#ahhhh anyways
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pawzmo · 5 months ago
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is this moonflower
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honeycreammilkshake · 4 months ago
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we know that fighting is sukuna's canonical "love language"....
so what is this???
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the level of physicality and closeness in all their fights is making me rabid. sukuna really gives yuuji such special treatment .... not only does he spare yuuji's life so many times when he could have killed him, he also keeps fighting yuuji in close combat when he literally has a cursed technique that can slice people apart from a distance.
this is a choice he's making to get so skin-to-skin with the enemy he's supposed to hate.
also, the way he was (unnecessarily) cradling yuuji's neck almost gently as he literally beats into him, how he's grabbing onto yuuji and just manhandling him — i'm no going to lie, it's almost carnal. how is so much intimacy in all of their fights compared to everyone else sukuna clashes with?
and the way sukuna is so expressive and uncharacteristically emotional whenever he gets to face yuuji. that brat just works him up so bad—
it's especially interesting when sukuna looks almost proud or excited to see what yuuji can do.
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also.... sukuna, why do you look so excited for yuuji to come beat you up? is this like a date to you???
i mean, to be fair, sukuna probably considers violent brawling a love confession so no wonder why he's always ready to take on yuuji.
even in the official art he's so obviously into it.
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the way he's smirking down at yuuji, holding onto his wrist, it's like he can't stop touching him. probably misses the closeness they used to have back when the brat was his vessel tbh.
i especially love that one scene where he literally sat on yuuji
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he didn't have to do that. he just wanted to pin his brat down <3
"you're mine, you're not going anywhere without my permission" kind of thing really. like a bully with a crush would do.
in conclusion, sukuna gets off on throwing his boy around and feeling him up. it's just fact.
and yuuji is more than likely into it, too....
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this means they share the same kinks traits to me tbh. if sukuna really did survive, i would like to believe that they would go on fighting hard with each other, even over the stupidest things. domestic cursed husbands to me <3
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dragoncarrion · 5 months ago
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Ahhhhh some silly templates that I had lots of fun doing 🐎 sources: x x
The drawings on the first ship chart were done by the ant I hold captive so it draws me images (@hellyeahpancakes) she also gave me the idea of putting the wolf and ant bindle teehee
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deaddriv · 5 months ago
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Translated with permission!!
Here's the author's Twitter (achu_0u0) and the original post!
Note from author: Wouldn't it be hard for half-foots to go to the movie theater?
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MOREE because I actually can't stop, guys help
Anyways yeah the portal thing still happened in this universe 🙏 now they can live together for 30 years fixing it! Hooray!!
Previous!!
Next!!
First!!
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barghest-land · 1 year ago
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i always forget to post my sketches from paleostreams, time to post lots of creatures!! some drawings are new, some old :)
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joycrispy · 1 year ago
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One thing I love about Crowley --never stated, but consistently shown-- is that he is, at heart, an engineer.
I have a few different things to say about that. Let's unpack them.
As the Unnamed Angel, we see his designs for the Pillars of Creation are millions of pages long, comprised of cramped text, footnotes, diagrams, schematics, etc. It's very...Renaissance polymath, in the way it implies a particular intersection of artist and inventor.
Also: in the naked romanticism with which he views his stars.
We already knew he made stars, but in s2 we learn that he did NOT sculpt each of them by hand. He designed a nebula ("a star factory," he says) that will form several thousand young stars and proto-planets, and all --aside from getting the 'factory' running-- without him lifting a finger. We also learn that these young stars and proto-planets stand in contrast to those made by other angels, which are going to come 'pre-aged.'
...I'm reminded of Hastur and Ligur's approach to temptations. Damning one human soul at a time, devoting singular attention to it over the course of years or decades, and how that stands in contrast to Crowley's reliance on, quote, 'knock-on effects.'
Ligur: It's not exactly...craftsmanship. Crowley: Head office don't seem to mind. They love me down there.
Hm.
I'm also reminded of the M25.
The M25 may not be as grand as a nebula (sentences you only say in GOmens fandom...), but LIKE his nebula it's an intricate, self-sustaining engine that does Crowley's work for him, many times over. Again.
