the Smithsonian:

A) of all, fucking fantastic, could not be a place I more want Alan Alda’s bathrobe as Hawkeye Pierce to be than the National Museum of American History. B) well well well well well, what do we have here:

[sic]

So looking THAT up brings you nothing that makes any sense, even trying to correct for spelling. But not to fear: historical re-enactors are here.

On the website of the “WW2 US Medical Research Centre,” an absolutely delightful combination of words and spelling brought to you by two European history buffs, and that’s Europeans who are obsessed with history, specifically American medical units in the 1940s, there’s a page for pajamas, and why look who’s here:

OH ho oh HO!

“Progressive Coat & Apron Mfg. Co.” is so similarly bizarre that I would be very willing to bet that something like idk, the imperfect process of digitizing thousands of records for a website catalog, could have absolutely resulted in “Agressive Coat and Manufacturing Company.” Which would mean yeah, yeah yeah: vintage World War II, slash Korea, just five years later. It was authentic, what they gave Alda to wear, along with his dog tags.

Just Hawkeye though still, which is what's odd.

BUT HANG ON.

Heeeeey now!

So I was recently reminded that in the pilot episode, but the pilot episode only, Wayne Rogers as Trapper John McIntyre also has the regulation corduroy MD/USA bathrobe! In fact, he actually has what would appear to become Hawkeye’s—observe the location of the embroidery. Pocket, like Hawkeye’s in every robe appearance after this first episode, the robe that ends up in the Smithsonian Museum. Whereas the one with the embroidery on the chest that's hanging above Hawkeye's cot here, a common variant that shows up when you’re searching around on military history websites, after this appearance I believe is seen just once more on a visiting colonel later in the first season, then quietly vanishes. Alda ends up in Trapper's, and stays in it for keeps, while Rogers gets, of all things, a cheery goldenrod terry number.

But like, why. Why just Hawkeye in the WWII surplus robe. Both Doyle and Watson have avenues here that I like to think about. For the Doylist side, I suspect it was a decision of like, this is simply too matchy. It’s 1972, our TV screens are small, we gotta take any chance we can get to distinguish these tall white men constantly wearing the same of two monochrome outfits.

In fact, I actually wonder if there was a world where Trapper might have stayed in the maroon and Hawkeye could have ended up in Henry’s robe.

The light blue & white striped bathrobe McLean Stevenson wore as Henry Blake was sold at auction in 2018, and the item description contains the curious detail of it having a handwritten tag inside reading “Hawkeye.” Well heeeyy again.

And here’s another curious detail:

There was a blue & white striped Army-issue robe as well

Now Henry’s is clearly NOT vintage WWII, lacking the pocket embroidery, being terry cloth, and also of course: pastel. But it’s INTERESTING, isn’t it? They had to have been GOING for that look, with that same unusual collar shape and that multi-stripe patterning.

(Also, for real 'what the hell even IS this color' fun, this militaria collectors purveyor has one of the maroon versions too, with photos you can page though and laugh as it flips between looking clearly purple and clearly red in every other photograph. Cameras!!!)

Anyway now we turn to the Watsonian explanation, which seems to run like this: the men at the 4077 were just casually passing their robes around to each other. It's about the intimacy in the face of war, etc. I can see bathrobes going missing when they bug out, getting stolen from the laundry by Klinger and scrapped for parts, being handed off to a poor cold Korean kid who needs it more, and then they need to get to the showers and one of them is like hey, just take mine, and then it’s his now. And eventually most of them end up in warmer-looking civilian robes than the Army holdovers that were being distributed early on, but Hawkeye, he just hung on to Trapper's.

And as a side effect, still looks like he's been injured in World War II.

[garygoldenbignaturals]

found this small miraak from my old laptop

[inkskinned]

you wanted to be a good friend, because you loved your friends, but the truth was that everyone else somehow had a pamphlet on being normal that you never received. most of the time you learn by trial-and-error. you are terrified of the next big mistake you make, because it seems like the rules are completely arbitrary.

you've learned to keep the prickly parts of your personality in a stormcloud under your bed - as if they're a second version of you; one that will make your friends hate you. it feels feral, burning, ugly.

instead, you have assembled habits based on the statistical likelihood of pleasing others. you're a good listener, which is to say - if you do speak up, you might end up saying the wrong thing and scaring off someone, but people tend to like someone-who-listens. or you've got no true desires or goals, because people like it when you're passive, mutable. you're "not easy to fluster" which is to say - your emotions are fundamentally uninteresting to others around you; so you've learned to control them to a degree that you can no longer really feel them happening.

you have long suspected something is wrong with you, but most of the time, googling doesn't help. you are so-used to helping-yourself, alone and with no handbook. the reek of your real self feels more like a horrible joke - you wake up, and, despite all your preparations, suddenly the whole house is full of smoke. the real you is someone waiting to ruin your other-life, the one where you're normal and happy. the real-self is unpredictable, angry.

your real self snarls when people infantilize the whole situation. because if you were really suffering, everyone seems to think you'd be completely unable to cope. but you already learned the rules, so you do know how to cope, and you have fucking been coping. it's not black-and-white. it's not that you are healed during the other times - it's just that you're able to fucking try. and honestly, whenever you show symptoms, it's a really fucking bad sign.

because the symptoms you have are ugly and unmanageable for others. your symptoms aren't waifish white girl things. they're annoying and complicated. they will be the subject of so many pretentious instagram reels. if they cared about you, they'd just show up on time. you care, a lot, so deeply it burns you. you like to picture a world where the comments read if they loved you, they'd never need glasses to see. but since that's a rule you've seen repeated - "one must never be late or you are a bad friend" - you constantly worry about being late and leave agonizingly early. there are no words for how you feel when you're still late; no matter how hard you were trying.

so you have to make up for it. you have to make up for that little horrible real you that you keep locked in a cabinet. you are bad at answering emails so every project you make has to be perfect. you are weird and sensitive so you have to learn to be funny and interesting. you are an inconvenience to others, so you become as smooth as possible, buffing out all the rough parts.

all this. all this. so people can pass their hands over you and just tell you just the once -how good you are. you're a good friend. you're loveable.