#they look related tbh

[merlins-strawberriesandroses]

POV you’ve informed the Queen and the Court’s Sorcerer of something and they very clearly know something that they’re not letting on

[fuckyeahchinesefashion]

Cnetizens: 'OMG TV shows in the 90's were much better than today''We were so well fed in the past'

[bunnieswithknives]

I feel bad for neglecting Hazel so much, I do have many thoughts about her.. and also a mermaid au that im probably not going to do anything with

[aria-greenhoodie]

Have some meme redraws of the radioactive old man yaoi ft. my Human Bill design again‼️

Click for Quality!

[markscherz]

‘But I am very poorly today & very stupid & hate everyone & everything’

- Charles Darwin. Letter to Charles Lyell, 1 October 1861

[subaru-copilot]

Max Verstappen, Gianpiero Lambiase Silverstone, 2023

[r-aindr0p]

Too many genshin characters, no way I'm doing that many stickers in such a short period of time for the con I'll attend so I settled for the french (a few of them/the faves).

Yea Neuvillette is the fave, so I drew him twice, I love character with blue so much hhfhdsljf

simplifying their costumes was a bit of a struggle, especially for furina and neuvillette omg

[wyrmswears]

its only been a day since the new episodes dropped and im already making a libber centric au out of it

anyway, heres some doodles of if libber was in super-hell all these years and thats why we never see her

[vo09]

[jedi-enthusiasm-blog]

"Luke is different from the dogmatic PT Jedi! He saved his father with his attachment!"

Wrong. Luke didn't save Vader with his attachment, Luke saved Vader with compassion. Y'know, the unconditional love that is central to every Jedi's life.

Luke being attached to Vader would imply that Luke needs his father in his life to be happy. It would imply that, when Anakin asked his son to take off the mask, Luke wouldn't do it and would keep dragging Anakin to the shuttle. Perhaps that would have saved his father's life.

Attachment, despite looking like love on the surface, is not only a different thing, it's love's complete antithesis! Attachment is selfish, self-centered, it focuses more on your happiness than the other person's wellbeing. It's fear of loss, greed of wanting to stop the inevitable, and anger and hate when it eventually fails.

But… Luke doesn't do that. Luke stops and listens, and follows with his father's last request. In a way, you could argue that Luke killed Anakin, because he took off the life support that prevented Vader from dying. Luke does that because he respects his father's wishes, what his father wants, and puts it above his desire to have his father in his life.

When Anakin dies, Luke grieves for him, mourns for his father and for a life lost because he's that much of a saintly, kind-hearted soul.

But then he sees the Force Ghosts of his father and his Jedi Masters.

Luke smiles, his spirits lifted, and joins Han, Leia and the rest of the rebels on the celebration.

Because that's what compassion, true unconditional love is, not needing people in your life, being able to be happy without them, but loving and caring for them anyways.

That's what the Jedi believe, and that's what Luke embodies more than anything else.

[carlarte]

Oh, Hazel, look! The field! It’s covered with blood!’

Fiver is my favorite character in Watership Down, he's just like me fr. I was afraid this wouldn't read especifically as Fiver, but alas... i liked my initial sketch a lot so i kept it as it was.

[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.)

[sadkachow]

i am like The Distortion because i, too, am Me but also Not Me in a way that is extremely difficult to put into words, and because i have an immensely complicated relationship with the sense of "self" and what that actually means, in this essay i will-

[mitchyhawk]

sorry i romanticized you maintaining eye contact like a normal person. i grew up reading wattpad

[manicpixiedreamedwins]

Honestly the fact that Charles looks for reassurance from Edwin is really cute?? Like those little moments where he’a working through whether it’s a good idea to take a case, and he looks to Edwin for confirmation? Or he notices something and just has to share? Even in the most intense moments, like when he first refuses to let them be taken by the night nurse with such conviction— he still looks back to check in with Edwin 🥺

There is no way he is not in love with him okay this is so codependent (affectionate)

[yourdrugisafartbreaker]

(Original source: https://youtu.be/9X-wyIu6v7Q?si=FS73HljXsg5eZAyx)