That's some pretty neat characterization --and so is the indication towards Crowley's disinterest in victimizing anyone tempting individual people. It takes a considerable amount of planning and effort (and creeping about in wellies), but in accordance with his design the M25 generates a constant stream of low-grade evil on a gigantic scale.
Cumulatively gigantic, that is. Individually? Negligible.
But no other demon understands human nature well enough to parse that one million ticked-off motorists are not, in any meaningful way, actually equivalent to one dictator, or one mass-murderer, or even one little influential regressive. That's the trick of it. Crowley gets Hell's approval (which he NEEDS to survive, and to maintain the degree of freedom he's eked out for himself), and at the same time ensures that any actual ~Evil Influence~ is spread nice and thin.
It's some clever machinery. And he knows it, too:
The Unnamed Angel and Crowley are both proud of their ideas.
(musings on professional pride, Leonardo da Vinci, the crank handle, and 'the point to which Crowley loves Aziraphale' under the cut)
In the 1970's Crowley gives a presentation on the M25, projector and all, to a room full of increasingly impatient demons. Maybe the presentation was work-ordered; the 'can I hear a WAHOO?' definitely wasn't.
Before the Beginning, the Unnamed Angel can barely contain his excitement about his nebula. Aziraphale manages a baffled-but-polite, "....That's nice... :)"
11 years ago, Hastur and Ligur want to 'tell the deeds of the day,' and Crowley smiles to himself because (according to the script-book) he knows he has 'the best one.'
(Naturally, his 'deed' has nothing to do with tempting anybody, and everything to do with setting up a human-powered Rube-Goldberg machine of petty annoyance. Oodles of 'Evil' generated; very little harm done.)
Hastur and Ligur don't get it, of course. That's also consistent.
Nobody ever knows what the hell he's talking about.
It didn't make it on-screen, but, in both the novel AND the script-book, Crowley was friends with Leonardo da Vinci. The quintessential Renaissance polymath. That's where he got his drawing of the Mona Lisa --they're getting very drunk together, and Crowley picks up the 'most beautiful' of the preliminary sketches. He wants to buy it. Leonardo agrees almost off-the-cuff, very casual, because they're friends, and because he has bigger fish to fry than haggling over a doodle:
He goes, "Now, explain this helicopter thingie again, will you?" Because he's an engineer, too.
(It is 1519 at the latest, in this scene. Why the FUCK would Crowley know about helicopters, and be able to explain them, comprehensively, to Leonardo da Vinci?
...Well. I choose to believe he got bored one day and worked it out. Look, if you know how to build a nebula, you can probably handle aerodynamics. And anyway, I think it's telling that this is his idea of shooting the shit. 'A drunken mind speaks a sober heart,' and all. He probably babbled about Aziraphale long enough to make poor Leo sick)
Apart from Aziraphale, Leonardo da Vinci is the only person Crowley has any keepsakes or mementos of.
Think about that, though. Aziraphale's bookshop is bursting with letters, paintings, busts, and personalized signatures memorializing all the humans he's known and befriended over 6000 years (indeed: Aziraphale has living human friends up and down Whickber Street. He's part of a community).
Crowley doesn't have any of that. It's just the stone albatross from the Church (for pining), the infamous gay sex statue (for spicy pining), the houseplants (for roleplaying his deepest trauma over and over, as one does), and this one piece of artwork, inscribed, "To my friend Anthony from your friend Leo da V."
To me, at least, that suggests a level of attachment that seems to be rare for Crowley.
...Maybe he liked having someone to talk shop with? Someone who was interested? Someone engaged enough to ask questions when they didn't immediately understand?
...Anyway.
There's also the matter of the crank handle.
This thing:
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This is one of the subtler changes from the book. In the book, Crowley knows Satan is coming and, desperate, arms himself with a tire iron. It's the best he can do. He's not Aziraphale; he wasn't made to wield a flaming sword.
The show, IMO, improves on this considerably. Now he, like Aziraphale, gets to face annihilation with what he was made for in his hand. And it's not a weapon, not even an improvised one like the tire iron.
He made stars with it.
