#dreading work actually

[txmxkis]

just discovered it's supposed to start raining tonight and all day tomorrow immediately my monday is saved

[ohitslen]

Average university experience

[why-the-heck-not]

me, a responsible being, working on the coding project as I should vs. me, a dysfunctional shithead, getting distracted by reading about brains (once aGAIN damnit (it's my favorite "I need to study my field but bc I should do that it's an impossible unthinkable feat now, so I'm reading about something else to fool my brain I'm still being productive"-topic))

[lemonlurkrr]

I like it when the snakes say things

[homriette]

Samus painting commission for twt user

Asked to draw her with the metroid dread last suit...it was a very fun suit to draw

[yayi-fuji]

“Rae, why does this coin look so unique compared to the other yen?”

“Oh! See how this one has a face instead of the number of value on it? It’s because this is American currency, this here is a quarter, worth 25 cents. They have George Washington’s portrait in them.”

“That- That’s George Washington!? The first president of the United States!?”

“Uh… yah? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! I simply, uhm… envisioned him rather differently than… this.”

Based on Even in the Next One !!! This isn’t an actual scene inside the chapters, but it’s just so easy to imagine them with how lively they feel. Please go give it a read if you haven’t yet <3

To @jobrrr : AUUGHH I’M IN LOVE WITH YOUR FIC!!! It has been a few months since I last became this invested in one :’D It just feels SO real and there are so many thoughts in my head as a result; hopefully I overcome my shyness and drop a comment proper sometime soon. Thank you for your service.

ALSO @melpymoo ! HUGE thank you for reading this alongside me omfg this is crazy, never before has a hyperfix been revived this violently 😭 Ty for granting me the space to be totally normal about these 2, looking forward to the rest of your reactions ^^

[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.)

[gobstoppr]

Tetris Fanart.

I've been playing tetris while listening to horror podcasts. and yeah

[mattodore]

memory holes litter my mind, blotting out years. i don’t follow the rabbit down them.

[moomoorare]

click for better quality? tumblr loves to compress images worse than dudes repressing gay urges

Art I made for my second work in the Scales of Fate au (Blood In The Wine) featuring The Ocean Queen and her new knights Dame Gem, Lady Pearl and Earl Cleo 🌊💗

[crow-with-a-pencil]

Hi @naffeclipse I'm very normal about your fic. Have some frantic midnight sketches as extra kudos along with some tag rambling :)

[mayhemforlace]

The world owes you a great debt.

[desire-mona]

i think a big part of why wilson is so hot is bc he's very rarely seen wearing anything that doesn't include a button down with the sleeves up

[kaleiidoskope]

ddhdhjshdj forgot to post this but BOOMBOX MY BELOVED I LOVE THEM!!! /plat

i cant decide on how light/dark i want their skin to be so yea! alt versions under the cut (further rambling will be taken to tags) (i’ve decided that now…) (<- probably because i can write WALLS of text about my art and stuff if people let me) (i will GLADLYYY ramble in dms) (also tag limit jumpscare)

style practice </3

grrrgh i love this idiot they’re just so shakable

trying to draw chubby people too this is all just practice tho i’m still learning despite how long i’ve been doin art :,]

[vaguely-concerned]

playing through where the dead must go with an ingellvar rook and......... oh. rook LOVES loves the grand necropolis actually huh. you can hear it in every line they say. I'm. so full of feelings I didn't expect this to hit so hard but between the voice lines, banger music and astounding visuals (TELL ME this game is ugly and that the visual style sucks while you meet me in these halls of grieving I fucking dare you) I feel second hand drenched with grief and melancholy on the inside what the fuck

(feat. lucanis coming along unwittingly meeting future in-laws and realizing that rook has been clenching their teeth with the effort of only seeming about 5% of the freak they actually are the entire time he's known them fhsadkjfsa. local man learns that the one thing future spouse is deadly fucking serious about is their role as a watcher. it's a little hot)

[venomouslilith]

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