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[both gifs by @fuckyeahgoodomens]
If you Google 'crank handle,' you'll get variations on this:
Crank handles have been around for centuries. Consisting of a mechanical arm that's connected to a perpendicular rotating shaft, they are designed to convert circular motion into rotary or reciprocating motion.
Which is to say they're one of the 'simple machines,' like a lever or a pulley; the bread and butter of engineering. You'll also get a list of uses for a crank handle, archaic and modern. Among them: cranking up the engine of an old-fashioned car... say, a 1933 Bentley. That's what Crowley has been using his for, lately. But he's had it since he was an angel and he's still, it seems, very capable of it's angelic applications.
Stopping time. For instance.
(This is conjecture on my part, but, I like to imagine that Crowley has the ability to stop time for the same reason I can --and should-- unplug my computer before I perform maintenance on it. Time and Space are a matched set, after all, and in his designs in particular, one feeds into the other.)
I know everyone has already said this, but: I REALLY LIKE that when he needs to channel the heights of his power, he does so not with a weapon but with a tool. Practically with a little handheld metaphor for ingenuity. One from long-lost days when he made beautiful things.
(And he loved it. Still loves it --he incorporated that metaphor into the Bentley, didn't he?)
Let Aziraphale rock up to the apocalypse with a weapon: he has his own compelling thematic reasons to do exactly that. Crowley's story is different, and fighting isn't the only way to express defiance. And if you've been condemned as a demon and assumed to be destructive by your very nature, what better way than this?
He made stars. They didn't manage to take that from him.
Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale are fighters, really --they have no intention of fighting in any war. They'll annoy everyone until there's no war to fight in, for a start. But between the two, if one must be, then that one is Aziraphale. Principality of the Earth, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Wielder of the Flaming Sword... all that stuff. Even if he'd prefer not to, it's very clear that Aziraphale can rise to the occasion, if he must.
Crowley was never that kind of angel. He wasn't a Principality. He doesn't have a sword.
...And yet.
It's Crowley who protects. He's the one who paces, who stands guard, who circles Aziraphale and glares out at the world, just daring anyone else to come near.
In light of everything else I've said here, I think that's interesting.
Obviously part of it is that Aziraphale enjoys it and, you know, good for him. He's living his best life, no doubt no doubt no doubt. But what about Crowley? What's driving that behavior, really?
Have you heard the phrase, 'loved to the point of invention'? Well, what if 'the point of invention' was where you started? What if where you end up involves glaring out at the world, just daring anyone else to come near? What is that, in relation to the bright-eyed thing you used to be?
What do we name the point to which Crowley loves Aziraphale?
...Thinking about how an excitable angel with three million pages of star design he wants to tell you all about...becomes a guard dog. Is all.
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witsserviceablesubstitute · 5 months ago
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I love doing What Pride Had Wrought with Solas because he starts gossiping about the Evanuris and it's the most suss he's ever been.
He successfully maintained his cover as a nondescript scholarly wanderer for most of the Inquisition but needs to break character completely to tell everyone that Falon'Din was a vain idiot.
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vampyfrnk · 6 months ago
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me every day of my life.
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fenharel · 28 days ago
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It won't be terrible if you're with me. (insp 💜)
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triona-tribblescore · 9 months ago
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Started making Angel's birthday art, had a breakdown, Bon appetite! His birthdays before he joined the hotel probably weren't the best :<
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chiricat · 2 years ago
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[photo added to the archives!] 🍡
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haveihitanerve · 10 days ago
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batman has trouble telling his family how he feels. So he decides he can write it down in a journal or leave them notes. It's easy to write down the words than say them because the words he wants to say always get lost in translation when he opens his mouth. Dickie when he was robin has a whole box filled with notes from Bruce. Turns out batman can be funny when he writes his thoughts down. Jason writes back to Bruce just as sassy.
i love this
With Dick, the first note appeared after the first fight. A nasty fight, where Dick had screamed
"YOU'RE NOT MY DAD, WHY DO YOU EVEN CARE, I DON'T HAVE TO LISTEN TO YOU!!!!"
Bruce had gone quiet after the words, and isolated himself away. Dick had felt crummy afterwards, but there wasn't much to do about it, Bruce wasn't around to apologize to and... well, it was true. The screams had just been... inner thoughts he hadn't voiced.
Bruce knew it too. And, it shouldn't have to be up to Dick to make amends. So he withdrew to his office, locked it tight, so that he wouldn't say words he'd regret and make things worse with Dick.
The first few drafts... were hard. But Bruce found his rhythm, and it was so much better. He could erase and start again, and reword, and clear up any parts that weren't clear. He could be concise, precise, honest and literate, he didn't have to stumble and rip his way through an uncomfortable conversation where he'd make things worse.
Dick found the note later that night, laying on his pillow, three pages worth of words that told him he was loved, whether or not he wanted Bruce to be his dad, he could just remain a friend, a brother if he wanted, and that he cared, even if it wasn't always shown, even if it wasn't as a father.
Bruce established boundaries, and apologized too, because it was needed, and it was so much easier to say what he needed to through written words, instead of admitting them aloud. Maybe it made him a coward, it made him a coward, but the next morning Dick hugged him and apologized back, so it worked.
The notes became frequent from then on, usually after fights, or misunderstandings, and Dick understood the need, knew that Bruce wasn't as able to concisely share his thoughts and formulate them as well on the spot aloud, so he let it happen, but soon they became more commonplace, left on chimneys on patrol for Dick to find, little love notes and encouraging words that Bruce became better at saying aloud too.
Dick kept each one, tucking them safely into his belt, and kept them in a box in his closet, one he had made at school with Bruce during a parent-child fun day, and pulled them out to read every so often, when things between them got hard.
The box moved with him, stuffed in the closet at Bludhaven, and postage was expensive, travel even more so, but Bruce still sent him letters, apologies Dick didn't open, notes taped to his window he tossed away (still into a pile he never threw out, but never read either).
When things got better, Dick would read the notes, but he never touched the letters from before, because for once he needed the words from Bruce's lips, and he had liked Bruce's stumbling, his faltering and chagrin, and did not want to read his well thought out, thorough one instead. He still kept the notes, of course.
With Barbara.... Bruce didn't have a claim to her. She wasn't his daughter. She wasn't looking for a father. She wasn't, quite honestly, even looking for a mentor. But she found one in him anyway, whether either of them liked it or not.
But Bruce still sent her notes. Little letters, facts, information, telling her through a note was easier than in person. Because then he could lay it all out, and maybe she'd see something he'd missed. Because she always did. She completed him, in a way none of the other did. In a way even Dick didn't. But, then again, they all completed him in different ways. Hers was just more noticeable.
After Joker... every day he wrote to her, flooding her phone with messages, her laptop with emails, her room with cards and flowers and notes.
And when she moved to the Clock Tower it didn't stop, maybe slowed a little, became smaller in quantity, but he always sent her something. Let her check over his work, proofread anything and everything. His fresh set of eyes.
She wrote back, sometimes. But she was more like Dick in that regard, choosing to answer his messages verbally rather than write back. She did have the perfect time to do it too, and she always had something to say.
Barbara never struggled with her words the way he did. And he appreciated it. Loved it, even. Even if it usually didn't mean anything good for him...
With Jason... Bruce hadn't done it, originally, because Jason was just so bright, and understood, and didn't need the words because he heard them because Bruce was better, all the mistakes he'd made with Dick cleaned up a bit.
But Jason needed the words, and he had such a spark, so Bruce began writing again, sliding notes under his son's door and leaving them taped around the house, or on patrol. And Jason, Jason wrote back.
Little witty notes, marked up Bruce letters with grammar corrections, book recommendations, questions about what they were eating for dinner, or little stories, scrawled in the margins of notebook paper, stuck to Bruce's cape, or on his pillow, or taped to his mirror.
Bruce still wrote the letters, left them in Jason's room, after his death. Red Hood never mentioned it, but after a trip to the manor to "haunt" them, he became a little less violent.
With Tim, Bruce was ashamed to admit, he just didn't care. He didn't care that Tim winced at his words, he didn't care if he was misunderstood, he didn't care if he neglected the boy.
And it hurt, Bruce knew it hurt him, but he just didn't care, couldn't bring himself to, not when Tim was so much like the boy he'd lost, not when Tim was so different.
But Tim started writing letters, originally just for himself, begging for affection, begging for his parents to love him, begging for Bruce to notice him. Then the notes got angry, rants, screaming, slashes across the page, pencil marks that tore paper and dug groves into the table.
He kept them all to himself, waded up in the corner of his room, but Bruce found them, found them all, and he hated himself, hated the Drakes, but he couldn't even fault them because he, oh he was much worse. (no he wasn't the Drakes owed Tim love and affection those were his parents and a child deserves that from his parents Bruce tech didn't owe him anything but shiii he was awful and-)
So Bruce started writing again, answering all of Tim's pleas, cataloging every single movement and jump and case and file and everything Tim had ever done right and congratulating him, giving him pride Bruce wasn't even sure he was allowed to give anymore, and he apologized, begged for forgiveness, for a chance to start over, because he was better now, Tim had made him better, and he wanted... he wanted to be better. For Tim.
In the end the note was twenty three pages long, and ended with the simple phrase, "I love you, you are my Robin, and I'm so sorry"
Tim was at school, so Bruce left it on his bed, and shut himself away in the cave until he got home. He always stopped by his room first, tidying everything up, because he was only a "guest" and all, before heading down to the cave.
Bruce waited for two hours. When Tim finally came into the cave, his eyes were red, tears still falling down his face.
"Oh Timmy," Bruce breathed. "I'm so so sorry." Tim walked to him, and collapsed in his arms.
And from then on, things were better. Not perfect, nothing to do with Bruce's personal life was perfect, but it was better. It was good. And Bruce started sending notes. Slowly, they turned from letters into emails, into texts and shared google docs. So Tim would have evidence in his favored form, of Bruce's love.
With Stephanie... things were different. She didn't live at the manor. She had a father, albeit a bad one, and Bruce didn't want to give her another one of those.
But he still left her notes, information, or clues, things that gave her autonomy for a bit, let her work still "alone" as Spoiler, but kept her connected to him. To Robin. And when she died...
Bruce gave every letter to Leslie. Not because he knew, exactly, but because he knew she was closer to Stephanie, and he couldn't have them at home. Couldn't look at them.
Leslie gave every one to Steph. Who read them. Sometimes. Enough times that when she came back, she wasn't as hard on Bruce. Enough times that she let him hug her. And came over for dinner. And never regretted being Robin. Enough times to admit she loved him too. And that he would never be her father. Because at his core, he was a good person, and Arthur Brown was not that.
With Cassandra, Bruce didn't write letters. Not only because Cass couldn't read, but because she could read him. And no words were necessary. For once, he could love someone in silence.
With Damian, words came easier, somehow. Maybe because Damian needed words, needed the commands to be spoken aloud, needed the reprimand or the praise. He needed the tone, couldn't weed it out of what Bruce had written like the others, needed the verbal confirmation or denial.
Bruce needed the words to. To tell his son it was alright to mess up, to make mistakes. He needed to words to reassure his son that harsh language was the extent of what he was going to get. That punishment wasn't physical in their world. In his home.
He wrote Damian letters too, of course, in the case his youngest might feel excluded, but usually only at special occasions, a card for his birthday, or a quick poem to brighten his day.
And words... words came easier now. After so many. It was easier to tell Damian what he needed, aloud as well as on paper. It was easier to speak, to not stumble over his words, to praise and apologize. A good thing too, because Damian needed it. And maybe... maybe Bruce did too.
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jinikaris · 3 months ago
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/ᐠ > ˕ マ Ⳋ birthday cat ⟢ 2024 birthday stream
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velvetwyrme · 2 months ago
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Oh! Drawing requests open! Would you mayhaps be interesting in drawing Fell Papyrus offering the human a hug in a genocide route confrontation? Just a spot of angst.
I hope you're having fun with these and staying hydrated! Sliding you a glass of water rn.
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* Papyrus is sparing you.
floof comin in with the steel chair angst once again!!! ;0;!!!! anyway its up to you to decide what happens next </3
requests closed!
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breanna777 · 10 months ago
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This photo of papa is so unreal
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